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“Dad, I’m going to be co-directing the all-school winter musical and making costumes.”
He nods, half interested, as he wolfs down his omelet without even sitting down. Doesn’t want to wrinkle his suit.
I take a deep breath and blurt out the other part of my plan. “And second semester I’m going to find a talent agent and go on auditions.”
Dad cocks his head and sets down his plate. “How is that going to happen?”
“Well, if I can manage to get auditions, I’ll have to fly to LA or New York, mostly. I’m not sure, but I’ve already put my headshots out there.”
“Wait, what? Headshots? Agents? What the hell, Hunter? We talked about how impractical this one-track-mind mentality is.”
My nostrils flare. “No, you and Mom told me that my lifelong dream of acting is impractical. I’m starting to think you don’t believe in me. How could you, when you haven’t been to a single performance I’ve done since middle school?”
He leans his head back and looks at the ceiling, as if he can’t believe we’re having this conversation again. “You know that’s not it. You know why we’re gone all the time.” He gestures around the spacious kitchen. “Do you like having a roof over your head? This is all sponsored by your mother’s speaking fees and my billable hours. We are doing all of this for you.”
So. Damn. Insulting. “I’m not asking you to stop working; I’m just asking you to maybe listen to me.”
“And your mother and I just want you to get a degree—in theater or whatever you want—before you throw yourself into this.”
“Dad, I’m eighteen and I should have been going on auditions in middle school.”
He locks up his attaché with a cold snap. “Don’t even get me started on child actors, and don’t you dare bring that up to your mother.”
“Oh, I won’t, because she’ll drag out her charts and graphs about drug rehab.” I mentally push down the angry lump forming in my throat. “So you and Mom are not going to help me with my independent study. At all.”
Dad shrugs. “You can ask your mom, but I’m sure she’ll say the same thing. Pick some other plan of action because we are not going to pay for our only daughter to jet all over the country unsupervised.”
I shake my head and have to turn away so he can’t see how red my face is. He says goodbye with a promise that we’ll talk about this later.
To my mom, I text, Dad said no to my independent study plan but here it is: I’m getting an agent and I’m going on auditions this year. With or without your help. Broadway, LA, whatever I can get.
The phone call from Mom that follows my declaration isn’t unexpected. In what can barely be called a conversation, she echoes everything Dad said.
And then she deals the final blow: “I am in the middle of a board meeting and had to walk out to call you. Do you realize the things we’re talking about in that room? Life-saving things. Neuroscientific discoveries that could actually change the lives of children with epilepsy. And you want me to pat you on the head and say, ‘Sure, honey, go have fun in Hollywood’ and call it school? I think not. Your first swim practice is this afternoon. I’ll be home when you return from that and we’ll talk some more.”
Like a brat, I hang up on her, but she’s not done. She calls back. I silence my phone and go upstairs to put on my bikini. When I come back downstairs, I delete the entire conversation with my mother.
Then my finger hovers over Rushmore’s text and I smile. I touch his name. Smiling, I type: Good morning, Anthony. What are you doing right now?
My face heats when I see the three little dots almost immediately appear. He’s already typing his response.
“Wrapping up a vid conference call with Capri. You?”
I grin wickedly as I slide open the backdoor and make my way to the pool. I dive in, come up, and then, soaking wet, I take a poolside selfie in my rainbow striped bikini, complete with lots of unnecessary side boob. I don’t stop to question it; I just hit send with the words: Feeling cute and bored. Nobody here to supervise me. Thinking about getting into some trouble.
14
Rushmore
When that selfie from her appeared on my phone, I dropped it on the floor in the middle of my conference call with Capri.
I might be in over my head with this girl. I can see the headline on the next Rushmore Group newsletter now: “Rushmore CEO’s teen girlfriend’s tits bungle sale of Capri resort.”
My Porsche speeds over to her house while I glance at the photo again. Her long blonde locks are soaked and clinging to her tanned neck and shoulders, partially draped over one breast. Beads of water are trailing down her face, her neck, over the plump curve of her breast and down her sides, into the shadows between her tit and her ribcage. The shadowy valleys of her body call out to me to get lost in them. It’s the same neon rainbow striped number she wore to Ridley’s pool party yesterday, only today no cover-up is in sight.
It’s a crime that a woman this sexy should be alone.
Correction: it’s a crime that I’m not there with her right now.
