“Um…give me a sec to change.”
I go to my room and find a pair of leggings and a clean T-shirt, then comb my fingers through my kinks and tug them back into a ponytail. When I come out, Billie tucks the folder into her briefcase and locks it, then slings her purse over her shoulder and stands.
“This will be fun,” she says. “Girls’ day out!”
We head to her car, a white Mercedes that still has the new car smell, and I wonder if she bought it when I started making money. She gets fifteen percent of everything I earn, which, based on the original contract, didn’t look like it was going to be much. But the CD is selling better than projected and we’ve gotten some endorsement money, so cash flow has been good.
She calls the school on the way to say we’re coming.
When we get there, I discover what money buys. Where only half the kids in my old high school got lockers because the doors were ripped off most of them or they were falling out of the ancient walls, this school has rows of polished wooden lockers lining the pristine, marble-tiled hallways. We meet with the principal, and Billie explains the situation.
“I’ve been lead to believe that it shouldn’t take long to obtain guardianship,” she says. “Will we have to wait until then to enroll her?”
“Unless you have someone within Child and Family Services who is authorized to do so, I’m afraid so,” Principal Lewis says. “But in the meantime…” She leans down and pulls some paperwork from her drawer. “…you can certainly start on the paperwork so we’re ready to go when the time comes. And if you can fill out the financial disclosure, we can run all that information through the system and pre-qualify Shiloh.”
Billie nods. “I can assure you there is money in Shiloh’s accounts to cover tuition for the first year.”
I feel my eyes go wide. It didn’t occur to me until just this second that I’d have to pay to go to school. I mean, seriously? Who does that?
Billie takes all the papers and we stand. The principal gives us a brief tour on the way back to the front doors and assures us that celebrity will not be an issue, but then as we’re leaving asks if she can take a picture with me.
We load into Billie’s car. “I’d be fine with public school,” I say as we pull away.
She lets out a strained laugh. “Maybe once we find a place in Beverly Hills, but you don’t want to mess with the public schools in L.A. They’re dangerous.”
“Can’t be any worse than where I come from,” I mutter, slouching into my seat.
She glances at me, then back to the road. “This is your opportunity to leave all that behind, build a better life for yourself. You need to invest in your future, Shiloh.”
There’s a moment of sudden, overpowering home sickness, even though I never had an actual home. I look at Billie and remind myself that through everything, she’s had my back. It’s been nine months and so far, she’s never steered me wrong. “Okay.”
She navigates us through city traffic to the Neiman Marcus, but I don’t really find much I can wear. Billie models a few new dresses for me and picks two. We check out and head home.
“I know this is going to take some adjustment, Shiloh,” Billie says on the way up the elevators, “but I really believe it’s going to be awesome. She shifts the shopping bag into her other hand and takes mine. “You are so good for me. I think we will be really good for each other.”
“I know, Billie. I know everything you’ve done for me and I don’t mean to seem ungrateful.”
She pulls me into a hug. “You don’t, honey. I’m just so glad we’re doing this.”
“So am I.” I think.
Chapter 21
Tro
It’s the end of the first week of our European leg and I let Jamie talk me into doing Paris after the show. It’s a closed party at a bar in one of the seedier neighborhoods, but you’d never know it looking around. All the beautiful people are here.
Including Amilia Beauchene.
“Hello, Tro,” she says in the accent that grabbed onto my balls and didn’t let go the first time I heard it two years ago.
We met on Roadkill’s first European tour that summer. We had two shows in Paris and when I wasn’t on stage, I was in Amilia’s bed. I thought I heard something about her getting married last summer to some director, but when she glues herself to my back and whispers, “I’ve missed you,” in my ear, I’m thinking maybe I heard wrong.
“How have you been?” I ask, making some space between us.
She pouts her full red lips. “So so. Mostly bored.”
“Sorry to hear that,” I say, realizing the accent does nothing for me now.