Page 57
“Trying to flatter me?”
“Maybe.”
That pries a smile from him. “You little shit,” he says.
He is cute, is the thing.
And I know he likes me.
The same way it did when I found Mom asleep on the couch—when it showed me the alternate universe where she died there—my brain rapid-fires through a version of the future. One where I lean in and pull him closer, whisper that we should wait until I’m eighteen but who has to know. A future where I force myself into the shape of womanhood so I never have to risk seeing my father in the mirror, not more than I already do; where I let a man put a hand on me and find out how badly I react. Be a woman like everyone expects me to be. Let Daniel turn that into his magnum opus. Really earn that fucking coproducer credit.
But I have a job to do. There’s a photo of Jane Doe in my shoe for a reason.
I say, “Does my dad know I’m here?”
Daniel says, “What?”
“Did anyone tell him that the plans changed?”
“Um,” Daniel says slowly. “No. We didn’t. We—”
I give a little tilt of my head, showing just enough of my throat. I know he’s locked on it. His Adam’s apple bobs. “Could you fix that?”
Daniel blinks. He sucks on his teeth, shoots a glance over to Mom and the producer.
“When you get in to set up,” I nudge when I don’t get a response fast enough for my liking. “If he’s there. Let it slip.”
“I don’t know,” Daniel counters. “That’ll be throwing a wrench in some great TV.”
Ugh. I let my face ease into something nervous and girlish. Even bring out some of my own real anxiety for a moment—swallowing hard, taking a deep breath.
I say, “Dad really, really doesn’t like surprises. Please?”
At that, Daniel’s expression softens. He taps his fingers against the car door, looks over at Mom and the producer and the correctional officer again. Mom rolls her eyes at something.
“Okay,” he sighs. “You know what—yeah. Okay. I’ll see what I can do.”
Ever so gently, I put the tips of my fingers to the knuckles of his fidgeting hand.
“Thank you,” I murmur. “Honestly, I wish you were producing this instead. I’d hate it less if it were you.”
His eyes widen, and I swear the tips of his ears flush pink.
It’s nice to have control over something.
USP East Early is the same Fluorescent nightmare as always: ugly and almost painful. When it’s my turn through security, a woman pats me down, and I wink at the correctional officer across the room because it’s the man I screamed at months ago. He pretends not to recognize me. On the other side of the metal detector, Mom tilts my head up toward the awful lights and touches up my lipstick.
Her grip on me is hard. An unspoken threat.
Believe me, I’m aware.
But there’s no need to act up, because Daniel does exactly as he’s told. He steps into the Box with his cameras, and steps out to inform us that Dad is refusing to speak with anyone until he talks to me alone.
Mom pitches a fit. The producer starts swearing under his breath, How the fuck did he know, and Daniel stands to the side, steadies himself, raises an eyebrow at me. I smile as the producer sets about attempting to negotiate: We can add an interview with only me, not Mom; we can do my interview first; we can come to a compromise, right?
No, Dad says. Go to hell. His daughter only, alone, no cameras, or this ends one way or another.
The guard escorting us says nothing.
