The Black Sheep
For our fathers, Jim Collins and Don Rideout
Copyright © 2007 by Yvonne Collins and Sandy Rideout
All rights reserved. Published by Hyperion Paperbacks for Children, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Hyperion Books for Children, 114 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10011-5690.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4231-4151-8
T
he doorbell rings twelve times in four quick bursts. I race into the dim front hall and skid to a stop, confused by the bright light bleeding in around the door frame and pooling on the floor. An alien on the doorstep? Unlikely. UFO sightings are pretty rare in Manhattan. A home invasion? More common, but what kind of robber carries a spotlight?
I don't need my parents, the Secretaries of Defense, to tell me that this is a security issue. Rule Number One in this house is
Never Open the Door to Strangers
. But what harm could it do to look through the peephole?
The light hits with such force that my eye practically explodes. I immediately break Rule Number Six:
No Profanity
.
There's a muffled laugh on the other side of the door. A voice mutters, “Quiet.”
“Who is it?” I call.
Silence. Then the doorbell rings again. Three times. Three more times.
Now that I've broken rule six, breaking rule one doesn't seem like such a big deal. But there's also Rule Number Four to consider:
Think Before You Act
. Of all the house rules, I hate number four the most. Too much thought and not enough action leads to a very boring life. I should know.
I flip the locks and open the door, only to find the light is brighter still.
“Kendra Bishop?” a woman's voice asks.
I nod, one hand still over my exploded eyeball. All I can see with the other is a huge smile, like Donkey's in
Shrek
.
“Bob, get a close-up,” the smile says. Someone reaches out and pulls my hand away from my eye. “Congratulations, Kendra, you are the new Black Sheep!”
Squinting, I make out a horde of people on the stoop. Front and center is the owner of the smile, a short, pretty woman in a suit, with shiny dark hair and rimless glasses. A massive bald man stands beside her with a camera on his shoulder, on top of which is the light. Another man shoves a microphone at me.
“The new what?” I ask. There must be some mistake.
“Black Sheep,” she repeats. “The reality show. I'mJudyGreenberg. Oneoftheproducers.” She speaks so fast her words run together.
“You mean I'm on TV?”
“You will be soon. Just give us a week to edit the footage.”
I glance down at my blue-and-white Tommy Hilfiger pajamas, which I put on right after school to save time later.
My hair is in a stringy ponytail. “I should change.”
“Don't. We want to capture the real Kendra.”
She pushes past me into the hallway, followed by a small army hauling cables and equipment. They smile and congratulate me, and I thank each one. Rule Number Fourteen:
Respect the Guests
. “Excuse meâ¦Judy, right? I don't understand what's going on.”
She raps her knuckles on the wall. “Real marble?”
“I think so.”
She turns to the big bald guy. “Close-up of the marble, Bob. Where are your parents, KB?”
KB?
Rule Number Eighteen:
No Nicknames
. Kendra combines my dad's name,
Ken
neth and my mom's, Deir
dra
. “They're out for a run.”
Judy clicks down the hall in stiletto boots and I rush after her, my socks sliding every which way. “Close-up on the family portrait, Bob,” she says from the living room doorway. “Set it up in here, people.”
“Set
what
up?” I ask, more alarmed by the second.
She points to the bust sitting on the grand piano. “Who's that?”
“Mozart.” Duh.
“Bobâ”
“âZooming in on Mozart,” Bob says, in a soft southern drawl.
Judy tosses her huge leather bag onto the oak coffee table and I snatch it up again. Rule Number Thirty-three:
Watch the Finishes
. “Listen, Judy,” I say, “I really need to know what you're doing here. Otherwise, I'll have to call the police.”
“Careful with the tone, kid,” she says. “This business is all about likability. But call the police if you must and I'll read them your letter.”
“What letter?”
Her smile widens until it hooks over her ears. “The one responding to our ad in
Teen Nation
.”
Oh,
that
letter. “But that was months ago.”
“One month, actually. Rememberhowtheshowworks?”
“No. And can you speak a little slower, please?”
Judy calls to Bob, who's trudging toward Mozart in dirty boots, “You'd better catch this.” He trains his lens on me again, and she continues: “Kendra Bishop, you are going to sunny California to trade places with another frustrated teenager!”
The sound guy jabs the microphone at me again, but I don't know what to say.
“Give Judy a reaction, honey,” Judy says. “Tell us how this news makes you feel.”
“I can't go to California,” I say. “I'm taking music theory class this summer. And economics. Plus I've got math camp.”
“Sounds like we got here just in time!”
My brain buzzes like a trapped fly until I see an escape route: “My parents would never let me go.”
“Just leave your parents to Judy,” she says. “I'm going to bust you out of here.” She jerks her chin at Mozart. “No pun intended. You were so right about this place, KB. It's a mausoleum.”
“I said museum.” At least, I think I did. I barely remember the letter.
“Close enough. How long till your folks are back?”
“Maybe half an hour.”
“Perfect. Just go about your normal business. Pretend we're not even here.”
“Sure, I'll just kick back with a soda while you guys destroy my living room.”
“Ha! You're spunky, I like that. Spunky gets ratings.” She signals Bob to get another shot of me and studies my image on a portable television monitor. “Hair's a little dull, KB. Ever think about highlights?”
Of course I think about highlights. My hair used to be nearly white, but it gets darker every year and will soon match my parents' nondescript beige. “I'm not allowed. I can't get my ears pierced either.”
She snorts. “Start packing, kid, it's time for a jailbreak. And listen, what's a producer gotta do to get a drink around here?”
After putting on a pot of coffee for the crew, I grab the phone and duck into the breakfast nook.
“Lucy, it's me,” I whisper when my best friend picks up. “I'm in so much trouble. There's a camera crew in the living room.”
“A camera crew?” she asks. “What for?”
“I wrote this letter and I've been chosen to be on this show and I can't and I don't know what to do. I've got to get them out of here before my parents get back.” There is no air left in my lungs. My chest feels concave.
“Calm down,” she says. “You're talking so fast I can barely understand you.”
“You should hear Judy.”
“Who's Judy?” Lucy is mystified.
“The producer on the show. It's called
The Black Sheep
.”
“Hey, I read about that,” she says. “I can't believe you get to be on it.”
“My parents are more likely to send me up on the next space shuttle.”
There's a pause on the other end of the phone and then, “True. So why did you write the letter?”
“It was just after Rosa left.”
“Uh-oh.” Lucy refers to this period as the time I “went dark.” Despite her constant calls and instant messages, I didn't surface for seven daysâthe longest we've gone without contact ever. “Now what are you going to do?”
“I don't know. The crew's wrecking the place. Someone threw his jacket over Mozart.”
Lucy laughs. “Breaking Rule Numberâ¦?”
“Twenty-five:
Respect the Art
. My parents are going to kill me, Luce. I'm going to try to sneak out beforeâ”
A bright light hits me in the face as Judy, Bob, and his camera join me in the breakfast nook.
Judy takes the phone out of my hand. “Lucy, am I right?” she asks. “It's Judy! KB told us all about you in her letter. We'd love to meet you. Come on over and we'll grab a few shots of you helping her pack. Great! See you soon!”
A guy wearing a headset is standing guard at my bedroom door while I make a show of packing. I know full well that this suitcase isn't going anywhere, but it's easier to stuff things into it than to argue with Judy. She's the one with the army.
“How about a little privacy?” I ask the guy.
When he turns his back, I grab my laptop computer, slip into the bathroom, and lock the door. My parents will be home in fifteen minutes, and although Lucy lives only half a block away, I know she'll take time to dress for the cameras. I have to think of a way out of this myself.
Obviously I can't go to California tomorrow. I'd miss the last two days of school. Besides, even if my parents agreed, I don't want to be on some lame reality showâespecially if it means moving in with people I've never met. What was I thinking?
Sitting down on the edge of the tub, I flip open the laptop and scroll through my files until I find the letter.
Dear Black Sheep Producers:
Please choose me to be on your show. If you do, you will be rescuing me from the Manhattan Banker Duplication Program. My parentsâbankers, did you guess?âare the copresidents. They're not horrible or anything, but they are pretty weird. For starters:
⢠They look alike. They both have short, mousy hair and gray eyes. From behind, you can only tell them apart because Mom jacks up her hair with product.
⢠They run marathons. Over and over again. How many times do you have to prove a point?
⢠They have no friends. They say it's because they value their privacy; I say it's because they're antisocial.
⢠Their idea of a great family vacation is to visit golf resorts. Without me.
⢠They never argue. In fact, they barely speak. They're like the three-year-old twins next door who have their own form of language based on meaningful looks and monosyllables. A couple can be too close, if you ask me.
⢠They're obsessive and controlling. Yes, all parents make rules but how many keep a binder and update it constantly? I call it
The Binder of Limitations and Harassment
, or The
BLAH
. There are rules about what I can wear (no ultra low-rise jeans, no short tops, no cleavage), what I can do to my body (no piercings, no body art, no dye jobs), and who I can date (as if I don't have enough strikes against me, going to a girls' school and being a virtual prisoner except for approved activities). It's like an Amish settlement, only with more rules.
⢠They're workaholics. That's why Rosa, my nanny, moved in when I was born. Someone had to be around to enforce The BLAH.
⢠They're worrywarts. Mom frets if my mind isn't being fertilized constantly, and she's always enrolling me in classes. She calls this “enrichment,” and its goal is to foster an international banking career. Flute lessons make the cut only because musical training apparently promotes excellence in math.
Dad frets if I'm not active. He's been trying to convince me to run for years, but I've held out so far. “Marathons build character,” he says. “You learn to set goals and build capacity until you can achieve them.”
Build capacity? My parents are such banker-nerds they have dollar signs where their pupils should be.
Still, even bankers need something to talk about at client dinners, so Mom packs her few free hours with culture. On the third Sunday of every monthâI call it Torture Dayâwe have a mother-daughter bonding trip to the Met, followed by a quiz over tea and scones. With my parents, everything is “on the test.”
Each morning, including weekends, Mom
prints out a schedule that breaks my day
into half-hour slots. (I've enclosed one in
case you don't believe me.) The “Comments”
column is for Rosa, and the reason it's
blank is because my parents recently fired
her. They didn't use the word “fired.” Rather, they said they were “downsizing” and
would “outsource” her duties to cleaning
and catering services. They offered her “a
package.” That this happened right after
they learned Rosa was secretly giving me
“downtime” during educational slots was purely coincidental, I'm sure. “Fun” is not in my parents' vocabulary.
“You're fifteen,” Mom said. “You don't need a nanny anymore.”
But Rosa wasn't just a nanny, she was the only one standing between me and complete banker domination.
“We can direct her salary into enrichment,”
Mom said.
Any more enrichment and my head will
explode.
“We'll come home a little earlier, and cut back on running,” Mom said.
They didn't. I ate my catered meals alone
and went to bed alone. And less than a week
after Rosa left, I found two entry forms for
the Toronto Marathon on the hall table. My
parents are so desperate to avoid me they're
crossing borders.
