Tara winks. “Probably in a dark corner, waiting to corrupt the daughter of a preacher.”
Winking again, she’s just acknowledged for the first time her knowledge of my paternity. One nice thing about keeping up appearances is the facade of social grace. It’s not likely that anyone will race up to me and play a game of twenty-questions regarding my new role as the daughter of the Evangelical King of Camelot, but their stares say enough. They want to ask. Because, despite the “fame” that I’ve now fallen into, it’s worlds away from anything these kids have ever known, or will ever know.
“Heard about that, huh?” I nod, slowly, moving toward a wall and away from the center of the room.
Tara follows, while Mollie spots some of our other friends, and they twitter away down the hall.
“What the fuck is that shit?” Tara whispers when we’re as away from anyone as we’re likely to get all night.
I shrug. “I know, right?”
“You knew he was your dad the whole time?”
“Well, since I was eight. He didn’t become a pastor till a few years ago and, I mean, how am I supposed to know what big is.”
Tara waves her hand. “I know, like, everyone has their own damn TV or Internet shows these days.”
“Right?”
“Is he like super famous? I mean, I know you were on the Today Show, but, Christ, they interview those people who have like thirty kids at a time. They’re not so selective anymore—no offense.”
I hold up my hand. “None taken, promise. You know how Trent’s dad is in, like, the hair world?”
Tara nods, gesturing to the expansive house in which we’re standing.
“Well,” I sigh, “Roland is like that … but with … Bible thumpers.” I wince internally at my use of Bible thumpers. Where I come from, it’s a perfectly acceptable and understood term, but I think about my good friends at CU and my stomach twists at the derogatory nature of it.
Still, Tara understands my analogy. “Fuck, dude.”
“Yep. Fuck.”
“You supposed to talk like that?” She teases with a smile.
I role my eyes just as another high school friend—Melanie, now attending Juilliard for dance—approaches.
“Hey Mel.” I pull her into a side hug and offer a soft kiss on each of her cheeks.
“Darling,” she draws out dramatically, “it’s been such a tough semester for you. Are you holding up okay?” She kisses my cheeks as she pretends to fuss over me like a worried grandmother.
Of all of us in our circle of friends, Melanie Dwyer most embraces her privileged upbringing. She was legitimately born to be part of the aristocracy. Her giraffe-like neck and lanky limbs to match allowed her to dive into her passion for ballet. Her mother is an American-born “diplobrat” who spent most of her life traveling the globe as her mother worked in international relations. Melanie’s father comes from a long line of money, though his nationality is suspiciously unclear. All of that aside, Melanie is extremely kind and caring—despite spending less time in reality than the rest of us do.
“It’s hardly a crisis, but thank you for checking in,” I attempt to reassure her to stop all the fussing.
She places a bony hand on her slightly protruding collarbone. “Hardly a crisis? Darling, you must still be in shock from the cultural downgrade you’re experiencing. Come.” She grips my hand and leads me to the bar, pouring me a glass of impossibly expensive champagne.
Where are Trent’s parents, anyway?
Taking a quick survey of my surroundings, I decide to leave the glass on the bar while I talk with Melanie. I don’t know if anyone here has the gall to take pictures of me and post them on Facebook, but, with how closely Dean Baker claims he’ll be watching me, even being seen in the background of these pictures at all would be enough to cause me migraines for the remainder of the semester, year, or my entire time at CU.
“Now,” Melanie starts after her sip. Tara has slipped upstairs to do God-knows-what. “Tell me everything.”
Spanish.
Her dad must be Spanish, I’ve decided after ten years of knowing her. Her skin is always several shades darker than is natural for inhabitants of New England, and she’s far too conscious of her skin to be seen within fifty-feet of a tanning booth.
I shake my head. “There’s not really much to tell yet, Mel. Just … trying to get through, you know?”
She shakes her head as if watching a story about rural poverty. “You poor thing,” she whispers. “Having to play nice with a man who didn’t want you.”
I know she means well. I think. But, still, it stings.
“That’s pretty complicated.” I defend Roland, thinking passively that we didn’t communicate with each other yesterday.
Was he waiting for my cue? Crap. Did I screw up?