I was reading, and asked me if I was enjoying it.
“Good,” he said, when I warily nodded. “Because I wrote it.”
His name was Dr. Lemon and he was a geology professor. He wasn’t put off by the vague answers I gave to whatever questions he asked. To him, it didn’t matter that I was a rather tough-acting teen with an obvious chip on my shoulder. It was enough for him that I sat in the library hour after hour devouring book after book. He did ask if I had any family who might be looking for me and I said no. Then he asked if I wanted to finish high school and I said hell no. He frowned over that and then searched around in his leather briefcase, withdrawing a shiny brochure. Some friends of his ran a tourism company in Colorado. He told me to wait until the following day and give them a call. They were searching for tour guide trainees.
Sometimes I wonder how the hell I would have managed if Dr. Lemon hadn’t done me that favor. Maybe I would have turned to dealing, or worse. Maybe right now there’s another kid sitting in a library somewhere reading about acid-eating microbes in South American caves as his empty belly rumbles. Dr. Lemon died of pancreatic cancer about a year after that fateful meeting. I hope someday I’m able to pay it forward, the chance that he gave me.
Miles pass and my mind never strays from Ren for very long. I’m not awfully creative and for the life of me I can’t imagine how things are going to go when we’re face to face. I keep myself occupied with the radio so I don’t have to think about what the hell we’ll say to each other when I drive into Atlantis.
“So Ren, what’s up? Been a few years, haha. You look hot. Sometimes I think I hate you. And sometimes I think the opposite.”
I’m starting to wonder if maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, showing up like this. I could have tracked down Ren a long time ago to figure out whether we could wade through the mess of our past. But it would have been harder for her to find me, if she’d even tried. Maybe she had tried and then gave up.
Gary’s oily assurances that the family has no idea I’m part of the production schedule may or may not be bullshit. I don’t give a damn about the rest of the Savage clan; Ren’s sullen brothers or her airhead sisters. I know August has been dead for years and Lita can go eat glass for all I fucking care.
Once I told the girl I loved that she’d never have to see me again. That’s a promise I should have broken a long time ago.
CHAPTER TEN
REN
I remember reading something once about how in olden times royalty would always be surrounded by people. They had all these well-dressed clingers – usually minor nobility - hanging around at all hours to help them dress, to hand them spit glasses, to inspect their piss, to claw wax out of their ears, whatever.
Even though no one has tossed me a chamber pot when I sit up in bed the first morning of filming, I have the feeling I’m opening my eyes inside of a fishbowl.
It gets worse when I open the door.
“Shit!”
The shriek erupts from my mouth when I nearly collide with a prowling cameraman.
It’s the handsome dark-haired one one I’d seen yesterday. He doesn’t say sorry. He doesn’t say anything. He just trains his lens on my wild hair and puffy face.
I cross my arms over the old t-shirt I’d worn to bed and disappear into the bathroom for a while. At least there are no cameras creeping around the bathroom. Well, none that I can see anyway. I decided not to think about that. I have some trouble attaching my microphone and finally just stuff it inside my bra, winding the cord beneath my shirt and attaching the box piece to the waistband of my jeans.
When I finally emerge, the cameraman is gone and I find my sister Ava in the kitchen scooping some hideous orange goo out of a jar and feeding it to her son. Rash is crouched in a corner with a camera balanced on one shoulder. He looks like he was painted there. I wonder if his knees hurt.
“Hey,” says Ava with bright cheer as Alden spits out a blob of orange. I