Emancipated (24 page)

“You're ditching?”

“Don't see I have much choice. Little enough chance I'll get the A-minus average even if I study all weekend. And then I'd be out of the band, no matter what.”

“Lucy, didn't your folks already throw you out? They don't get to tell you how to spend your time anymore.”

She looked at him sadly. “Sure they do. They pay the piper, they call the tune.”

“Is their tune so bad?”

Lucy gave a soft laugh. “Their tune is a boarding school up near Santa Barbara. With nuns. I don't much like the sound of a boarding school. Kinda like it right here in Venice.”

“Oh. Man, their tune
sucks
.”

“I know. To be avoided at all costs. But it means missing the gig this time.”

“The guys are okay with that?”

“You mean Whatnot? I didn't ask yet.”

“Lucy. You'd better tell them.”

She sighed, turned to leave. “I know.”

Paolo watched her go. He'd have to think of something he could do to help. He was pretty good at Spanish and okay at literature; how hard was it really, just read a book and spout some opinions. But chemistry—he'd be useless. And right now, he was tired and hungry.

He took the plate of eggs to the couch and switched on the TV. He found a channel airing an episode of
Dexter
and began to eat. After about five minutes, Grace appeared at the door.

“That's really loud, Paolo. Could you turn it down?”

He muted the TV, trying to gauge if she was angry. But Grace didn't seem it, just sleepy. She stayed in the doorway, wearing nothing but a long, green T-shirt. She glanced in the direction of the kitchen. “Don't you wish John-Michael would quit baking?”

“But it makes him happy.”

“Yeah. But when I know his cookies are in the house, I can't sleep.”

“Just take one.”

“Really?” She gave a sardonic laugh. “Don't ever apply to be Jiminy Cricket.”

A moment later Grace was sitting beside him on the couch. He watched curiously as she shimmied a little closer, tucked her legs underneath her, and lay back on the cushions. If they weren't friends, he'd be wondering if she was flirting with him. She grinned widely and took a bite of the oatmeal-and-cranberry cookie.

“What have you been up to tonight?” she asked.

“The usual: an hour on my own training, then a tennis lesson. And then a couple of beers with the coaches.”

Grace commented, “How very energetic. I've spent most of the day sitting on my ass.”

“Lucy's gotta do that all weekend.”

An expression of irritation crossed Grace's face. Then it was gone. “She's screwed, by all accounts.”

“We should help her,” said Paolo firmly.

“Why?” Grace's question surprised him. “It's not like Lucy ever offered to help boost my grades.”

“She's a housemate. If she doesn't get the grades, her folks are going to make her leave.”

Grace said, “So what? She had the same chance as any of us. She's no busier than Candace, and Candace is still making the grades.”

“Oh yeah?” Paolo walked over to the kitchen to get a cookie, still talking. “What's Candace's average?”

Grace called after him, “She's a strong B.”

“Huh. Well, Lucy has to get an A-minus or she'll get kicked out of school.”

Grace said, “Only ‘cause she's been getting Cs all semester. Whose fault is that?”

Paolo arrived back at the sofa, a cookie in each hand. “Man, you're tough! And yet you don't seem the type.”

Grace moved aside so he could sit down. “I could be out having a lot of fun like Lucy,” she said. “But then I wouldn't get good grades.”

“Maybe so, but still . . .”

“You think I'm harsh?” Grace smirked playfully. “Maybe you have a vested interest in Lucy staying.”

He didn't reply.

Grace said, “I'm sure you'll help.”

“I have a hunch I'm not as smart as Lucy.”

“Well . . . I didn't want to be the one to say it,” she teased. “Maybe you can do the typing.”

Paolo gave a slight shake of his head. “You know, I underestimated you. Or overestimated.”

“Which is it?”

“I thought you were, you know, a sweetheart.”

“Oh, you mean a pushover.”

“No, I mean, a kind person who goes out of their way to be good and helpful.”

“Yeah, you do mean a pushover.”

They shared a laugh. “Okay,” he conceded. “Maybe. Maybe I thought you were a bit of a do-gooder. But can you blame me? You write to all those poor bastards on death row. You drive hours to go see one of them. You talk me into joining Amnesty International.”

“You and John-Michael drove me,” she said quietly. The line of questioning seemed to be making her uneasy. “And you offered to come along. Anyhow—” She hesitated. “I only write to one death row guy.”

“Really? I remembered more.”

“You might have got that impression,” Grace admitted carefully.

“How come?”

“I may have exaggerated.”

“Why?”

“Isn't it obvious?”

He didn't answer because it wasn't. “Candace thinks you write to more than one guy, too.”

Grace lowered her eyes. “What can I tell you? I embellished. First to Candace. You can imagine why. And then I had to be consistent.”

Paolo felt like it might be obvious after all: Grace had been trying to impress him. Surprising, actually. It was already impressive enough to write to one person on death row. But once Candace was brought into the equation, it made more sense.

It had to be tough, having such a talented, gorgeous stepsister. Candace was the glamorous one. She represented “cool” in the Deering family. Grace was just as beautiful, he realized as he looked at her. Less overtly sexy than Candace, possibly, but definitely attractive. Her eyes were more intense, more suggestive of the intelligence that lurked behind them.

Candace must cast a long shadow. No point trying to outdo her in the same arena. Grace's interests in human rights and activism must have stemmed from a wish to carve out her own niche. Something super-distinctive. But she'd obviously underestimated how absorbing it could be, to get involved in the life of someone under threat of execution.

“So there's
just one
guy?”

“Don't tell anyone.”

“Are you into him?”

Grace's calm veneer vanished for a second, replaced by a flash of something like anxiety. “Heck, no! You're as bad as Candace.”

“You can't blame us. You're very pretty. He's very doomed.”

Grace paused, staring at him for a moment. “Did you mean it about joining Amnesty?”

“Sure, why not?”

“You still thinking of studying law?”

“Are you crazy right now? Of course!”

Paolo didn't feel as confident as he sounded, but he'd lied and conned and had sex to keep that ambition alive. It wasn't something he was about to drop.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

KITCHEN, SATURDAY, APRIL 25

“Never thought I'd see the day when you and I were the first ones up.”

Maya smiled at Lucy's languid expression of disappointment. She dropped two pieces of bread in the toaster and waited for it to pop up. She spread it with peanut butter and strawberry jam and sat down at the table. Lucy poured herself some Cheerios and milk and took the chair opposite Maya's. Maya checked the time on her cell phone. It was just past eight o'clock. Pretty early for anyone in their house to be awake on a Saturday, let alone Lucy or Maya.

“Whole world's gone crazy,” Lucy said. “It must have: I actually studied for six hours last night. And I'm down for more today.”

Maya had heard all about Lucy's school ultimatum, naturally. Her system for keeping tabs on what was going on in the house was working okay from what she could see. “Major aggravation,” she said, trying to show some sympathy.

Lucy hesitated. “Kinda hate to admit it, but . . . they have a point.”

“The school?”

“My folks. I was an A student. And yeah, okay, I've slipped to C. Truth is, that doesn't feel so great.”

“I guess. But I thought good grades weren't very punk rock?” Maya took care to hide the tiny shred of smugness she was feeling. When you worked as hard as she did, it was galling to see party types like Lucy cruise through a battery of A grades.

“They aren't. The music is one thing. And I'm another. I thought that it didn't matter to me. I thought nothing mattered but the music.”

Maya was genuinely taken aback. “But it does?”

“Yeah. It does. I like my life here.” She smiled a rare, sweet, and friendly smile. “I like you guys. I don't want to leave. And—don't tell this to the others—but I liked being an A student. I liked knowing things and being smart.”

“You're still smart.”

“Yeah, but not like you, Maya.”

Maya felt the blood rush to her cheeks. “I'm not all that smart.”

“Don't be a sap. You're real smart. How many other kids have developed apps?”

“God, tons. Honestly, I could show you.”

“There's a difference. You're gonna get somewhere with yours.”

“With Cheetr? I'm gonna need a hell of a lot more people to download it before I get any serious advertising revenue.”

“You'll see. This app, or one you'll make in the future. You're a hard worker. In your business, that pays.”

Maya managed a grin, but didn't mention all the cases she'd heard to the contrary. Of code monkeys working all hours on their apps and getting precisely nowhere. It was just nice, for once, to have someone as cool as Lucy express her admiration for someone like her.

“So you're gonna ace those grades? Good for you, Lucy.”

Lucy sighed. “It'll cost me. Bailey sent me this text last night.” She plucked a cell phone out of the pocket of her hoodie, pressed a few buttons, and then passed it to Maya.

You made a commitment, idiot girl. A gig is a gig. This counts as a no-show. You're out.

“What an A -hole!”

“Oh, significant A -holery.”

Maya watched Lucy thoughtfully. She seemed resigned, defeated, sad. But not angry. Maybe she hadn't really liked being in the band after all? Or maybe she was just more chilled out a character than Maya had initially thought.

“So that's it?”

Lucy shrugged.

“And you're going to study all weekend?”

“I'm going to ace those term papers. It's worth it just to wipe the smirk off Guzman's face. She so wants me to fail. I can feel it! She's already imagining me up in Santa Barbara, saying novenas and rosaries all the livelong day.”

Maya chuckled. “I don't think the convent school is all that holy.”

“They're such hypocrites. You know when my family last went to church? It was my confirmation. I was fourteen.”

“I guess they're outsourcing the religious instruction.”

“Maybe. But I'm not going to a boarding school. I'm not going back to Claremont. They gave me a taste of freedom—big mistake! No way I'm giving that up.”

Both girls were silent for a few moments. Maya offered to make them both smoothies. The suggestion went down well. She broke bananas and dropped strawberries and blueberries into the blender, poured in some milk and a scoop of strawberry frozen yogurt. She let the blender churn away for a couple of
minutes and poured the mixture into two glasses.

Lucy took a sip. “That's good!”

“My mom used to make them every day just to get me out of bed.”

“Nice mom! Mine got the housekeeper to do it.”

“You had a housekeeper?” Maya asked. “Gee, I guess you did. I keep forgetting that you're basically rich.”

“Good thing, or they sure wouldn't let me live here.”

In Lucy's eyes, Maya caught a sense of the question that was probably in the minds of all her housemates—how could the daughter of poor immigrants afford to live in this house?

“I'm lucky that my dad has a good job in Mexico City,” she ventured.

Lucy became noticeably quieter, obviously waiting to hear more.

“What does he do?”

“He works for a pharmaceutical company.”

“And he couldn't get a green card?!”

“It's gotten a lot tougher.”

Maya's phone buzzed, jangling across the wooden table. She grabbed it, pressed the button under the name that flashed up:
AUNT MARILU
.

“Hi, Marilu,” she said briskly, before switching into Spanish. She flashed a friendly grin at Lucy and began to walk with the phone to her head, moving out of Lucy's earshot.

“
Hola, mi reina
, just calling to check in.”

“Well. Everything's cool.”

“Maya—about the last report.”

Maya tensed. “Yes?”

“There . . . there wasn't too much about Lucy in your latest report. Everything okay?”

“Lucy's fine. She's just busy with schoolwork. There was talk of her being sent away to a boarding school. But I don't think that's going to happen.”

“Oh. That's a shame.”

Maya didn't agree, even though it would certainly make her life a hundred times easier. It was refreshing to discover that Lucy, for all her chilled-out rock-chick attitude, might be a closet geek. It made her feel like someone in the house really “got” her.

“And what about Grace? Have any of the other housemates figured out who she is?”

Maya sighed. “You mean—do they know her name used to be Grace
Vesper
? No. What's the deal with that anyhow?”

“Maya, you think I care? It's enough that you have to be sure to write about it if the subject ever comes up. What about Grace herself—does she suspect that
you
know?”