10. Jake
Chapter 10
Jake
Dear Dad,
I know you said never to write you about voice lessons or singing or acting, but something pretty cool happened. I stole a song from another foster kid and I got famous with it instead. And I did such a good job stealing it that she thinks she wanted me to have her song.
I swear, these people really are so stupid.
The label just sent me a check for two hundred grand for the song I stole—and to cut a few others with them. I’m not sharing any of it with the Fansees or the girl who wrote it. I think this is the beginning of our greatest con yet. You need to get out soon and help me pull one over on all the stupid Americans who like this kind of crappy, sentimental music.
Your son,
Jake
O nce I cut the engine, I turn to face Octavia, and I swear, the look of confusion on her face is almost enough for me to call it. After scouring the internet for unique dating ideas, this one seemed like a winner.
But now it seems really dumb.
“Alright, what are you paying me for?” Octavia narrows her eyes.
“No, no,” I say. “I’m not paying you. I’m paying for myself.” I nod. “You have to buy some stuff, and I’ll do the same, and then we take the stuff back to my apartment, and we each have to make something for the other person’s dinner with what we bought.”
Octavia blinks. “Your apartment?”
I groan. “No, not like that. It’s not creepy. I just can’t go to a normal place, because?—”
As if on cue, someone raps on the window. “Hey, are you Jake Priest?” A mother and her teenage daughter are leaning closer and closer.
“No way, Mom. I told you—he wouldn’t be caught dead in this old junker.”
I shake my head. “Nope, sorry. Not famous, but I get that a lot.”
But then the mother sees Octavia, and her mouth drops. “It is him. I knew it.” She points. “Look!”
“See?” I jab my thumb at the mother. “Let’s go quick, before they start shouting and other people notice.”
Octavia starts to buckle.
“No, not go , go. Go inside.” I shake my head. “They have bags of stuff. They’re headed out, so they can’t really follow us in if any of it’s refrigerated.” I smile. “Let’s go inside.” I jam a hat down over my head and toss the sunglasses to Octavia again.
She bites her lip for a moment, and I wonder whether she’s going to beg off on the whole thing, but then she nods, and shoves the sunglasses over her face. “Let’s go.”
Moments later, we’re both racing toward the entrance like we’re running from the police, and Octavia’s giggling like it’s all a big game. “Did you see her face?” She’s heaving a little. “That mother looked appalled, like we were the jerks.” She shakes her head. “She came and banged on your window like it was her right, but running from her was rude?” She rolls her eyes. “People, man.”
“People, man, indeed,” I say. “They are the worst.”
Octavia frowns then, like she’s thinking about all the ways people suck. I can’t have her all bummed out on our date, so I slap my forehead. “A timer. We need some kind of timer.” I set a twenty-minute timer on my phone, show it to her, and snatch a small black plastic shopping basket from a stack. “And don’t try to follow me, either.”
She frowns. “We’re on a date and you’re ditching me? Really?”
I blink. “No. That wouldn’t make sense, would it?” I shift my basket to the left side of my body. “But no sneaking a peek at what I grab.” I arch one eyebrow. “I can’t have you copying my epic ideas.”
“Are you a chef?” she asks. “Did you pick this to show off your hidden talent?”
I lean closer, close enough to realize she smells like honeysuckle. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”
She narrows her eyes at me, and then she snags a basket of her own, shoving her borrowed sunglasses up onto her head at the same time. That movement shifts her hair back, away from her face, and I can’t help my smile. She looks nice with her hair pulled back. I’m guessing she never does it because of the burns, but I like seeing more of her.
Her skin’s smooth and rippled at the same time. So smooth I think I could run my finger across it and barely feel a thing, but rippled in smooth, almost consistent waves that look like the surface of a lake on a windy day.
“Allergies?” She arches one eyebrow. “I’d rather not blow you up like a balloon on our first date.”
First date.
The words are like a caress to me for some reason. My first date with Octavia Rothschild. Maybe it’s her voice, which is so smooth and silky it could be like a caress. But I think it’s more the idea that I’m with someone I chose, someone much better than me.
Someone I like.
She makes me happy. I’m not sure why, but she does. I can count on one hand the number of people I’ve met who make me happy.
Bea.
Probably my foster parents.
And now, Octavia, too.
She starts walking, and I have to jog to catch up. “I have no allergies,” I say. “You?”
She shakes her head. “Not unless you count wasps.”
“Whoa,” I say. “That’s a big one, but I doubt it’ll change my dinner plans.”
“I carry an epi-pen,” she says. “And a fistful of pills. No need to worry.”
“But shellfish and peanut butter are A-OK,” I say. “Noted.”
“Wait, are you going to make shellfish?” She blinks. “And what about peanut butter? Would that be with the shellfish?”
“I can’t really say what’s on the menu,” I say. “But you know, anything but wasp venom is a possibility.”
She rolls her eyes. “But with twenty bucks, our options are pretty limited.”
“What do you mean?”
She leans over the refrigerated bin. “This steak, for instance, is twenty-four dollars.” She shakes her head. “I’m four dollars short, and that’s before sides or seasonings are considered.”
“Well, shoot.” I pull my wallet out. “Maybe I should change the budget a little?—”
She shakes her head. “No, no, this is a game, right? We see who can make the best meal with twenty bucks.”
Before I can ask her what she’s planning to get, she ducks around the corner—into the international aisle, maybe?—and she hollers. “Meet you in produce in two minutes.”
She’s clearly had an idea, and I still have nothing . You’d think that while I was searching for this date plan I’d have found, you know, an idea of what I should buy.
Okay, think, Jake. What do I know how to make?
Nothing.
I’m totally useless. Why didn’t I rule this idea out as soon as I remembered that I never cook? I order all my food. That’s my one move. Bea doesn’t really cook much either. I blame Seren for cooking so well that none of us needed to learn, but I have no ideas and I’m desperate, so I text Bea anyway.
Mayday! What meal can I cook for under $20?
Why do you need to cook? You know what? Forget the answer. You’re doomed.
She’s rude. I forget sometimes how rude she is.
Is this for your date? Ermagosh, I had no idea you were such an idiot. Don’t try to make her anything, not if you ever want to see her again. Call in takeout immediately.
She sends me options for places I could order takeout from, and the options keep coming. She doesn’t stop until she’s sent at least half a dozen options.
With a beleaguered sigh, I call for Korean takeout. “No, not very spicy on the tteokbokki,” I say. “I have no idea whether she like spicy food, because it’s our first date.” At least the guy taking my order can’t see my idiotic smile.
“Who are you talking to?” Octavia arches one eyebrow as she rounds the corner.
“Gotta go.” I hang up, and then I smile. “Sorry. Work calls me a lot.” That’s not technically a lie. They do, even if that wasn’t work calling.
She purses her lips, but doesn’t argue. “Are you ready? You didn’t meet me in produce.”
“I mean, ‘ready’ can mean a lot of things,” I say. “I need a bit more time.”
“You didn’t say we couldn’t search for ideas online, but I feel like you’re supposed to be coming up with it yourself.” She stares pointedly at my phone.
“Right,” I say. “Yes, no more of that.” But since I can’t google for ideas on my phone—why wasn’t I doing that instead of texting Bea?—I decide to walk a little aimlessly up and down the aisles, hoping that inspiration will strike.
I mean, I know that help from my stupid idea is on the way, but I can’t let her know or it won’t be a surprise. So I walk up the aisle slowly, pondering the items on the shelf until I see something I know.
Pasta Roni.
“They still make this?” I don’t even have to fake my delight. “This was my favorite summer lunch when I was. . .when Dave and Seren were working and Bea was busy.” I toss one in my basket.
“You don’t call them Mom or Dad?” Octavia looks genuinely curious.
“It’s complicated,” I say.
“Why?”
“I have a dad,” I say. “I mean, presumably I have a mother too, but Dad never really said anything about her. When I asked, he changed the subject. Either way, Bea’s mom’s a total mess, but my dad. . .” I’m not sure how to defend him when he’s in prison for actually trying to steal from people. “I just know he was a pretty good dad to me when he had the chance to be.”
“Bea said he’s locked up?” She grimaces. “I know that sounds bad, but that’s what she said.”
I shrug. “Some people make a living by lying to people on their televisions like I do. Others make a living by lying to their faces.”
She winces. “Well, I’m sure it was hard for you when he went to prison.”
I’m not sure how to answer. “It was actually easy—too easy. My life was hard with Dad in a lot of ways, and when he got locked up.” I snort. “I mean, we were actually trying to con Dave and Seren, and then after they testified against him, they took me in. At first, I thought they were looking for a way to punish me. I spent a miserable few weeks, waiting for them to. . .” I sigh. “I’m not sure. Beat me?”
I see a bag of tortilla chips and toss it in my basket.
“They never did anything but make me special treats, buy me clothes, and get me lessons for things I wanted to learn.” I can’t help my half-smile when I think about the paranoid little kid I was when they found me. “In some ways, I almost feel bad saying this, but in some ways it was the best thing that ever happened to me.” I’ve never said that aloud. Not once.
I feel terrible about it.
I have a father, and one thing I’ve always prided myself on being is loyal. Saying that it was good for me that he was caught is hard, but it’s also true.
“Your dad going to prison was the best thing?” Octavia looks surprised.
I nod slowly. “Dad—what he taught me and what the Fansees taught—they were complete opposites. When I lived with Dad, I believed everything he said, but as I got older, I started to wonder. The Fansees seemed right, too.”
“Couldn’t they both be right?” Octavia’s looking straight ahead, at the floor, talking as if to herself. “I used to think the world had to be black and white, but I think sometimes the truth is somewhere in between.”
“Shades of grey,” I say. “I like that. My two sets of parents are both extremes. The Fansees are optimistic and idealistic, and my dad’s jaded and cynical. Maybe that’s the closest anyone has ever come to describing me—something in between.”
She nods. “What you need to do is take the best from both. You can see things like Dave and Seren, but you’re also smart enough to spot duplicity in situations and people in a way your foster parents probably can’t.”
It’s like I’ve been waltzing through my life for decades and no one has ever seen me before. Then along comes Octavia, and suddenly, someone gets it. The real me. Unvarnished. Grey. Dingy.
But she doesn’t seem put off by it.
I throw a bag of gummy bears and a pint of ice cream in my bag and head for the front. Octavia’s trying to peek into my basket, probably trying to figure out what I might make with ice cream and Pasta Roni, but I’m going to keep her guessing.
“Just the twenty.” I point at the register four down from mine that’s lit up. “You go down there.”
She tries to steal one more look in my basket and then finally trots away. I don’t take the register in front of me—I swing farther right and check myself out. I always do better at self-checkout because no one’s staring me in the face, so I’m less likely to be recognized. When I go to pay, I actually have three dollars and eleven cents left, so I throw in a pack of gum and a pair of nail clippers to add volume.
We’re spotted on the way to the car, and we run again. When I grab her hand, she startles a little, but then she smiles.
People smile at me all day long. Sometimes they’re paid to. Sometimes they’re smiling with the adoring grin of a fangirl. So why does her smile make something inside my chest spin round and round? Is it because her eyes sparkle? Is it because her voice is so melodic I could listen to it forever? Or is it something else?
On the way back to my place, she tells me about the years of voice lessons it took to polish her abilities. I don’t bother telling her I spent just as long for a far less impressive product. While she’s talking about one of her voice coaches and his obsession with her keeping her shoulders squared up and back, she’s waving her arms and ranting. It’s one of the cutest, most dynamic things I’ve ever seen.
I’m really looking forward to her reaction when the Korean food shows up. I can hear her now, squawking about how unfair it is that I didn’t even bother making her something.
“Why aren’t you talking?” She frowns. “Did I say something stupid?”
My eyes widen. “Not at all. I’m enjoying listening to you.”
Uh-oh. Her frown grows. “I’m not a circus act, you know.”
I laugh. “You’d be a good one. You remind me of Seren—she’s the most dynamic speaker I’ve ever met.”
“I remind you of your mother?” She grimaces. “Dear Diary. First date went badly. I reminded him of his mother .”
I reach over and take her hand. “I don’t know. I think it’s going pretty well.”
She clams up like I stuck duct tape over her mouth, but she doesn’t pull away. I’m taking that as a win.
“Tell me about your family,” she finally says. “I really only know Bea.”
Shoot. My family’s a tricky topic. “Well, you know I have a dad,” I say. “He’s locked up, so that’s complicated. He was almost eligible for parole when some administrator discovered that he’d helped the prison warden siphon about eight million dollars during the past year, and then he refused to divulge where it was hidden, and he got more time added to his sentence.”
“Oh, no,” she says. “That’s terrible.”
“He’s only been caught twice in his life,” I say. “But I agree it was pretty bad timing for the second one to happen then.”
“Wait.” Her hand stiffens in mine. “Are you saying it’s terrible that he was caught or terrible that he stole that money?”
“Both?” I ask. “I mean, he raised me for the first ten years of my life, and if you’d asked me right after he went to prison and I was being honest, I’d have said the only bad part was that he got caught. But now?” I shrug. “I guess Dave and Seren have rubbed off on me.”
“I should hope so,” she says. But she doesn’t pull her hand out of mine. That’s something.
“I do think things are more complicated than a lot of people make them out to be. They’re more complicated than my dad led me to believe, too. My dad didn’t have an easy life, and people took advantage of him a lot. It was a natural next step for him to do the same to others. But now that I’ve met Dave and Seren, now that I know there are good people out there. . .” I shrug. “I guess I learned there’s another way.”
“A better way,” Octavia says.
She’s like them—the Fansees. She lives squarely in the white. Maybe that’s why I like being around her. For the same reason, things could get a little uncomfortable if she spends more time with me. Most of the Fansee family—foster or biological—doesn’t really get shades of grey. Bea does, thanks to her mom. I think that’s why she and I work and Emerson has never really liked me much.
I’ve killed the conversation with talk of my dad, I suppose. Luckily, my apartment’s close. That’s why I chose that Super Target. I pull into my normal space, and I wonder whether this car’s going to get ticketed. Exactly no one will believe it’s mine.
Right as I kill the engine, Octavia says, “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” I turn toward her. “For what?”
“I shouldn’t say it’s a better way when I don’t know all the details, but I would usually say?—”
I release her hand and then I cover it with mine and squeeze. “It’s fine. You’re right, of course. Stealing money from other people, no matter who they are or how unscrupulous they’ve been, isn’t as good as working hard to earn it yourself.”
“He’s still your dad though, so it’s complicated,” she says. “I get it.”
“You do?” I raise my eyebrows. “Do you have a dad who’s not always a hero?”
She shrugs. “My dad’s pretty great. But my mom. . .” Her smile’s a little pained, which means she’s being honest. “That’s my ‘complication.’”
I laugh. “Maybe you do get it.” Reluctantly, I pull my hand away from hers and get out. When I reach for my bag, she tries to grab it first. “Ah, ah, ah, Miss ‘Better Way.’ No peeking.”
“Tortilla chips,” she moans. “What could you be making that requires tortilla chips and Pasta Roni?”
“You will just have to wait and see what my culinary skills produce.”
She follows me to the elevator bay, and once the doors open, I swipe my card and hit the button for the penthouse. “Oh, fancy. I’m assuming that ‘P’ means the penthouse?” She arches one eyebrow.
“I didn’t even pick it,” I say. “It’s part of my agreement with my management company. They provide me an apartment as long as I film more than two feature films a year.”
“Oh, you know.” Octavia’s using a British accent. “As long as I remain famous and posh, they provide me with a penthouse.” She breathes on her nails and rubs them on her shirt. “No big deal.”
The elevator doors ding and open.
I roll my eyes. “Get off.”
She shimmies past me and into the hallway outside my apartment. “Wait.” She looks around. “There are two penthouses? I thought the whole point was that you’re the top of the building.”
“Inflation?” I snort. “Not sure what to tell you. José lives there.” I point. “He’s a great guy.”
“Is he famous?” She arches an eyebrow. “What about hotter than you? Maybe I need to meet this José.”
She’s ridiculous. “His parents own a huge shipping company, and as far as I can tell, all he does is party all night and sleep all day.”
“Sounds like he’s just my speed.” She shrugs. “I may wait outside in the hall for a bit.” She leans against the wall.
I grab her wrist and yank her inside, closing the door behind us.
She pivots and snags my bag, ripping it away and opening it. “Tortilla chips, Pasta Roni, and nail clippers ?” She scowls. “I’m not eating whatever you’re planning to make with this.”
“Relax.” I laugh. “You’ll love it, I swear.”
“Nail clippers?” Her voice has turned almost shrill. “Please tell me those don’t factor into your dinner plans.”
“They do not,” I say. “They were an impulse buy when I had money left over and a mostly-empty bag.”
“You just buy things without thinking about them?” She shakes her head. “That’s a problem, you know.”
“What are you planning to make?” I tug my bag back and then reach for hers.
“Ah, ah, ah,” she says. “If you’re making tortilla chip pasta with ice cream for dessert, I’ll be making myself dinner from what’s in my bag, thanks.”
I laugh. “I just want to know what you’ll be making yourself.”
“Fine.” She sighs. “I’ll show you so you can be jealous while you eat your gross toe-nail-clipping pasta.”
“Eww.” I pull a face. “That was way too graphic. Now I’m not even hungry.”
She laughs, sets her bag on the counter, and pulls out a package of ramen—not the Maruchan kind I grew up eating. She chose something with real Asian characters on it.
“What’s Momofuku?”
“I’m a bit of a ramen nut,” she says. “And it’s, hands down, the best instant ramen you can buy.”
“Well, it’s good to know you’re not scrimping on this, at least.” I can’t help my smile. “A friend of mine told me that in Asia, inviting someone up for ramen’s like inviting someone up to ‘Netflix and Chill.’” I arch one eyebrow. “So I find it interesting you chose that to make for me.”
Octavia’s blush is immediate, but what gets me is how shrill her always melodious voice becomes. “No, that’s not—I mean.” Her eyes widen. “Listen, if you’ve never had ramen with kimchi before, this will change your entire life.”
“Kimchi?” I pull a face. “The cabbage stuff that tastes like carbonated onions?”
Now she looks horrified. “How could you say that?” She frowns. “Though, now that you say it, that might be right. But I like it even though it tastes like carbonated onions. You have to try it with the ramen to see what I mean. And I might have bought enough for two of us, if you play your cards right.”
I chuckle. “Fine, fine. I admire your passion for it. Go right ahead and make it, and?—”
“You’re lucky I’m kind.” She squares her shoulders. “Otherwise, you might have starved, and then they’d fire you.” She arches one eyebrow. “And then what would happen to this gorgeous apartment? Would José buy it and make it into a real penthouse?” She spins around, looking at all of it, frowning. “Did you decorate this?”
I shake my head. “The agency got it for me, and it came furnished.”
“So this place can tell me nothing about you?” She clucks. “That’s disappointing.”
“Well,” I say. “I brought my clothes, my pillow, and one decor item.” I spread my hands out. “Want to guess what it was?”
Her brow furrows and she walks around the family room, her eyes studying the black sofa, the grey armchairs, and the odd greige ottoman. She runs her finger along the top of the black-painted wooden TV table, the end table, and the strange modular lamp. “Not any of this.” She tilts her head and keeps moving, stopping in front of a black-painted bookcase. “Not this.” She leans closer. “But maybe something on it.”
She’s getting closer, but I don’t say a word. I want to see if she can figure it out.
Her eyes study the headphones resting on a stand. “These aren’t functional. It could be this.” She touches some weathered books slowly. “But I don’t think you’d cart around old works of literature. It’s too obviously pretentious.” Her hand trails downward. Her fingers are delicate and long. It makes sense—she’s tall, but elegantly willowy. She ignores the fake plants, the strange metallic-painted-wooden horse statue, and then she stops at my raku bowl. She runs her fingers over the strange finish, and then she picks it up.
She frowns as she studies it, and I wonder whether she hates it. “Do you think it’s that?”
Her eyes narrow.
“No?”
She spins around and stumbles, losing control of the bowl.
I dive over to catch it, and then I realize it was a trap. She was never going to drop it. Her smile widens, though, and her eyebrows rise. “Gotcha. Tell me about this little bowl, and tell me why it matches the style of that vase over there on the end table.” She arches one imperious eyebrow. “Because you said one thing, but this is one of two, and I think they’re connected to what I heard you telling Patrice the other day.”
I laugh. “You’re very literal.”
“I don’t like losing.”
“Noted.” I take the bowl and place it back where it goes. “I don’t make many things. As mentioned, I don’t cook, and I have no time for hobbies, but once I was doing a promotion in Japan. Don’t ask about it, because that’s a long, boring story. Or I guess you can ask, but do it when you’re having trouble sleeping. Anyway, while I was there, I saw some raku pottery—that’s what that is—on set, and I fell in love. I got stuck there for three days thanks to more boring stuff that you won’t care about. I decided to take some pottery classes, and then when I got back home, I found someone here who makes it, too.”
“What do you like about it?”
“Other than the wide range of shapes and colors, including a lot of vibrant colors in the Western raku that you don’t usually see, I love the erratic nature of it. Raku literally means ‘happiness in the accident.’” I shrug. “A lot of my life has felt like an accident, so I guess the whole element of luck thanks to quick-firing the raku, which encourages cracking, spoke to me.”
She pokes my chest with one officious finger. “I like that about you.”
And I like the feeling of her finger on my body. “Tell me that same thing again, but leave off the words ‘that’ and ‘about.’” I bite my lip.
“That just leaves. . .I like. . .you.” Her eyes fly up to meet mine, and her mouth opens just a hair, and I swear, even if I hadn’t filmed a dozen scenes that taught me what was happening here, I’d still get it. A complete moron would know what was happening.
I feel drawn to Octavia like a beetle to a light at night.
Hopefully my attempts won’t be met with zapping. I lean down, my head angling over hers, our lips drawing closer and closer until?—
Bang bang bang.
The door? Really?
Octavia straightens.
It feels like I really am filming a movie, but not a good one. A very bad one. “You’re supposed to wait until after I kiss the girl.” I shake my head. “That guy just cut his tip in half.”
“Guy?” Octavia’s expression went from shock to bemusement, so I suppose I should be happy. All signs point to her being just as excited as I was for us to kiss again.
“I clearly wasn’t planning to feed you. . .” I gesture at the melting ice cream and Pasta Roni. “That.”
She giggles. “Thank goodness.”
“I called in for Korean delivery.”
She drops a hand on her hip. “So you do like kimchi.”
I shrug. “Not especially, but I love tteokbokki.”
“Nice.” She tosses her head. “Go get it, then.”
I jog across the room, realizing with a grin that there will be plenty of time for kissing to come, and yank the door open.
Only, it’s not the Korean.
It’s a very huffy looking man in a suit. “Mr. Adam Forrest,” I say. “I wish I could tell you how nice it was to see you, but honestly? It’s not.”
“And me.” Stu Murray—publicity and marketing—pokes his head around Adam’s shoulder. “We need to talk.”
Frigging fantastic.