Someone To Love. Melissa de La Cruz

my duty to get under my parents’ skin.

      “Can you not be like this? I’d love to have a peaceful dinner.” Mom wipes a touch of water from her lips, then folds up her napkin into a perfect rectangle. She’s perfect. Intelligent. Tactful. Nothing—not one stray hair or wrinkled shirt—ever out of place.

      I reach for my own napkin and realize it has fallen on the floor. Compared to my mother, I’m a hot mess. I’m not diplomatic in social situations, and I can barely manage to find a clean pair of jeans in the mornings. I don’t know how I ended up so different from my parents. I would be the worst politician ever.

      Dad has just opened his mouth to argue again when Martin Barrios—Ollie’s father—approaches the table. Just seeing him makes me want to slink down in my chair and hide under the table. He’s wearing a black toupee slicked tight against his head and a blue suit that’s slightly wrinkled and damp from sweat. He’s fresh from the bar, face red, and too happy—way too happy for me anyway. He winks at Dad as if he knows some big secret. Not only is Mr. Barrios Ollie’s father, which is mortifying enough, he’s also worked with Dad on a big downtown renovation project, so there’s no getting away.

      “Colin Blakely?” He squints at Dad and spills a few drops of his martini on the carpet. “Whoa! Don’t want to lose that,” he adds. “This is a Musso martini!”

      Dad laughs. “I hope you brought that for me.”

      “Why? Is this a celebration? I mean, I hope it is.” He looks at Mom. “You look lovely as always, Debra.”

      “How’s Oliver doing at...” Dad pauses. “Where does he go to school again? Princeton? Or Dartmouth?”

      “He’s a Princeton man. Double major in economics and Near Eastern studies.”

      “That’s good to hear,” Mom says politely.

      How can she keep smiling at him? I never told her exactly what Ollie’s comment was when he broke up with me, but she knows he said something horrible to me.

      Then Mr. Barrios turns toward me, training his bloodshot eyes on my face.

      “Olivia?” he says in faux surprise.

      It’s so fake I want to laugh.

      “I’m her doppelgänger,” I deadpan. “The real Olivia has been claimed by the robotics industry and is now being mass manufactured.”

      I imagine a hundred little replicas of myself and shudder. I can barely stand seeing myself doubled in a mirror, let alone a never-ending assembly line of Olivia Blakely dolls.

      Mom shoots me a death stare. She doesn’t like when I’m sarcastic around adults. It’s a liability. I say they could stand to loosen up. Why take everything so seriously?

      “Is she?” He laughs like a factory-produced automaton. “You’re all grown up,” he says. “You’ll be a marvelous woman. You have two great brothers. And mother...”

      Gag. That’s when I stop listening. I shut him off completely. I’ve heard this speech before from a hundred different politicians. He’s lost interest within seconds anyway, because I’m not important to these kinds of people other than that I’m merely something to turn into a compliment for my parents.

      I check my phone. There’s a text from Sam. I answer as surreptitiously as I can. Mom and Dad don’t like when I text at the dinner table, but I can’t help myself.

      SAM: Feeling better?

      LIV: Yep :-)

      SAM: Thinking about doing a bonfire at the beach. You down?

      LIV: I wish. Dinner with my parents ;-)

      SAM: Bummer. Hang out tomorrow?

      LIV: Totally. I’m down.

      SAM: I have a surprise for you.

      LIV: OoOoO. What is it?

      SAM: It’s a surprise...

      “Liv? Could you put your phone down, please?” Mom asks. She places her napkin on the table like she’s about to make a serious announcement.

      “Yeah. One sec,” I say, rapidly texting Sam back.

      LIV: Gotta go. Txt later :-)

      I was supposed to hang out with him after taking yearbook photos yesterday, but I just felt like locking myself in my bedroom after the disaster with Jackson, so I gave him an excuse about not feeling well. I’m a terrible friend. I need to make it up to him.

      Mr. Barrios has waded his way back to the bar. I really wish I could join him. Maybe he could buy me one of those famous Musso martinis. I could use one.

      Or three.

      The buzz would help deaden the anxiety whirling in my stomach. I think about my conversation with Jackson—rehashing every tiny word and action over and over in my mind—until I convince myself that Jackson and all his friends, especially Zach, think I’m a freak who just wants to party with the popular people.

      I’m feeling more nauseous by the second.

      I’m just getting up to go to the bathroom when I realize Dad’s been trying to get my attention.

      “Honeybee,” he says. He’s been calling me that since I stepped on a bee at my friend’s birthday at Griffith Park nearly ten years ago. “Don’t go just yet. I have something to tell the both of you.”

      “Ugh,” I say and sit back down. “I have to pee. What is it?”

      Mom puts a hand on his arm. The news is something she’s been anticipating. I’ve always been able to read her. And Dad? He’s an open book. He’ll tell anyone whatever he’s thinking at any given moment. No secrets there. I guess that’s something people admire about him, but I don’t understand. Everyone needs a secret to call their own.

      “There’s a reason we went out on a school night,” he says.

      “What is it?” I ask absentmindedly, thinking about how much homework I have to get done tonight. I have at least two hours’ worth. It’s going to be a late night.

      Dad jolts me back into reality.

      “I’m running for governor of California,” he says.

      My stomach drops.

      “We’ve been waiting to tell you,” Mom says, her face full of joy. I’m pretty sure the expression on my face is communicating the otherworldliness of this announcement.

      “Really?” I ask. “Are you serious?”

      “Couldn’t be more serious,” he says.

      I should be happy for him, happy for his achievements, but this is terrible news. This means even more attention on the family and more stress during my junior year, which everyone knows is the hardest school year ever, especially since I have to start studying for the SAT, working on my portfolio and thinking about art school—or at least how I’m going to convince my parents to let me go there instead of a regular university.

      All eyes are going to be on us. That means I have to be more perfect than ever. Stronger. Nothing should be able to take me down. Not food. Not school. Not this election.

      I push the lettuce around on my plate and crush the croutons with my fork while Mom and Dad talk like old high school lovers, excited about this new opportunity.

      “This is exactly what we need. Imagine not having to fly to Washington all the time.” I can tell that, in her mind, Mom is already decorating and ordering furniture for a new house. “We’ll live in the governor’s mansion. Sacramento is so lovely, and I miss having seasons.”

      The timing couldn’t be worse.

      My entire junior year is going to be taken up by this campaign. Probably part of my senior year too. Everything will be about him. Like always. Not to mention I may have to live in Sacramento for