It's All About Us Read online

  I shot her a glance that plainly said, See? Worth it, wasn’t it?

  And then a diesel engine growled and a Mercedes materialized out of the fog, spitting gravel as it wheeled around the half circle of the drive. My mom understands the value of a good entrance.

  Wait a second.

  That wasn’t her Mercedes. It was one of Dad’s. And through the tinted windows I could see a man’s silhouette.

  My dad’s personal driver, Bruno, got out of the car and opened the passenger doors. “Lissa.” The guy was totally bald and built like a bear. I always wondered how he fit into anything smaller than an Escalade. Dad found him on the side of the road one day. Seriously. He was standing at an intersection holding a sign that said, “Homeless. Will drive for food.” Dad, whose sense of philanthropy is a little bent, waved him over to the car, found out he’d lost his cab when he couldn’t make the payments, and slid over to the passenger side. Bruno’s been with us ever since.

  “Bruno, where’s Mom?” I tried to keep my tone even.

  “Delayed in L.A.”

  Disappointment clogged my breathing. “But I just talked to her last night and she was at her gate.”

  He shrugged massive shoulders. “Apparently something came up with the campaign and the lady in charge asked her to stay over. She says she’ll be here in time for lunch.”

  What stupid fundraising problem that could be solved in an evening there couldn’t be solved over the phone from here? Arghh! She was always doing this. Always putting her charities and fundraisers and do-gooding ahead of things that were important.

  Ahead of our family.

  Ahead of me.

  Tears burned in my eyes and I blinked, feeling my contacts float dangerously out of place with the flood of saline.

  Ooooh, how I wished I could swear.

  Bruno wasn’t finished. “I’m supposed to take you to church and then over to the house. Are you and your friends ready?”

  The damp fog had found its way through my clothes. I shivered. No, I wasn’t ready. Who was ever ready to be dumped by her own mother?

  “That’s okay, Bruno. I’ll pass.” I glanced at Callum. “I had another invite, so I’ll just do that instead.”

  “What?” Gillian blurted, gawking at me. “What invite?”

  “You mean the beach?” Callum asked.

  “Think they’ve left yet?”

  “I don’t think they’re even out of bed.”

  “Perfect.” I smiled at him. “I have lots of time to change, then.”

  “Wait a minute,” Gillian said, her eyebrows lowering to make a unibrow across her forehead. Not a good look for her. “What about the service? You can deal however you want with your parents, but I still want to go to church.”

  I looked over at Bruno, still patiently waiting. “Bruno, do you mind taking Gillian to church on your way back over the bridge?”

  “Not at all.”

  Bruno never minded doing anything our family asked him. He’d even gone and gotten tampons for me when I was thirteen and doubled over with the unexpected agony of cramps. Whatever my dad paid him, it wasn’t enough.

  “No, no.” Gillian wasn’t done. “We’re not going to do this. What about Callum? Now he’s not going to get to meet your dad.”

  “He’ll meet him at Benefactors’ Day,” I said. Why the sudden concern?

  “And maybe something will come up then, too. Come on, Lissa. So your mom said she’d be here this morning. Stop acting like a baby, and stick with the plan.”

  “What?” Who was she to go running me down in front of Callum like I was five years old?

  “You heard me.”

  I opened my mouth to say something absolutely scathing, but she turned to Callum. “What do you want to do?”

  He looked uncomfortable, glancing between me and Gillian. “I’m good either way.”

  “I bet you are,” she said. “It’s a win-win for you. But it’s not for me.” She took me by the arm and pulled me a couple of feet away. “Please, Lissa. So your mom flaked. It’s not the end of the world. It just means we really need the Spirit right now, okay?”

  “You need the Spirit,” I hissed. “Where do you get off calling me a baby in front of him?”

  “I’m sorry I said that.” Her dark eyes told me she meant it, and I felt a little bit better. “Even if it’s true, my timing is lousy.”

  I felt slightly less better.

  “Please.” Could she be any more persistent? “Let’s do what we said we were going to do. Don’t dump me for those guys and send me off with a driver like I’m nobody.”

  Ouch.

  My contacts settled into place and I realized what I’d almost done. My mother had chosen something else over me. And I’d nearly chosen someone else over Gillian. Again.

  Like mother, like daughter.

  What right did I have to get mad at her? I wasn’t a baby. I was a big fat hypocrite.

  “You’re right.” I slipped an arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “I hate that about you. Let’s go to church.”

  As he held the door for Callum and me to slip into the backseat, I could swear Bruno was smiling.

  Chapter 12

  WITH BRUNO AT THE WHEEL, we shot past the photographers at the gate (did I miss a U.N. speech?) before they could even focus their lenses, and made record time winding through the emptiness that is downtown San Francisco on a Sunday morning. But if you asked me if I admired the orange arcs of the Golden Gate Bridge rearing way above us as we crossed it, or if I thought Marin was pretty, you wouldn’t get much of an answer.

  My whole being was focused on Callum next to me. In the front, Gillian and Bruno talked while I pretended to throw in an interested comment once in a while. Meantime, I casually let my hand fall from my lap to the foot or so of leather upholstery between us, flattening it there so it looked like I was bracing for the curves in the road.

  Transparent? Yeah, maybe.

  But it wasn’t like he hadn’t been throwing hints like Frisbees.

  And then it happened. He moved his hand and linked his pinkie finger with mine.

  A wave of heat and triumph and nervousness washed over me. It was like attempting the Pipe on Oahu and washing out, but oh, man, what a ride. I’d never realized before just how many nerve endings there are in your pinkie—and every one of them was going “ooooh” at the touch of his.

  Gillian glanced back, her mouth open to say something to me.

  Her gaze dropped. Held.

  She sat facing the windshield again, and I got a view of her profile as she spoke. “So, Callum, are you a believer?”

  “In what?” His voice was as lazy as if we were all stretched out by the pool, half asleep in the sun.

  “In God. We are on our way to church.”

  “I never gave it much thought.”

  “Do you think you might this morning?” Each word came out bright and friendly, like the plinking of piano keys. Talk about transparent.

  “Maybe.” The guy was unflappable. “Does it matter to you?”

  “What happens to the friends of my friends matters to me.”

  Nine people out of ten would have asked what happens, and I could tell Gillian was just waiting to tell him. But Callum, obviously, was the tenth person.

  “That’s nice of you.” And then he smiled at me.

  Gillian rolled her eyes and subsided into her seat, and then we arrived.

  I was just as glad. Gillian’s passion about her faith can be a little overwhelming until you get to know her. I didn’t think Callum was quite ready for it yet.

  The church was one of those cute little clapboard ones painted white, with a single steeple. They’re a dying breed out here in the west, which tends to run to practical concrete, unless you count the old missions. And as for the sermon the pastor gave—well, I can’t tell you much about it. What was the matter with me? Even sitting next to That Jerk Aidan in church hadn’t had this effect on me—this feeling that I was inside a dream
, that the only thing that had any substance was the guy beside me.

  Thank goodness for the music. It wasn’t contemporary worship, and there was no band—only an old lady playing the organ. But they were old-timey songs that I kind of like, even though they talk about walking the wide road to destruction and blood running down the cross and other happy topics. You can sing four-part harmony to them, so Gillian and I took the tenor and alto parts. And with the amazed looks Callum was giving us, I felt happier than I had all morning.

  “How do you guys know how to do that?” Callum whispered to me. “Sing like that, I mean.”

  “Years of practice,” I whispered back.

  “But you just met her at school, didn’t you?”

  “Sure, but we’ve known these songs since we were kids.” I may have made a personal choice three years ago, but Mom had made her choice about how to bring us up long before that. “Besides, if you read music, you can sight-read the harmonies.”

  Callum might be the heir to the Penoco fortune and a champion-ship golfer, but it was clear that, for him, reading music was on a par with learning Cyrillic.

  It was also clear that I had gained enormous points with him by being able to do something he couldn’t. I wasn’t even very good at it, there being a huge difference between singing and carrying a tune. But points didn’t matter to me. I just wanted him to think I was amazing.

  Mission accomplished.

  Now let’s hope I didn’t do something stupid to mess it up.

  The house my dad had rented nestled in an oak grove on a hillside overlooking the bay, which was why the owner charged six grand a month. It didn’t look expensive inside, though. Dad’s not much for picking up after himself, which crazes my mother. Then again, she picks up the phone and calls a service to solve the problem and that’s that. Anyway, it’s on Lucas Valley Road, which was called that long before you-know-who moved in and built the Ranch, and was close for those late-night brainstorming sessions that are Dad’s favorite part of the movie business.

  My mother must have arrived just before us. She hadn’t even changed yet. “Lissa!”

  Oomph. I hugged her back, engulfed in a Monique Lhuillier suit and a cloud of Joy. Her shoulder blades felt sharp under the silk.

  I pulled back. “Are the Babies of Somalia making you forget to eat?”

  “Of course not. I’m eating. Like a horse.” Which is what she always says. “Mind you, I’m not in the stable very much. I’m helping Angelina with the fundraising twenty-four-seven.”

  “Are their kids as cute as the pictures in People?”

  “Way cuter. The youngest has me completely wrapped around her finger. You and Jolie are lucky you don’t have a baby sister or brother at this rate.”

  It’s hard to stay mad at my mom when you’re actually with her. I did my best to hand my resentment over to God and turned to Gillian. “Mom, this is my roommate, Gillian Chang.”

  And my mom, being the way she is, hugged her instead of taking the hand Gillian offered.

  “Did you name Lissa’s sister after Angelina?” she asked, sounding a little winded.

  Mom grinned and shook her head. “Not a chance. But she was the prettiest baby, and we’d just come back from a shoot in France so she could be born on U.S. soil, and voilà. There was nothing else to do but name her Jolie. Lissa was named for my Swedish grandmother, who was a pistol and whom I adored. And who is this?”

  Mom turned to Callum, who barely had a chance to say his name before she hugged him, too. “I’m very happy to meet you two,” she said, releasing him. “Come in. I have to get changed before we eat.”

  Dad stood when we came into the kitchen, and I flew into his hug. I talk about Jolie being a daddy’s girl . . . well, she’s not the only one.

  “L-squared.” (That stands for Lissa-love, in case you’re thinking he’s a bit weird. Well, he is, in that creative, not-quite-in-the-real-world way that makes you wonder how he and my mom ever got together.) I burrowed into the tweedy blazer with the shoulder pulling out of one side that he’d picked up in Yorkshire before I was born, and breathed in the smell of wood chips and lemon and smoke. He’d obviously had a fire in the fireplace last night.

  “They treating you all right up there?” He looked me over as if checking for signs of manacles, or starvation at least.

  “Yes. The food is good.”

  “Teachers okay?”

  “Except for Bio. Genetics is nasty.”

  “But highly applicable in the real world.”

  “And Phys. Ed. is mandatory. Yuck.”

  “It’s good for you. You can’t lie around beckoning to the servants all the time.”

  “Dad!”

  “No servants here, I’m afraid, except Mrs. Harris, who feeds me, and Bruno. So. When are you going to introduce me?”

  I turned and ran through the introductions again. Callum looked as if he were staring into a klieg light—or the kind you see when you’re approaching heaven.

  “I’m a big admirer of your work, sir.” He shook Dad’s hand. “It’s an honor.”

  Dad flushed. It really gets to him when people do this, and it happens all the time. You should have seen him on stage with the Oscar. He was a wreck.

  “Thanks,” he mumbled.

  “I learn something from every movie, but Malahat was my favorite.”

  Dad stopped looking uncomfortable and began to look interested. Either Callum was sincere, or he’d done a massive amount of preparation. I preferred to think it was the first.

  “That was Dad’s labor of love,” I whispered to Gillian. “It came out the year after I was born. Cannes loved it, but it totally tanked at the box office and Dad nearly had to go to work for Grandpa.”

  Mom came back into the kitchen, barefoot and in jeans and a crisp white shirt. “Mrs. Harris has lunch ready for us.” She herded us into the dining room and watched as Callum pulled out my chair and seated me.

  Wow. I thought they only did that in the movies.

  Mom and Dad exchanged a glance but for once in their lives said the right thing: not one word.

  Mom glanced at me over the spinach quiche, spring greens salad, and slabs of thick French toast. Then her gaze moved to my right. “Callum, would you say grace, please?”

  Callum looked at her blankly. “Sorry?”

  “Do you want to say grace?”

  “Uh—” His eyes held appeal as they found mine.

  “I’ll say it,” Gillian said, and did.

  Mom raised her head and unfolded her napkin when Gillian finished. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you, Callum. I shouldn’t have made an assumption like that. I’m sorry.”

  My spine turned to jelly, and I slid down a little in my chair. I did not want to get started on religion. I wanted to talk about things that would make him think about me long after today. Could there be an earthquake now, please?

  “You guys are Christians, right?” he asked.

  “Not all of us,” my dad said.

  I saw a flash of pain in Mom’s eyes before she was able to slip her company face back on. “That’s right. Pass the French toast to Gillian, Lissa.”

  “I think I’m an Episcopalian.” Callum managed to sound thoughtful, as if he were making a personal discovery while he wolfed down quiche. “We used to go to church when my grandma on my dad’s side was alive, but she died when I was seven.”

  “And you haven’t been since?” Dad asked.

  I gave him a what’s-it-to-you look, but it seemed he was treating the situation without his usual cynical humor.

  “No.” Callum piled French toast on his plate and poured a river of blueberry sauce over it. “Life got busy and I never thought about it much.”

  “You and I are outnumbered three to two, here, my friend,” Dad informed him. “I suggest you change the subject while you can.”

  At the “my friend,” a lazy grin lit Callum’s face, and it was all I could do not to sigh and stare.

  Take that, Vanessa. You may h
ave known him since kindergarten, but I know what he wants out of life. And I can help him get it.

  DLavigneIs it official?

  VTalbotHe had lunch with her parents. How official do you want to get?

  DLavigneHe actually went? To church and everything?

  VTalbotPraise the Lord.

  DLavigneSounds like you need serious retail therapy.

  VTalbot::eyeroll:: Like it matters.

  DLavigneI bet it does. You’ve liked him since freshman year.

  VTalbotAncient history. You going downstairs? The new Prison Break DVDs released today. We can do three epis a night all week.

  DLavigneSave me a seat and a drool towel.

  Chapter 13

  AS I SHOOK raisins and chopped apple into my oatmeal Monday morning in the dining room, Dani sidled up to me in line, cutting out the sophomore beside me. On my other side, Carly Aragon looked up and quickly glanced away, as if she didn’t want to attract Dani’s attention.

  Smart girl.

  “I’ve been hearing things about you.” Dani selected a yogurt from the refrigerated case.

  “Oh?”

  “Is it true you hooked up with Callum yesterday?”

  Did she mean hooked up as in “spent the day with” or hooked up as in “spent the night with”?

  “Is that what people are saying?”

  “I heard he went to church with you.”

  “That’s true. And he met my folks. He and my dad really hit it off.”

  They’d spent nearly the whole afternoon yakking about story-boards and point of view and production values while Gillian and Mom and I hung out in the garden and talked about Angelina and school and, for some reason, how many different kinds of silk there are.

  Not that I minded that Dad had essentially kidnapped my guy. Nothing wrong with my guy liking my family, either.

  “So it’s true, then. You guys are an item,” Dani persisted.

  “You’d have to ask him.”

  “I did. He wouldn’t tell me.”

  I remembered what he’d said on our way to the field house. “Then I guess he wants to keep his private life private.”

  She looked at me like I was nuts. “What private life? We’re his friends.”