Chapter 2

Chapter 2

REID

I loosen the tie the second I turn to head out of the courtroom. The next thing to go will be this crap in my hair that makes me look like one of my father’s fuckwit subordinates.

“Put that back on, ” Dad barks, his shoulders rigid. He’s judged me guilty as charged even though the prosecution accepted our plea bargain—sort of.

I contemplate ignoring him for half a second, until my manager’s less dictatorial voice urges discretion. “Reid, there will be press. School Pride is out in theaters. This is no time to look like a rebel. We’ve already lost a couple of endorsements—your image is suffering enough without you giving the impression that you’re ungrateful to have gotten off easy for something that would land 99. 9% of regular people in jail. ”

“You call that easy? ” I never snap at George, but I can’t agree with his assessment. The judge’s mandates for my plea bargain are beyond ridiculous.

“Yes—as would anyone with half a brain, ” Dad butts in. Subtlety has never been in my father’s nature. “Put the goddamned tie back on, Reid. ”

My jaw works overtime as I refasten the top buttons of the white Armani dress shirt and loop the perfect half-Windsor knot back into the understated Hermes tie. By the time I’m thirty, I’ll have worn my teeth down to nubs.

Friends ask why I don’t just ditch my dad. I’m nineteen, an adult in every legal sense of the word (except the ability to drink legally, which is annoying as shit). I’m a legitimate Hollywood star, with a manager, an agent, a PR guy, or woman, as the case may be—Dad may have fired Larry when he didn’t move fast enough to save those endorsements last week.

That’s the thing. My father takes care of everything. He’s the CEO of my life, and I’m the product. He manages my career, my money, my legal issues… I don’t have to do jack shit but show up for auditions, movie tapings, premieres and occasional commercial endorsements. I can’t stand him any more than he can stand me, but I know he won’t screw me over.

My manager was right. The media is camped out on the courthouse steps, ready to take my statement. I had nothing to do with writing it. George handed it to me last night when Dad and my attorney—whose name I can’t recall because I couldn’t care less which junior kiss-ass partner wannabe Dad selected from his firm to represent me—were reviewing the bargaining strategy for this morning. Time for my Oscar-worthy performance of contrition.

Dad fades behind me as planned while I’m flanked by George and junior kiss-ass. I fix an appropriately repentant expression on my face. “I just want to apologize to my fans. I’m so sorry to have let all of you down. I assure you that this incident was a momentary lapse in judgment, and it won’t be repeated. ”

Someone shoves a mike in my face. “Will you go into rehab? ”

Cue the look of shame layered over remorse. “The judge didn’t believe that would be necessary at this time. But I intend to follow the terms of the court’s orders to the letter, and this occurrence will not be repeated. ”

A guy from one of the local Hispanic stations looks like his bullshit detector is set on high. “What about the home you destroyed, and the family you displaced? ”

Come on, asshat. It was one room of a house, and no one was in it, so no one was hurt. “The home owners are being compensated, ” I say. “The details are private, but the reparation has been agreed upon by all parties. ”

“Your father’s paying them off, you mean. ” The hell? This guy is persistent. Maybe he’s related to them or something.

“No, sir. ” I look him in the eye, all mano a mano. “I was responsible for the accident. I’m the one paying. ”

“And you feel comfortable calling it an accident when you, an underage boy, chose to drink yourself to more than double the limit for a legal adult, and then drive a two-thousand pound vehicle and through a residential area? ”

“Well, I—”

“The owner of the property is a real estate company. What about the family living there, renting the home? They’re hardworking people, but uninsured, and now they’ve lost belongings they can’t afford to replace, in addition to the fact that they’re currently homeless. What about them? ”

You’ve got to be kidding me. I want to kick this guy’s ass so bad my fist is already knotted.

Junior kiss-ass decides this is the time to step in and earn that partnership. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen—as Mr. Alexander’s legal counsel, I assure you that he takes full responsibility for his actions and intends to repair all of the damage done, and then some. ”

Isn’t that what I just said?

And what the hell does he mean by and then some?

*** *** ***

Dori

       While Dad says grace, my mind wanders. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, and I always keep my eyes shut, but sometimes I have so much to keep track of that my brain is making lists and checking off details any time it perceives a calm moment to do so.

       Parent Night rehearsals with the kids will have to wait until next week. My Habitat for Humanity project has a more pressing deadline thanks to the self-centered, egocentric moron who drove his stupid sports car into the living room of our future family’s rental place. I don’t get people like him—people who think of no one, ever, but themselves. They just take up space on the planet, never contributing anything worthwhile.

       He’s the reverse of someone like my dad—Pastor Doug to the parishioners of our church and the surrounding neighborhood. Dad would tell me that God wouldn’t be pleased about my biases concerning Reid Alexander.

       God has a purpose, even for him, Dad would say.

       Yeah, right.

       Ugh, there I go again.

       I’ll be spending the next several days straight working on the Habitat house. Luckily, we have much of it done. Unfortunately, that doesn’t include the A/C, and it’s already hot and hazy. Much of Los Angeles lives without central air; I shouldn’t complain. I have a comfortable home, even if it’s not chockfull of luxury items like big-screen televisions and rooms of furniture where everything matches. Mom knows her way around with a paint brush, and she’s amazing at using saris bought at the bazaar as colorful window coverings and table cloths, or plants to cover a stain on the carpet or a crack in the plaster walls.

       I’ve got a few more things to get turned into UC Berkeley before I start next fall: AP exam results, graduation certificate, housing deposit. Almost everyone who knows me seems puzzled by the fact that I intend to pursue a degree in social work rather than music. I’m often told that I have a beautiful voice, but that would be an impractical career path. I’d rather do something.

       Dad’s the only one who really gets that sentiment. He’s also where I get my voice. Mom and Deborah, my older sister, are absolutely tone-deaf, but they have useful natural and applied skills. Mom’s an obstetrical nurse specializing in low-cost prenatal care, and Deb recently began her hospital residency in Indiana—she’s going to be a pediatrician. Dad and I just had to be more creative about finding our ways to contribute communally.

       This summer, like the last several years, I’m working the summer program our church offers for the poverty-stricken neighborhoods nearby. The van picks the kids up in the morning, enabling their parents to go to work without worrying about what to do with them. The kids stay all day, which means we have to come up with lots of activities. The swimming pool was Mom’s idea. Some members of the church finance committee balked at installing something so lavish, but Mom convinced them we could use it for VBS, family days and monthly baptisms.

       Dad says Mom could talk the Devil into baking Christmas cookies.

       “…Amen, ” Dad says, and I open my eyes, banishing thoughts of Satan wearing an apron and icing reindeer.

       “Dori, your dad has some news that might interest you. ” Mom hands me the bowl of mashed potatoes, and they’re both watching me closely. Weird.

       Dad clears his throat. “You got a call just before you got home. I guess Roberta doesn’t have your cell number. ”

       Roberta, my project leader at Habitat, doesn’t get that people can be easily reached on the phone they carry around with them. Her cell phone is always in her bag and off, because she believes the battery will run down if she leaves it on, and then it wouldn’t be at the ready in case she gets mugged and needs it. I’ve never asked her how she plans to hold the bad guy off while her phone boots up.

       “There’s a new volunteer starting tomorrow, and she wants you to help him acclimate, show him the ropes. ”

       My brow furrows. While we appreciate volunteers, this isn’t exactly huge or unusual news, plus my parents are being downright odd. “Okay. No problem. ” Waiting for the punch line, I pass the potatoes to Dad. “Is it someone with electrical experience, I hope? ”

       “Er, I doubt that. ”

       When he doesn’t elaborate, I finally say, “Dad, spit it out. ”

       Dad’s not meeting my eyes, unusually cryptic. “Well, this volunteer may be someone you know. Not know, exactly. But know of. ”

       Good grief, I’m way too tired for this. “Am I supposed to guess who it is? ” I sigh. “Is it someone from church? Someone from school? ”

       “It’s Reid Alexander, ” Mom blurts out, unable to contain herself any longer.

       “What? ” Oh, no. No, no, no. They cannot expect me to babysit that self-absorbed, fake, womanizing, probable alcoholic.

       My dad tries the logical spin. “Apparently working to get the house ready sooner for the Diegos was part of his plea bargain. ”

       This is not happening. “Wait. So he’s not even actually a volunteer, then—he’ll be there under court-ordered coercion? ”

       “Roberta said that since you’re about his age, she was hoping you could… er…”

       “Babysit him. ” I scowl. “Please tell me it’s only for a day or two. ”

       Dad shrugs and starts to eat. “You’ll need to ask Roberta that. I’m just the messenger. ”

       I close my eyes for a moment, imagining the absurdity of Reid Alexander on site, the wasted time accumulating hourly. I’d planned to tile the master bath’s shower tomorrow. No way I could trust him to help with that—tiling is pretty much skilled labor, and while I’ve done it enough to be proficient, he’s probably never touched a trowel in his life.

       “Why me? ” I hear his answer in my head before he says it.

       “Don’t know, honey. But there’s a reason for everything. ” Dad pats my hand. “We’ll just have to wait patiently to see what it is. ”

       As I do every time he says that or something like this, I bite back what I’d say if I could reply honestly. I don’t believe there’s a reason for everything, and having faith doesn’t mean I’m blind. I believe people make poor choices. I believe bad things happen to good people. I believe there’s evil in the world that I will never understand, but will never stop fighting.

       If I believed for two seconds that there was a reason behind some of the awful things that occur in this life, I wouldn’t be able to stand it.