The Shadow Prince

chapter eight DAPHNE

This place is heaven, I admit to myself as I pull open the drapes in the main family room, revealing the incredible view of the lake. Seeing it in the daylight, I know why the real estate around here is so coveted. Jogging trails, trees, bushes, and flowers of almost every kind surround the lake, and I just can’t get over how lush everything is. I knew that Ellis was in the middle of the desert, but I never realized exactly what that meant before. Or exactly what I’d been missing.

Mom would love it here, I think with a pang of guilt. Although she probably wouldn’t be able to get over the fact that the long lake is man-made—according to Marta’s brochure. I can’t really tell, except for the odd figure-eight shape, that it isn’t naturally occurring. I snap a picture of the lake through the window with my new phone—one of the things Marta left, along with a map and a daily itinerary, outside my door this morning.

I text the picture to Jonathan and CeCe with the note:

Arrived just fine. This place is gorgeous! (Please show my mom.)

Mom doesn’t have a cell phone. She says she doesn’t see the point since everyone she knows lives within walking distance. But maybe if I can get Jonathan and CeCe to show her enough pics, she might change her mind about coming to visit when she sees how beautiful this place is.

“Daphne, is that you, love?” I hear Joe’s groggy voice from behind me.

I step away from the view. The light from the window hits Joe’s face where he’s splayed out on the family room couch. He cracks open one eye, then the other. He blinks a couple of times and then squeezes his eyes shut. “Be a good girl and go away.”

I sigh and shake his booted foot, which dangles over the side of the couch. “Get up, Joe. Marta’s itinerary says that you have an interview today. And I’m headed out. So if you don’t wake up now, nobody will be here to act as your walking snooze button.”

Joe lifts his arm and squints at his wrist, but his watch isn’t there.

I check Marta’s notes: “If Joe can’t find his watch, it’s probably in the fish tank. Again. He likes to test the water-resistance warranty.” I’d thought that was a joke when I’d first read it, but sure enough, I see a couple of clown fish pecking at the platinum watchband at the bottom of the aquarium, which takes up most of the north wall in the family room.

“Bloody hell, is it morning already?” Joe asks, his British accent almost as heavy as his hangover.

“No, Joe. It’s one in the afternoon already. And we’ve already had this conversation. Back when I woke you up at noon.”

“Well, then, why did you wake me up again?”

“I told you, some reporter is coming over. Marta had to go somewhere for the day, so she charged me with making sure you wake up.” Along with a laundry list of other tasks. I’d been here for fewer than sixteen hours, and it was already feeling like Marta was trying to shove most of her “babysitting” duties on to me:

1. Wake up Joe at noon. Check.

2. Wake Joe up again at one. Check.

3. Remind Joe that he booked an interview, even though I explicitly told him I’ll be gone for the day. Check.

4. Either I or Joe’s manager will be there in time for the interview to field questions. However, since Joe refuses to let me hire a decent staff for the house, remind him that he is therefore in charge of making sure things are tidy before the reporter arrives.

5. Make sure Joe wears pants.

Oh boy. “I think you might want to clean up a bit.” I hitch my thumb at the row of framed platinum records, hanging at precarious angles above the couch. A pizza box had been made into a tepee on the end table, and there are so many half-empty glasses and bowls residing on various chairs and tables in the family room and bits of ground chips living in the white carpet, you’d think he’d thrown a party after we got back last night. Yet from what I could tell from my room in the east wing, it had just been Joe and his greatest hits on Guitar Hero in here.

“A reporter? Why does a reporter want to come here?” Joe sits up. His rings clack against the glass-top coffee table as he searches for his glasses.

“I don’t know. Why doesn’t a reporter want to come here?” According to Marta, Olympus Hills is where the rich and famous come to live when they get sick of LA. If a reporter is being allowed inside Joe “the God of Rock” Vince’s mansion, it is probably quite the scoop. “All I know is that Marta said to make sure you’re up before the reporter arrives.” I check my list. “Also, to make sure you’re wearing pants.” Thankfully, he is. Very tight leather ones, but pants they are. “Marta said you want to make some sort of announcement to the press.”

I can only hope that announcement doesn’t involve outing the secret of his long-lost backwater daughter to the world. Mom always said it was a miracle that the paparazzi had never found us in Ellis. It’s almost like we were invisible to the rest of the world there.

“Oh, right, that.” Joe finds his glasses: thick-framed, nerdy, hipster specs that clash with his leather pants, skull rings, and long, rocker hair.

Three things I know for sure about Joe so far. The longer portions of his hair are extensions, he never wears his glasses in public, and even though he tries to pull off an übercool, leather-clad, Top Forty rocker persona for the press, when I listen real closely, I can hear that he has more of this geeky, Indie singer-songwriter vibe. It’s always baffled me, the few times we’ve met.

He presses the thick frames onto his face and makes a strangled noise as he surveys the mess around him. He turns a wide, toothy grin on me. “Fancy helping a poor bloke clean up a bit?”

“Not on your life.”

“Come on, Daph, no love for your poor old dad?” He wiggles his eyebrows above the rims of his glasses, that cheeky smile on his face. “Quality daddy-daughter time,” he croons.

“You are not my dad.” He isn’t going to let me forget that I called him that back at Paradise Plants, is he? “And cleaning up after your drunken binge doesn’t make for quality lushy-louse–daughter time.”

My anger shows in my voice too much, but at the moment I don’t care. Joe didn’t say a word to me on the entire trip from Ellis to here, and he’d disappeared the second I arrived at my new house, and the only reason that he’s even paying attention to me now is because he doesn’t want to clean up his own mess. I have no idea why he wanted custody of me if he’s just going to ignore me as much here as he did when I lived a thousand miles away.

Joe places his hand against his chest and gives me an expression that almost looks genuinely crestfallen. But from the smell of stale whiskey and pizza that wafts off him, he is probably just trying to stifle a burp.

“I’m leaving to go find someplace to rehearse. My audition for the music program is today. That’s the whole reason you wanted to bring me here, isn’t it?” I pick up my guitar off the postmodern lounge chair, which clashes with the ancient Greece–inspired architecture of Joe’s mansion. I use my fingernail to press down the peeling edges of a sticker of the Parthenon on my guitar case. The whole thing is covered in stickers of places I plan to visit someday. The Colosseum, Taj Mahal, Eiffel Tower, the pyramids of Giza.

Joe’s eyes look huge and bloodshot as he blinks at me from behind his thick lenses. He doesn’t answer my question, just looks at his wrist again as if trying to read his missing watch. “What day is it?” he asks. “The twentieth?”

“It’s the twenty-first.”

“Already?” Joe jumps up from the couch, and then catches himself against the armrest, like he’s dizzy from standing up too fast. He’s probably trying not to puke.

I grab my tote bag and hitch my soft guitar case over my shoulder. “Marta gave me a map. I’m going to find my way to that grove we passed last night. I need a good place to rehearse,” I say, and head for the grand foyer.

I’d allowed myself exactly three minutes last night to freak out about the audition—a trick I learned from CeCe, who had trained to be an actress before she ended up in Ellis—and then set to work. I’d used my new Mac to peruse my iTunes account until I’d made a list of possible songs to add to my audition piece. I’d spent most of the morning running through the lyrics, but now that Joe is up, I feel the need to get out of the house. I could hear the grove’s soothing song through my open window most of the night, and since Marta claimed that nobody ever went there, it seemed like a place worth scouting out as a practice spot. I’ve always preferred rehearsing in nature. When I was little, my mom used to claim that the flowers in the greenhouse grew twice as big because I sang to them.

“You can rehearse in my studio,” Joe calls after me.

“Your studio smells like Cheez Whiz.”

“Right. That it does.” Joe stumbles into the foyer behind me. “I know, how about I buy you a new guitar? That’s quality daddy-daughter time, right?” He reaches behind him and pulls out his wallet—where he fit a wallet in those pants, I don’t want to know—and opens the billfold. “A few thousand ought to do it.… Huh. I seem to have misplaced all my cash.…”

“I think you donated it to the local liquor store.” I open the front door. I don’t have time for his attempts at pretending to be a good parent.

“Wait. My AmEx is upstairs.… Wait here.”

“You’ve got an interview, and I need to rehearse.” I pat my guitar. “I like Gibby anyway.”

Doesn’t he remember how I got her?

“But I don’t want you rehearsing outside. Not today. What if it gets dark before you get back? How will I know where you’ll be?”

“It’s one in the afternoon, remember? And you’ve never known where I was at any given point in time for the last seventeen years. Today shouldn’t be any different.”

“Just wait,” he says. “If you don’t want a new guitar, let’s get you a new amp. A nice Fender? I’ll tell that reporter to come back tomorrow, and I’ll make sure I get you to the school with enough time to run through your audition piece a few times in one of their practice rooms.”

I pause. I could really use a new amp.…

I sigh, wondering how much I’ll regret the decision I’m about to make. “Okay, but only if we’re quick. And I get to drive.”

There is one benefit to Joe’s constant need for a designated driver—I am going to rack up the remaining hours behind the wheel I need to get my license in no time.

“Brilliant!” Joe waves his hand at me in a wait-here motion. “I’ll be right back with my card. I’ll help you rehearse when we get to the school.” He tries to bound up the stairs two at a time, but either his pants or his hangover slows him down. He whistles the melody from one of his songs as he disappears out of my sight.

I wait for a few minutes. The large clock in the foyer sounds like a countdown timer, the time I have left to rehearse ticking away. I realize I can’t hear his whistle anymore.

“Joe?” I call up the stairs. “Did you get lost?”

This house is so big, I might not put it past him.

Joe doesn’t answer. I wonder if I should wait here longer or go looking for him. My guitar grows heavy against my back. My shoulders ache. I suddenly feel like I’m ten years old again, waiting at the window—with a hefty telescope in my arms—for Joe to come pick me up so we can go stargazing. I’d waited until almost midnight that night, until my mother had insisted I go to bed. I’m sorry, honey. I just don’t think he’s coming.…

Standing here in his cavernous foyer, I hate that one small promise of a shopping trip can make me feel like that little girl all over again. Why am I putting myself in this position? Why am I letting Joe back in again just so I can be disappointed?

But shouldn’t I be happy that he wants to spend time with me? Shouldn’t I be forgiving? I mean, he brought me here, he’s giving me everything I’ve ever wanted, he’s giving me the opportunity to follow my dreams. Shouldn’t I be grateful? If the man wants to spend the afternoon with me, shouldn’t I let him?

But I already know how this is going to turn out. Whether it’s here or at the store or later today at the auditions, he’s going to forget or he’s going to get distracted, or something, and I’m going to be left waiting once more like that disappointed little girl.

No, I’m not going to let that happen. I’m not here for daddy-daughter bonding time. I’m not here to reconnect with my long-lost father. Joe is a means to an end. A ticket out of Ellis and an opportunity for a top-flight education. I’m here for myself. To achieve my goals, and right now, that’s getting into the music program at OHH. After that, it’s making a name for myself in the music world—all on my own.

And I don’t have time for distractions.

I don’t bother calling Joe’s name again. I don’t go looking for him upstairs. Ten bucks, he’s probably already forgotten why he even went up there, or is puking in a bathroom, I tell myself as I slip out the front door.

With my guitar case hitched over my back and my tote bag secured in the basket of my white and lemon yellow cruiser bike, I set off to find that grove to rehearse.

Alone.