Emancipated (22 page)

Candace's mouth was beginning to water. “I'm getting some more cake. You want some?”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

SECOND FLOOR, TUESDAY, APRIL 21

“I told my mom about my problems with dyslexia. She wants to get me extra tutoring.”

Maya watched Grace trying to wrap her head around this sudden adjustment from the group's alcohol-fueled discussion to what was clearly going to be a more angst-ridden exchange, and not about sex.

It seemed like Grace was going to try to blow it off. “So?” she waved a hand. “Get some extra tutoring. And move on.”

“Gracie, I don't have time.”

“Because of the thing you're writing?”

“Because of my app, yeah.”

Grace asked, “Didn't you finish it already?”

“Doesn't work like that,” Maya said. “The version I released was just a first version. With software, you've got to keep improving it. Like a shark. Keep moving or die.”

“You tell that to your mom?”

“Are you mental? No, I didn't. She'd go nuts if she thought it was eating into my study time.”

Grace thought for a moment. “So where is your mom these days?”

“Back in Mexico City with my dad. She's . . . ah . . . she's flying out to see me in a few months. She has to stay away for a little while before they'll let her back in. Even on a tourist visa. But when she does,
we're going to go to Disneyland. Can you believe it? All the time they lived here we never went.”

“Your mom wants you to live the American Dream?” Grace asked. “Because she can't?”

“I wish. What's more American Dream than writing a piece of software and getting rich and famous for it? She's got something more traditional in mind.”

“Like what? Marriage and kids?”

“She's not from the Stone Age, Grace. She's thinking more along the lines of a college degree. Something respectable like premed, pre-law. At the very least, business.”

“You into any of that?”

“What do you think?” Maya asked. “Business, yeah, maybe. I can see how it could be useful. But no; I want to get into a computer science program. Do this stuff properly.”

“Seriously? Isn't that an all-male, all-geek program?”

Maya smiled sweetly. “Imagine how popular I'll be with the admissions boards.”

“It's true. You'd tick every box.”

Maya rummaged under her pillow for her pajamas. In the bed next to Maya's Grace was halfway into her own by now, neatly folding her clothes as she discarded them. She was under her sheets a moment later, eyes closing with relief. “Oh man,” she moaned. “How is it that wine makes you so wretchedly drunk so quickly? I'm sure I didn't drink more than four glasses. But I feel like I'm going to be so hung over.”

“Drink water,” Maya advised. “My mom always told me that. One glass for every glass you drank. It hydrates you.”

“So I have to be up all night dying to pee?”

Maya shrugged. “I'm just telling you how to avoid a hangover.”

Grace stretched both arms until they hit the headboard. “I heard that a good bacon and eggs breakfast is the solution. Lots of fat and protein.”

“Sounds good. First one up fixes that for everyone?”

Drowsily, Grace replied, “Sure. But only if I can have the bathroom first.”

Maya thought for a moment. They'd left Paolo and John-Michael downstairs, sitting down to watch some
Banshee
. They'd probably be there for an hour at least. Grace looked and sounded as though she was headed pretty swiftly to sleep. And Lucy and Candace had disappeared upstairs to smoke.

There was a solid chance that Maya would be undisturbed for the next half hour. She plucked her toiletries bag from their shared nightstand and grabbed a toothbrush, floss, and makeup remover. A quick glance at Grace confirmed that she was almost out. When Maya returned from the bathroom, Grace had rolled onto her side, facing away. She didn't reply when Maya softly called her name.

Satisfied that the time was right, Maya sat at her desk and switched on her laptop. She released a shallow, regretful sigh. After the buzz of the dinner party, she was plummeting back to the miserable deceit of spying on her housemates.

There was no question of refusing the assignment. There'd been enough at stake before she moved into the beach house. But now? It would be like getting fast-tracked out of paradise and straight to the back of the line.

And those were just the consequences for Maya. She didn't need reminding that it wasn't only her own future that was at risk.

She stared at the screen for a full three minutes before she could bring herself to type a single letter. The familiar nausea had already begun. Self-loathing. Who knew it was an actual, physical thing?

Lucy is getting more serious about her music. That's all she really talks about. Very little info about her life before coming to LA. She's even been getting John-Michael to take his guitar out. They were friends years back, in rock camp, and now she's trying to get him to start up again. I get the impression that Lucy worries about John-Michael. She's been having issues with school, too. They can be pretty strict at Our Lady. She's been in detention some. She doesn't seem at all interested in Grace.

Grace
.

Maya hesitated. She was finding it hard to get a handle on the girl. She didn't seem to do anything but read books, watch TV, and do her homework. Oh—and write the letters to the death row guys. Maybe if Maya could read the letters she'd have more to tell. But Grace was intensely private about them. Maya hadn't been able to hack into her computer, and the box where she kept the handwritten ones was locked with an eight-number combination padlock.

Grace has a crush on Paolo but she won't let him know. It's like a point of pride. She even pretends to be into other guys, like, we'll all be watching TV and that Deadbeat show will come on with that cute actor—the one who married your inglesa—and she'll say she likes him, too. Or she'll talk about boys at her high school. I finally got the name of her death row guy out of her: Alan Vernon. I looked the guy up online but I couldn't find any news stories about him. No murderer with that name. Maybe he's really old and was put on death row before the internet, I don't know. I'd say that of all the people in the house, Lucy is the one that she gets along with the least. This probably has something to do with the fact that Paolo is obsessed with Lucy. It's also because they don't have many interests in common. Lucy is all creative and kind of a beatnik, into smoking weed and all. Grace is thoughtful and quiet and apart from the fact that she's not a virgin, (allegedly), I'd say she's a bit of a goody-goody.

She stopped typing, read the final paragraph back. The wine had made her sloppy. She shouldn't be making references to the star of
Deadbeat
, or to the
inglesa
—the British movie A-lister, Dana Alexander. She deleted both. Then read, with a pang of guilt, the bit about Grace not being a virgin. After a few seconds' thought, she deleted that also. It almost sounded catty, and Maya didn't think of herself that way at all. Who was she to discuss her friends' sex lives, to cast doubt on their confessions? It might make someone who knew her wonder whether Maya herself was truthful about such things. She didn't want to open that particular can of worms.

Not when she considered who was going to read the report.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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OUR LADY OF MERCY CATHOLIC HIGH SCHOOL FOR GIRLS, THURSDAY, APRIL 23

In the corridor outside the vice principal's office, time stretched. Lucy shuffled her feet. She avoided the glances of students who passed her on their way to the library. It wasn't possible that Guzman was actually held up this long. No, she was keeping Lucy in the corridor to intimidate her.

Twenty-two minutes after Guzman had summoned Lucy, she cracked open her door. There was no hint of apology, no sign that she realized the meeting was late. She called Lucy inside. Lucy sat opposite Guzman in silence for a few minutes while the teacher apparently studied the relevant paperwork.

Then she glanced up. “Looks like it's go time, Miss Long.”

“I'm sorry?”

“You've had three detentions since we last spoke. I wasn't messing around when I told you that your work was under review. Well, from these notes from your teachers, you're finally drinking in the Last Chance Saloon. Which I imagine for you is probably accurate, not metaphoric.”

Lucy bit her lip. She loathed it when the dumber teachers like Guzman tried to be witty.

“I've never done anything illegal.”

“In school—maybe. You're too intelligent for that. Outside though, pardon me, Lucy, but I have my doubts.”

“I've never been arrested. Not one time.”

“Never been caught? Quite the achievement. I'm sure your folks are very proud.”

Lucy fought back a wave of resentment. Guzman had absolutely no evidence for her accusations. If she repeated them in front of anyone, it was borderline slander. There was nothing Lucy could do, though. Even her mother would probably take Guzman's side.

“What did I do now?” she asked in a low, sulky voice.

“As I'm sure you're aware, your parents have asked for regular reports concerning your progress. Following the latest, I'm afraid they've issued something of an ultimatum.”

Lucy's jaw tightened.

“To achieve a satisfactory overall grade, your next three term papers will have to average an A-minus. You could get an A, A-minus, and B-plus, or three A-minuses. That's the minimum; I advise you to aim higher.”

Lucy couldn't suppress a sharp intake of breath. She hadn't gotten so much as a B-plus in a year. What Guzman was asking for was basically impossible.

“Could I maybe just get three Bs? I'm having problems with studying. The work is much harder than I'm used to.”

“That's nonsense”—Guzman showed a thin smile—“and you know it. Your essay on Stravinsky wasn't the work of a beleaguered learner. I've seen your grades from middle school. You were a straight-A student. Even in ninth grade. A students only become C students for one of three reasons: the three Ds—disease, drugs, and demotivation.

“You, my dear, are suffering from the latter two,” Guzman continued. “Demotivation is partly the school's responsibility. I accept that. Clearly, we've failed to motivate you.”

Lucy didn't like the assumption that she had a problem with drugs. Okay, so she smoked pot now and again, maybe snorted some coke when someone else was buying. But how could Guzman possibly know
that? It meant that her parents must have shared details of Lucy's personal life. That idea made her so angry that she felt like walking out right then.

Yet, she didn't. The house in Venice was the best place she'd ever lived. She was forming a bond with some of the housemates. John-Michael and Maya were becoming like her brother and baby sister. Now that she stopped to think about it, Lucy had to admit that she even thought the two Texas girls were pretty cool, especially Candace.

Her parents were capable of canceling her lifestyle and she knew it. Despite her annoyance, it wasn't worth bleating about Guzman's superior tone, her smug implication of a drug habit.

Especially since she was right.

“Your parents have made it clear to the school that we need to step up our efforts to motivate you. So—those papers need to average out to A-minus. If not, your parents' ultimatum comes into force and they exercise the right to pull you out of school.”

Unlikely
. Lucy knew how careful her parents were about money. They'd paid the fees for a full semester in advance. She couldn't imagine them taking her out until they'd gotten their money's worth.

It was as though the assistant principal had read her mind.

“Now financially, as it turns out, we're able to offer you and your parents an alternative. The trust that owns Our Lady also owns a small girls' boarding school in Santa Barbara. It's a lovely place. I gather you live near the beach now, is that right?”

“I live on Venice Beach,” Lucy replied, still sullen.

“Well, the Sisters of Mercy have their convent very close to a beach. The school shares the same grounds.”

“Boarding school? I don't think so.”

“It is the solution that would best accommodate both your wish to live away from home and your parents' commitment to your education.”

Lucy rose to her feet. It was getting harder to contain her anger. “What if you just expel me? I'm
emancipated
. I get to
choose
where I go to school.”

Guzman forced a smile. “Insofar as your parents are happy to continue to fund you, maybe. If they withdraw financial support, you would presumably become homeless.”

“They wouldn't do that,” Lucy said. Untrue, she realized, but it was at least worth a try.

“Lucy, let me assure you, there is only so much a parent can do for a child. At a certain point, at a certain age, you have to let your children go. You are seventeen. You were well on track to qualify for the Ivy League or Juilliard as of ten months ago. Or so your mother assured me. It's on that basis that we accepted you at Our Lady.”

“Never said I wanted to go to an Ivy League school.”

“Nevertheless,” Guzman said dryly. “You want some kind of tertiary education, don't you?”

“Not necessarily.”

Guzman sighed, resigned. She leaned across the desk and handed Lucy a folder.

“I don't like fighting with students. It's unseemly. Inside that folder you'll find an evaluation from each teacher who is missing work from you. As well as a deadline and a reminder of the task they set. You can find the supporting documents on the e-learning platform. Now, I have phone calls to make.”