The Accidentals(26)

“Okay. That one, please.” I pull Frederick’s credit card out of my pocket. Daddy’s credit card. Haze and I had always scoffed at the kids who threw down their parents’ plastic for every desire. Now I’m one of those girls.

“You forgot to sign your card,” the sales girl prompts, offering a pen.

“Sorry, it’s new.” I sign my name on the back in blue ink. RACHEL R. KRESS.

When I was a little girl, my mother told me that the middle initial stood for Rose. For years, I’d written Rachel Rose on papers at school, because I liked the sound of it.

When I was fifteen and applying for my learner’s permit, Mom had pulled out my birth certificate to take down to the DMV. That was when I learned that my true middle name is Richards.

The whole thing is weird, really. She named me after someone she didn’t know that well—and then changed her mind?

“Do you want a bag?” the sales girl asks.

“No, thank you.”

I feel my mother’s eyes on me as I walk out of the store.





Finding my way back to the zebra door is no trouble. I mount the stoop, ready to type the code into the keypad. But I stop because I hear Frederick’s voice, loud and strident.

“We’re not going into the studio this month, guys. I know it sucks because you’re out the concert pay already. But I’m not ready.”

“You’d better get ready,” Henry argues. “Canceling your summer gigs has already cost you more than a million bucks.”

I freeze there, my hand on the door, choking on the number I’d just heard.

“…also very expensive for your reputation,” Henry is saying.

“I’m well aware of that,” Frederick snaps. “Since you like financial terms so much, just think of this summer as me paying back a debt I incurred in my twenties. It’s past due, and the interest penalty I owe is massive. Am I speaking your language now?”

Whatever Henry replies, it’s in a voice too low to be heard over the pounding of my heart. I am stuck there on the stoop like a trespasser, unsure what to do.

But after a minute, someone else says something, and then someone laughs. When it’s quiet again, I punch the access code slowly, then rattle the knob as I push the door open.

The conversation stops. And once again, all eyes are on me. The million-dollar summer thief.

“What do you have there?” Ernie asks. “Looks too thick for summer reading.”

Embarrassed, I flash the copy of Anna Karenina quickly toward the living room and head up the stairs.

“Nabokov?” Another voice says, “Dude, Freddy. She can’t be your…” He catches himself in time. Right before he says “daughter.”

Into the awkward silence that follows Frederick says only, “Art, Anna Karenina is by Tolstoy.”





I got a text around nine o’clock. I’m mooning you, it reads. I’m only confused for a second, until Jake’s photo resolves onto the screen—a beautifully detailed shot of the bright moon against a dark sky.





Chapter Ten





The following week, I’m standing at the kitchen counter, sectioning a grapefruit. I perform this operation on a cutting board that I purchased the day before, after discovering that Frederick didn’t own one. Apparently, he never cuts anything. Yet he owns a set of fancy German knives in a sleek bamboo block. Go figure.

As I work, I catch myself humming the melody to Wild City, and promptly cut the song short. Even though Frederick is showering upstairs, I don’t want to be caught singing one of his tunes.

Not for the first time I wonder if that song is grounded in a true story. There aren’t any real towns nicknamed “Wild City.” And a Google search returns a million lyrics websites, but nothing about the song’s meaning.

I’ve never been able to figure it out. Maybe there’s nothing to figure out.

Wiping up the counter, I plan my morning. First, reading. And texting Jake. Our messages aren’t about school these days. We’ve been sending each other Youtube links to werewolf videos. And I’ll spend part of the day at the beach, where my inner groupie can hum to her heart’s content, and where I’m out of the band’s way.

It’s been hard to get a fix on Frederick’s typical day, because there seems to be no such thing. There are days when Henry comes by to drag Frederick to meetings with “promo yokels” and “suits.” There are days when Frederick spends his time noodling at the piano, muttering to himself. And sometimes Ernie comes over alone, plugging into the little amp in the living room and playing with Frederick. Those are my favorite days, because I can lurk in my room upstairs and eavesdrop.

Their chatter is as interesting as the music. It’s like living inside one of the quieter episodes of Behind the Music. Frederick might say, “I think I’ve got the melody, but I need to try it with more of a pop-radio rhythm. It needs that bounce.”

And Ernie will reply with something about back beats or syncopation. And then they’ll play the riff again.

I don’t know which sort today will turn out to be, since Frederick hasn’t come downstairs yet.

From its place on the wall, the land line rings, startling me with its chirp. In the week I’ve been there, I haven’t heard that phone ring even once. I wait to see if Frederick will answer it. After three rings, I wipe my hands on my jeans and pick it up. “Hello?”