Meg Cabot - Missing You

“Well, of course, sweetheart,” my mother said. “All of your professors say you could easily become part of a world-class orchestra if you’d just apply yourself. You could tour the globe, playing in exciting places like Sydney, Australia. And since Skip will probably get a job with an investment firm in New York City, if you got a position with the Philharmonic, why, that would be just perfect! You two could get a little apartment together, and come back to visit us at holidays, and…well, who knows? Maybe even get married and start a family of your own!”

I just looked at her. What could I say? I couldn’t admit that the thought of being in a world-class orchestra made me want to run screaming down the street. I couldn’t admit that I was so sick of traveling, I balled up every single one of those speaking gig requests she forwarded to me, and threw them down the incinerator. I couldn’t admit that the thought of marrying Skip made me feel like I’d never stop barfing.

Because if I said any of those things, I know she’d be like,“Well, then what do you want to do instead?”

And if I told her, she’d be the one who’d never stop barfing.

So I just said, “Look. I have stuff to do.”

And continued down the stairs to the basement.

“Well,” Mom said to my departing back. “Don’t stay up too late! That nice Karen Sue Hankey called a few minutes ago. She wants to take you to brunch in the morning. I’m so glad you two made up. I never understood why you didn’t like Karen Sue. She’s such a nice girl.”

Great. I rolled my eyes. I was still rolling them when I got down to the basement and found my dad sitting in front of the television, which he’d put on mute, evidently so he could eavesdrop on my conversation with Mom.

“I always thought that Karen Sue girl was a bit of a drip myself,” he said to me. “But maybe she’s improved with age.”

“She hasn’t,” I assured him, and set down my boxes as Chigger, who’d been sleeping on the couch next to my dad (a definite no-no, in Mom’s book), jumped up to give me a lick before settling down again.

“What have you got there?” my dad asked, curious.

“Amateur pornos,” I said.

My dad raised his eyebrows. “Interesting. I assume you brought them down here to watch them.”

“Just to see if they’re for home use or distribution.”

“There’s a difference?”

“Well, one’s protected under the First Amendment,” I said. “The other is a crime if the girls are underage and didn’t know they were being filmed.”

“Actually, if they’re underage, I think they’re both crimes,” Dad said. He lifted his remote and turned off the cable. “Be my guest. I assume it would be highly inappropriate if I stuck around to keep you company.”

“Not at all,” I said, inserting the first tape—markedTIFFANY . “Since I’m just going to watch the beginning to see if they’re all the same or all different.”

“Well, then,” Dad said, “if you don’t mind, I’ll stay. I don’t get to spend much quality time with you these days—”

I watched as a young girl I assumed was Tiffany—wearing only a bra and panties—flung herself across a bed I recognized as the one in Apartment 1S.

“—though I’m not sure this is exactly what Dr. Phil means when he encourages fathers to spend more time bonding with their daughters,” Dad went on.

A man who was unmistakably Randy Whitehead appeared on screen, wearing a pair of tighty-whities. Before anything untoward could occur, I ejected the tape, and inserted the next one titledTIFFANY .

“May I ask where you got these masterpieces of modern cinema,” Dad wanted to know, “and who that young man might be? He looks familiar.”

“He should,” I said, pressingPLAY . “He’s Randy Whitehead Junior.”

“Son of wealthy land developer Randall Whitehead Senior,” my dad said, sounding impressed, as we watched Tiffany fling herself across the bed in 1S all over again. “Randy’s peddling amateur porn now. His father must be so proud.”

“I’m not sure his father knows,” I said, popping out the tape. It was obviously a copy of the first one we’d seen.

“But why do I have the feeling,” Dad said, “that he’s going to find out shortly?”

“Because that’s the kind of daughter you raised,” I said, and popped in a tape markedKRISTIN.

“Be careful, Jess,” Dad said. “Randy Whitehead Senior is a pretty powerful guy around here these days. He’s rumored to have connections up in Chicago.”

“By connections,” I said, watching as the dark-haired girl I’d seen Randy kiss outside of 1S appeared on screen, “I’m assuming you mean the Mob?”

“You assume correctly.”

“Don’t worry,” I said, popping out the tape and inserting the next one markedKRISTIN . So that was the dark-haired girl’s name. Kristin. Where was Kristin now, I wondered? Holed up with Randy at his parents’ house? He’d have a hard time explaining to them what he was doing with a girl so much younger than he was. “I’ve got backup.”

My dad’s face was blank, his tone completely neutral. “So I heard. At least, I thought I overheard your mother mentioning something to you about Rob Wilkins.”

“Yeah,” I said. The second tape markedKRISTIN was obviously the same as the first one. I pressedEJECT again. “That’s why I came back. His sister—it turns out he has a half sister—ran away, and he asked me to help find her.”

I don’t know why I felt comfortable explaining all this to my dad, but not my mom. I guess it’s because my dad had always liked Rob, and Mom…hadn’t.

“And did you?” Dad asked, again in that carefully neutral tone.

I inserted a new tape. I said, keeping my eyes on the TV screen, “Yes.”

“So. It’s back.”

I didn’t have to ask what he meant. I knew whatit was.

“Yes,” I said, still looking at the TV screen, on which a redhead who couldn’t have been more than fourteen or fifteen was jumping up and down on the bed—the one in 2T.

“What are you going to do about that?” my dad wanted to know.

“I don’t know yet,” I said. I ejected the tape as soon as Randy appeared on screen.

“Do these tapes,” Dad wanted to know, “have anything to do with Rob’s sister?”

My hand hovered over the tapes markedHANNAH . I pulled out one with the redhead’s name on it instead.

“Yes,” I said. I didn’t feel as if I were betraying Rob’s confidence in admitting this to my dad. Because he was my dad.

“That’s tough,” Dad said. “He’s gotta be hurting.”

“He’s not too happy about it,” I admitted.

“Unhappy enough to do something stupid to Randy?” Dad asked.

“If I don’t stop him,” I said.

“Anything happens to Randy,” Dad said, “and his father will call in some favors from his friends in Chicago. Rob could find himself in a heap of trouble.”

“I know,” I said. Although I wasn’t as worried about Rob ending up with cement blocks on his feet as I was about him ending up inside a cell block. “I’m working on a plan that will be mutually satisfying to all parties.”

“Hmmm,” Dad said. “That’s a nice change of pace. Usually if a fight were brewing, you’d be the first in line.”

“Well,” I said. “I’ve had my fill of fighting.”

“That’s good to know,” my dad said. Then, in a tone that was no longer neutral, but filled with fatherly concern, he added, “Jess, I heard you and your mother up there. Don’t let her get you down. You know we’ll support you—she and I both—no matter what you decide to do.”

And suddenly, my eyes were filled with tears. The images on the screen before me swam.

“I don’t want to be a concert flutist, Dad,” I heard myself saying.