Chapter 9
Should I?
Crew
As my phone rings right after exiting my three-hour lecture in Anthropology, I answer it, expecting Vinny.
Since our midterms are close, I'm supposed to meet with him, Ali, and Carly at the library for a study session. Honestly, considering her major, I'm not sure Carly has a midterm exam in any of her classes, but I digress.
But when I glance at the caller ID, I perk up slightly to find my father calling me. This must be a special occasion because my father rarely calls first. Unlike my relationship with my mother, my father and I are on much better terms.
Once I answer, I hear my father's cheery voice.
"Hey, happy late birthday!"
Right. My birthday was a few days ago, but due to the stress midterms bring, I didn’t care enough to celebrate.
Dad, regardless of my relationship with my mother, remembers to call for every birthday, even if he’s only a few days late. That's the one time he doesn't get an excuse because, in his eyes, it's unacceptable to miss his only child's birthday.
I feel a smile creep up on my face. "Hi, Dad. Thanks."
"So, how's twenty-two treating you?" He asks, chuckling. "I was getting through med school at your age."
Dad's a big neurosurgeon in the greater Los Angeles area, while Mother made a big name in Hollywood, starring in action films and dramas that won an Academy Award or two, all while dragging me along with them.
I grew up with everyone knowing that last name, Shentu, and associating it with something great.
Even if it's one of the most common surnames amongst Chinese Americans.
"Well, it's beating me," I joke.
He continues to ask more questions, such as about my grades (which are great), how Vinny's doing (which is well), and how the aquarium is handling. I tell him about the manta rays that arrived last week and how one of them is really sick.
"That's rough, son." He clears his throat on the other line. "So, I was doing some research on grad school scholarships, and I found one that I think you should apply for."
Scholarships? Don't get me wrong, I'm touched that my father would look into something for me during his few hours off, but my gut is telling me something's off.
From the jump, I've been able to pay for my college education with everything that was put into my Coogan account—a savings account for child actors and their salaries from projects—without any extra help from either of my parents.
Add the paid internship, and I'm pretty much set.
Even he knows that.
"Dad, you know I'm doing fine, financially," I remind him.
"Yeah, but it doesn't hurt to have more, right?"
Alarms start ringing in my head because I know he's up to something. My father—bless him—is the exact opposite of nonchalant when it comes to the future. The guy had his future planned out when he was a freshman. In high school.
He also married my mother. Need I say more? Nonchalance is not in his vocabulary.
"Dad," I begin to say slowly, a little scared of what will leave his mouth, depending on the question he asks. "What is the scholarship?"
I can hear his hesitation, and I'm done asking questions because my well-being isn't the only reason he called. He never hesitates unless he's hiding something. My father is one of the worst liars I've ever known.
"You know what?" I shake my head at myself. "I take that back."
"Crew, I—"
"Was duped by Mother?" To be honest, I should have expected this. If there's anything or anyone he loves more than me and his job, it's his wife.
"I just want the best for you," he tells me, and I almost believe him.
I don't know what's stronger: the feeling of hurt, knowing that he gave into Mother's persuasion—then again, she's known for getting exactly what she wants, no matter what—or the betrayal, because I would rather have him stay neutral, like he always has where my mother and I are concerned, than making a decision. Even if he sided with me.
Sure, I hate her, but I don't want my father living with that kind of guilt.
I scoff at how dumb I could have possibly been. "If you wanted what's best for me, then you wouldn't have told me about the scholarship in the first place."
"Crew—"
Before he can get another word in edgewise, I press the red button, ending the call in a huff. My fingers begin digging into the palm of my hand, and I let them, allowing the pain to center me, but it doesn't work.
Why didn't I second-guess myself? I should have known from the beginning that something was off. More questions and doubts swarm my head, and I find myself transported back to that film set four years ago.
No, I won't let that happen. I can't relive that day now!
The only thing stopping me from reliving that memory entirely is a small hand grasping my arm.
I take a deep breath and turn around, about to ask them to leave me alone, when I spot Carly's face studying mine with a concerned expression.
Her hand, which is barely exposed by the really big, navy blue bomber jacket, holds a very light grasp on my arm.
"Are you okay?" She asks, letting go of my arm. My fingers loosen from the grasp almost immediately, and I can feel the tiny crescents on my palm.
How did she find me? This area of the school is pretty barren, and there's no possible way she could have just been passing by. I'm about to check my pockets for a possible tracking device before reminding myself that she's not crazy.
Okay, not that crazy.
"I'm fine," I insist.
Carly tilts her head, all of her dark hair falling to the side. "You don't look okay."
What gave it away?
"And don't say some smart-ass response," she snorts. "Even though I know you're itching to."
"Am I that obvious to you?" Forget a Firecracker, she's like a psychic.
"Less obvious, more of hearing the tail end of what seemed to be a heated call," she admits. "I'm not going to ask about the call, but you don't seem like someone who loses their temper like that. Despite being around me."
Carly got one thing right: I'm not someone who loses my temper, at least not quickly. Usually, it takes a lot for me to be angry.
"Not really," I agree. "How did you find me? Did Ali and Vinny send you?"
She shakes her head. "I just got out of class. I was about to head to the library when I spotted you."
With the phone call and the near-panic attack, I forgot about the study session. To be honest, I'm not sure if studying with my friends—or being around anyone—is something I should be doing today.
As if she's reading my mind, Carly holds out her hand to me. "Wanna get out of here?"
I stare down at her left hand. Some of her forearm peeks out from her sleeve, revealing part of a tattoo that has me intrigued. Despite that, how should I know she won't take me somewhere insane? Hell, I barely know her.
But I don't want to stay here any longer.
It's this tug of war in my mind. Whether or not to trust her.
"Crew," she repeats. "Do you trust me?"
With those four words, she catches me off guard.
Carly, not once, has called me by my real name instead of Movie Star—unless she's serious.
At that moment, I shove whatever doubts about her off to the far, dark corner of my mind and take her hand, choosing to trust her.
Because with that gleam in her blue eyes, I somehow feel safer around her presence than on a phone call with either of my parents.
All spine-tingling chills are replaced with warmth traveling up my arm and heating the rest of my body with...comfort? I don't know what it is.
"Yeah," I breathe out. "I trust you."
That small grin spreads across her face—accentuating a small splatter of freckles that I've never noticed before now—brightening her eyes.
"Then let's get the hell out of here."