Kissing Brendan Callahan (12 page)

I give her a look.

“Sorry,” she says. “It's just overwhelming to be the inspiration for a movie and to have such a boyfriend.” I pluck the letter away from her. Not only has Antonia left me in the worst possible situation with my mom, but you would think, after all she put me through, that the least she could have done was made me the star of her screenplay. I was willing to help her write it.

“What are you going to do about the contest?” asks Georgina.

“Oh, I don't know,” I say. “Let's see. I'll rob a bank. You can be my accomplice, but I'm sure you can dance your way out of getting arrested.”

“I sense that you're mad at me, Sarah.”

I shrug. “It's not your fault,” I mumble.

“You're so right it isn't. I did you a favor, remember?”

I shrug again. “Going to prison will be a lot easier than telling my mother the plays are gone.”

“Sarah,” says Georgina. “Tell your mother the truth now, before this gets any messier.”

I know Georgina is right. I follow her downstairs, thinking about how I'm going to tell Mom the truth.
Mom. Pass the orange juice and, by the way, the plays are missing.

Mom is in the kitchen being Mom. She has Jason nestled in the crook of her arm as he drinks his bottle. Her other hand is holding her cell phone to her ear. She's talking to Joe about today's feature headline—something about a three-car collision on the expressway. “If Sam can't cover it,” she says, “I'll stop there on the way in.” Even though she's the managing editor, she never minds filling in for a reporter. I don't know why I'm thinking about this. I should be preparing myself for doom, but I want to savor this moment when my mother still doesn't know I'm a complete failure.

Georgina takes the baby from Mom and continues to feed him.

“Oh, no. What time is the meeting?” Mom begins throwing papers into her briefcase. “No, tell Maria, we can't take a position on this without looking at all the facts. I want background material on my desk in an hour. Hold on a sec.” She turns to Georgina. “I have to go. I'll call you later.”

“Um, Mom,” I say. “I need to talk to you.”

“Gotta run, honey. We'll talk tonight.” She picks up her briefcase and goes back to talking on the cell phone. She passes me, turns back, and gives me a peck on the cheek.

“Joe, don't tell me Maria can't find background. She's got to find something. We can't do the story without it.” She leaves the kitchen and walks toward the foyer. I follow. There couldn't be a worse time in the history of the world to tell my mother something like this. She's at the door.

“Mom,” I yell.

She turns. “What, Sarah?”

When she looks at me, my throat tightens to the size of an atom. “Have a nice day,” I croak with the last bit of air in my lungs.

“Um, all right,” she says and heads out, still talking into her cell phone.

I go back into the living room and collapse onto the sofa. What if I never find the courage to tell her?

TWENTY-ONE

“You want me to tell her at work?”

“Look at it this way,” Georgina says. “If you tell your mum at work, she won't be able to yell as much.”

“But I can't.”

Georgina pushes me toward the front door. “You've been driving me crazy since she left. Go and get this over with.” She pushes me through the door. I protest, but I walk in the direction of Mom's office. The closer I get, the dumber Georgina's idea sounds. Mom can yell anywhere. I go inside anyway. The newsroom, as usual, is packed and noisy.

I wave at Joe. “Your mom's in a meeting.”

“I'll wait in her office.” I'm glad for the brief delay.

“Call me if you need anything.”

I walk past Filipe Santo's desk, but he's on the phone. He switches the phone to his other ear and winks at me. He's shaved his moustache. He looked better with it.

Anne Marie isn't in the room, which is nice. I walk to Mom's office. The L-shaped desk with her computer on it faces the window. The section without the computer is piled with papers and folders. I look at the photos she has put along the back of the desk. There is one of her and Dad taken at a barbecue last summer and a few stupid school photos of me in different grades. There are two photos of Jason snuggled in blankets. He looks cute. And there's a photo of Mom and me, also from last year's barbecue. In the picture, Mom has her arm wrapped around me. I stare at the picture, knowing it's the last photo in which Mom will be looking proud of me. I sit at her desk and wait.

“Hey, Sarah.” It's Anne Marie. “What's doing?”

“Nothing much.” I swivel and look out the window, hoping Anne Marie will take the hint and leave.

“I just got back from the police station.” She laughs. “I wasn't being arrested. I had to check
important
facts for a front-page story.”

“That's nice.”

“So what's it like working with Antonia DeMarco? It must be super cool.”

“Oh, yes,” I say. Wouldn't it make her day if I told her the truth? I'd rather stick needles in my eyes.

“Have you met any of her famous friends?”

“She invited me to a gathering,” I say. “I met a couple of Hollywood producers. She's writing a screenplay.”

“Wow,” says Anne Marie. “You're making connections, girl.” There is a look of total envy on her face. “Has she told you what the movie's about?”

I nod. “Actually, I helped her with the plot.”

Anne Marie is staring with her mouth open. “Wow!” she gives me her phoniest smile. I'm enjoying her envy, and since it won't happen again, I decide to enhance it just a little.

“She's asked me to go off to Fiji with her,” I lie.

“Fiji!”

“It's where she'll be writing the screenplay. I just don't know if I should go, you know. I'd miss my brother.”

“Well … Fiji … huh,” she sighs. “
Please
tell me what the movie is about.”

I give her the cool look. “I'm not at liberty to say.”

When Mom walks in, we both get up. “Mrs. Simmons,” says Anne Marie, handing Mom the paper she was holding. “I spoke with Captain Jennings personally and double-checked all the facts.”

“Thank you, Anne Marie.” Mom tosses the paper on her desk and looks at me. Anne Marie smiles and walks out backward.

“Not that I'm not glad to see you,” says Mom, “but can you explain why you are here, since you are grounded?”

I walk over to the door and close it. “Mom. You were right. Something is very wrong. We need to talk.”

*   *   *

I stare at the floor
as I tell her the truth. Mom gets really quiet at the part about the dent and how much I owe Rent-a-Dream if I ever want to see the plays again. At this point, I look up and wish I hadn't. The skin on her face is tight, except for her forehead, which now has a million stress wrinkles on it. She's going to blow any second.

I wish she would yell and get it over with. Instead, she grabs her cell phone and dials. “Bert, it's Helen. I have a question. Do I have any grounds to take legal action against someone who has verbally agreed to judge a contest and then absconded with all the entries? No, she didn't sign anything.” She continues her conversation with the
Courier
's lawyer. I wait for the blast.

She gets off the phone but doesn't look at me. The silence is worse than yelling.

“Look, Mom, I take full responsibility for this. You tried to tell me that Antonia is irresponsible, but I wouldn't listen. If you loan me fifteen hundred dollars, I will straighten everything out. And I will get a job and pay back every penny.”

She finally looks at me. “How long have you known that the plays were missing?”

“Since the night before last.”

“You should have told me immediately.”

“I know. I'm an idiot.”

“First of all, you're not an idiot. I don't ever want you to say that again.”

I nod, surprised by this.

“Now, while we're at it, let's find out the whole truth. Were you and Brendan with Antonia DeMarco that night?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you go when I told you not to?”

“Because she needed my help with a personal problem.”

“It's nice that you wanted to help her, but that doesn't make what you did right.”

“I know. I've done a lot of things wrong lately, but I've learned from my mistakes.”

She caresses my cheek. “That's good.”

“I guess I'm not a daughter you can be proud of.”

“Of course, I'm proud of you.”

I shake my head. “You should have a daughter who's more like yourself. Someone logical. Someone who doesn't ruin contests.”

She picks up my chin. “Stop. I've been doing a lot of thinking lately. I've watched you idolizing that woman. The worst part is, I was jealous. I've worked so hard to get where I am, and all along, in the back of my head, I had the hope that my daughter would someday find me amazing.” She leans back and wrinkles her nose. “I guess it isn't easy being my daughter.”

“It's not,” I say.

She nods. “I work too hard protecting you from making the kinds of mistakes I made.”

“You made a mistake?”

“Lots,” she says. “When I was in college, I had a summer job in Ammazoli's campaign office. He made stirring speeches about saving Staten Island's parklands. I believed every word. The first thing he did after being elected was sell Adams Park to developers. Later, when I became a reporter, I found out that just before the sale, a large amount of money passed into his personal account. I felt ridiculous for believing in him, and I was angry. I spent so much time trying to link the money in his account to the sale of the park that I ignored a lot of my other work. I came dangerously close to losing my job. But I never found any evidence. I'm still angry that he got away with it. And now they've named a ferry boat after him.”

“Still,” I say. “You do all these great things like helping restore South Beach.”

“Exactly,” she says. “So people like Antonia can enjoy it.” She laughs.

“I'm never going to do great things.”

“You will. Be patient. You'll learn, unfortunately, by making mistakes like this one. Ammazoli made me realize I need to see facts before I make a commitment. That's what made me a good reporter, and a good editor.” She puts my hand in hers. “I'll try to give you some space to have your own good learning experiences, but just a few, okay?”

I laugh. “Mom, I'm going to be a writer. Do you mind not coming up with any more great ideas for young writers, unless I can be a part of them, too?”

She bites her lip. “I'll keep that in mind.” She walks back to her desk and sits. “So, you don't think Antonia DeMarco is amazing?”

“No.”

“I'm so relieved,” she mutters. “
Enraptured Thorns in My Heart.
What on earth does that mean?”

“I don't know.” We both laugh. “Can you keep a secret?”

She nods.

“Antonia didn't write that book.”

Mom's eyebrows shoot up. “She's a fake, too.”

“Totally. Will you loan me the money?”

“No need,” she says. “I made copies.”

“You really didn't trust her?”

“Not one iota.”

“Who will judge the contest?”

“I'll figure something out. Let me get back to work and we'll talk tonight.”

I walk home in a daze. What do I do about my play? Would it be a mistake to hand it in, pretending to be Victoria? Or would this be one of those good learning experiences?

TWENTY-TWO

Hi Lynn,

Nothing's normal. I hate Antonia. I like my mother. Georgina is the inspiration for a movie. Jane Austen is better than Antonia. Brendan is sexy.

Abnormally yours, SOS

Hi Lynn,

Enraptured Thorns in My Heart is now a window jam.

SOS

Hi Lynn,

Oops—it fell into the mulch pile.

Stinkingly, SOS

Hi Lynn,

Mom is judge. What should I do with my play?

Need to know, SOS

Hi Lynn,

Let fate choose! Huh?

Baffled, confused, perplexed, SOS

Hi Lynn,

OK. Left play on hallway table near front door.

Fate-fully, SOS

Hi Lynn,

Play no longer on hallway table.

Nervously, SOS

P.S. Where is Brendan? With:)

Hi Lynn,

Thanks for postcard. U R the best!

5 days, 13 hours, 27 minutes = 0 Brendan!

Lonely, SOS

Dear Lynn,

New story. Girl named Sally meets idol, Angela.

Angela turns out to be jerk.

Mom found fiction contest in Teen magazine!

SOS

P.S. 7 days, 4 hours, 14 minutes = 0 Brendan!

It's around 5:00 and Mom's in the kitchen reading play number eleven of twenty-three. I bring her a glass of lemonade and some of the gingerbread cookies I baked for the fair tomorrow. They came out really good and the entire house smells of cinnamon and nutmeg. I never realized how relaxing baking cookies can be. I think I will become a writer who bakes.

“I just spoke with Dad,” I say. “He's going to take us all to Germany next summer.”

“Great,” says Mom. By this time next year, I will be on my way to becoming a world traveler. Which is a very good thing for a writer to be.