I glance back at Dad. Why can’t he see how fake she is? It’s like ever since she came into the picture, he’s had blinders on, only seeing this giggly blond happy person—who is nothing like me.
“Jenna had one when she turned sixteen,” he continues. “She said it was, and I quote, ‘the highlight of her adolescent experience.’”
He rolls his eyes and grins, and the pressure in my chest lessens. He hasn’t changed. We’re still us, even with her around. Then his forehead wrinkles and he shifts uncomfortably, and that guilty look creeps back into his eyes.
Crap. Here it comes.
“Peanut, I know you’re always trying to take care of me, but I’m the grown-up. And it’s my job to look out for you. I want you to have at least one normal childhood experience.”
I snort. “Normal. Right.” With a teasing grin, I lean back a little and lift my eyebrows in disbelief. “Dad, I hate to break it to you, but we live in Beverly Hills. And while having your birthday party and private life broadcast around the world for entertainment purposes may be an unfortunate reality for media-obsessed brats, I don’t think anyone would call that behavior normal.”
Dad chuckles, and I gift him with a confident smirk. “Besides, when have we ever done anything like the rest of Hollywood?”
And the defense rests, I think, sitting back with a nod. Dad can’t argue with that logic. If it weren’t for our zip code and my fancy, overpriced education, you’d never know we had money. Although he’s a well-known film director and has a handful of Golden Globes, Dad has this thing about “normalcy.” I’ve never missed a day of school in my life, and he rarely takes on projects during the summer. That’s time for family and vacations, but none of that “private jet to remote locations” stuff for the Crawfords. Nope, we go to good old Disney World and the beach, with the occasional stop at a film set in Canada to spice things up. We don’t even have a maid or a cook.
Dad squeezes me tighter. “You’re right, we’re abnormal. But I still think it’s a good idea.” My head lolls against my seat, and he smiles. “It’s a party; it’ll be fun. Plus, I’m already doing a major suck-up job bringing you to Italy. Doesn’t that earn me any negotiating cred?”
I have to admit, if everyone has a price, a trip to Florence would be mine. I’ve been obsessed with my Italian heritage—the only thing I accept from Mommy Dearest—and the Renaissance ever since I saw Bernard van Orley’s Madonna and Child with Apples and Pears painting in fourth grade. Since then, I’ve inhaled every art book and novel on the time period or on Italy that I can find.
As bribes go, the trip is a good one.
Still, there’s no way I can let Dad off the hook that easily. What he’s asking of me is huge. Maybe things would be different if I were just a normal girl from the Mississippi countryside or the Cape Cod beachfront, or if people didn’t take one look at me and assume they knew my whole life story. If I could just be me, Cat Crawford, without any expectations or preconceived notions, then maybe I’d be bonding with Jenna over napkin samples and color swatches right now. But that’s not reality. So I shrug, affecting the confident, blasé image I’ve perfected for school and the media, and move back to my own seat.
I immediately reach in front of me for my backpack. Just holding it makes me feel better—more in control of my crazy life. I peruse the contents: my makeup kit and toiletry bag; my wallet, camera, iPod, and funkadelic purple iPhone; my art supplies and color-coded binder filled with tour packages and historical information; and finally, my reading material, including the copy of The Hunchback of Notre Dame I’m reading for English. I brought it to work on whenever I needed a Jenna break.
By the time this trip is over, I’ll be a freaking Victor Hugo expert.
I pull out the book and zip my bag before leaning down to slide it back under the seat. As I sit up, I spot a familiar woman’s face out of the corner of my eye and freeze. My hands slick with sweat. My heart pounds, and the roar of the jet engine beneath me intensifies.
It’s just a picture, Cat, I tell myself. But it doesn’t help.
Splashed across my seatmate’s tabloid is a beautiful, smiling face and yet another jilted lover with the headline, Caterina Angeli Does It Again.
“Another one bites the dust.”
The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. The owner of the tabloid takes a break from her engrossed reading to sneer at me, but then a hint of recognition dawns on her face. She quickly turns to compare the picture of my mother on her cover to the downgraded, non-airbrushed, soon-to-be-sixteen-year-old version next to her.
I want to sink into my seat and look away, pretend I have no clue why she’s staring, but I can’t. So I force myself to meet her gaze head-on with a confident smile. Casually, I turn back to my book, open it to the dog-eared page, and pretend to read. I feel the woman’s eyes on me—watching, waiting for me to do something scandalous—and fight the urge to fluff my coffee-colored hair or gnaw off a nail.
Soon enough she’ll stop looking at me, expecting to see my mother. She’ll grow bored, go back to her gossipmonger ways, and forget all about me.
They always do.