The Accidentals(35)

“If I had pipes like that, I’d want everyone to hear it.”

I give him the side-eye. “Maybe you would, and maybe you wouldn’t.”

Ernie chews his lip. “I really don’t get it. You’d pretty much have to be a killer musician with your genes. But fine. We never had this discussion.”

“Thank you.”

“And you never hit those high notes like you were born to it, or improvised a riff on the bridge.”

“You can stop now.”

He shrugs. “It sounded great, though.”

“You would say that. You co-wrote the song.”

“Just the bass line.” He squints at me, as if trying to figure something out.

Unnerved, I carry my sandwich past him and up to my room.





Later that week, Henry stays for dinner with us—meatball sandwiches ordered from a deli. Every shop in Manhattan Beach delivers. No wonder my father never lights his oven.

Ever since I spoofed my father’s Instagram account, I’ve been waiting for Henry to chew me out over it. Good girls don’t pull pranks. We just feel too anxious afterwards.

But Henry doesn’t bring it up. There’s something else he wants to talk about, instead. “I had a call from publicist Becky,” he says.

“Who’s publicist Becky?” I ask.

“When your publicist rings,” Frederick explains, “there’s a small chance you’ve won an award, and a bigger chance you’ve fucked up somehow. What did she say, Henry?”

“There’s a picture of you and Rachel out there. A blog called to ask if we’d like to provide a name.”

Frederick laughs. “No kidding? Another slow news day in Los Angeles.”

“Mighty slow.”

“Who has it?”

“Like a Hawk. It’s nobody worth sucking up to,” Henry says.

“What are you talking about?” I ask. “What picture?”

“There’s a gossip blogger who has a photo of you and me, probably from your birthday,” Frederick says. “And they want to post it. But they don’t know who you are, so they called my publicist to ask.” He takes a swig of his soda. “Henry, tell Becky thanks for the call. But Freddy declines to identify the young woman in the photo.”

Henry shrugs. “Fair enough. But you’re not going to freak out if they make something up, right? That’s the only reason Becky’s asking. You know what they do: ‘Freddy Ricks hits the town with young model half his age…’”

“That’ll be wrong. She’s less than half my age. Tell Becky I won’t freak out, and feel free to photoshop out my gray hairs.”





Later, when Henry is gone, the whole conversation is still replaying in my brain. “Why wouldn’t you just tell the blogger my name?” I blurt out.

My father looks up from his reading and shrugs. “We could do that. But then some punky blog gets to break a story about—” He makes his hands into quotation marks. “—Freddy Ricks’ secret daughter. Why should your life be the thing that boosts their clicks, or page views, or whatever gives them their jollies?”

His eyes go back to the article he’s reading on his tablet. But I’m not quite finished. “Is it an embarrassment for you if they put it out?”

His face lifts again, a look of pure surprise on it. “No way, kid. Tell whoever you want. That’s not the issue.” He offers me his tablet. “Here. Add your name to my wikipedia entry if you want to. Just don’t let some asshole make a profit off your tragedy.”

I take a step back. “Never mind, I get it.”

“Rachel?” he says as I reach the stairs.

“Yeah?”

“Nice job with that Instagram thing. Henry was flapping like a chicken, trying to figure out who did it.”

I freeze, my hand on the banister. “It was me.”

“No kidding. But Henry doesn’t know because Ernie took the fall for you.”

“He did? Why?”

Frederick just shrugs, a smile on his face. “Got sick of Henry’s bitching, probably. We all thought it was hilarious.” He goes back to his article, but I head upstairs, my stomach quivering.

I flop onto my bed, wondering what the blogger’s photo of him and me looks like. I have no pictures with him. Not a single one.





OPERA





OPERA: A drama in which the words are sung instead of spoken. Themes may be tragic and / or comic.





Chapter Thirteen





When the big day arrives, Carlos drives Frederick and I to the airport. When we pull up to Departures, he gets out of the driver’s seat and runs around to open my door. I step out, and he tips his head sideways to smile at me. “Adios, se?orita.”

I surprise him with a quick kiss on the cheek. “Adios, Carlos.”

Frederick smacks him on the back. “See you in a couple weeks.”

On the flight to Boston, Frederick falls asleep in the first-class seat next to mine, but I can’t relax. Even a movie can’t distract me. I play games on Frederick’s tablet for a while, then tuck it back into the seat pocket in front of him. He’s sleeping with his mouth open. I study the lines in his face, and his long hands on the airplane blanket.