I have stopped scrubbing. Now I’m standing at the sink, staring at him. I feel as if my brain is a DVR that somebody has just set on Pause.
“What?” I say, intelligently.
“I know you have your heart set on going back to school, honey,” Dad says, leaning forward in his chair. “And you can absolutely still do that. That’s the magic about this. There’s no touring, no promoting… at least, not right away. We just want to get the songs written, get the videos recorded, then get them out on the market and see how they do. I have a feeling—and Larry agrees—that they’re going to take off in a big way. Then we can work with your schedule to arrange for any kind of publicity we might like to do. You’ll notice I said we. It’s totally up to you how much or how little you’d like to do. I’m not your mother, Heather. Under no circumstances would I want you to do anything more than you’re comfortable with… ”
I can’t seem to wrap my mind around what he’s saying.
“You mean… give up working at Fischer Hall?”
“Well,” Dad says slowly. “I’m afraid that would be necessary, yes. But, Heather, you would be generously compensated for your work on this project, with a sizable advance that would be—well, a hundred times what you’re making yearly at Fischer Hall… as well as royalties. And I believe Larry would not be averse to letting you in on a percentage of the gross as well—”
“Yeah, but… ” I blink at him. “I don’t know. I mean… give up my job? It’s a good job. With benefits. I get tuition remission and everything. And an excellent health insurance package.”
“Heather.” Dad is starting to sound a little impatient. “The Wiggles gross an estimated fifty million dollars a year. I think with fifty million dollars a year, you could afford the health insurance package of your choice.”
“Yeah,” I say. “But you don’t even know if these video thingies are going to take off. Kids might hate them. They might end up being really cheesy or something. End up just sitting in the bargain bin at Sam Goody.”
“That’s the risk we’re all taking here,” Dad says.
“But… ” I stare at him. “I don’t write songs for kids. I write songs for grown-ups… like me.”
“Right,” Dad says. “But writing songs for children can’t be that different from writing songs for disaffected young women like yourself.”
I blink again. “Disaffected?”
“Instead of complaining about the size of your jeans,” Dad goes on, “complain about why you have to use a sippy cup. Or why you can’t have big-girl pants. Just give it a try. I think you’ll be a natural. The truth is, Heather, I’m going out on a limb for you. Larry wants to approach Mandy Moore. I told him to hold off a bit. I told him I was sure you could come up with something that’d knock our socks off.”
“Dad.” I shake my head. “I don’t want to write—or sing—about sippy cups.”
“Heather,” Dad says. “I don’t think you understand. This is an extraordinary opportunity for all of us. But mainly for you. It’s a chance for you to get out of that hellhole you’re working in—a place where just today, Heather, your boss was shot in the head, just a room away from where you sit. And also a chance for you to—let’s be honest with one another, Heather—get a place of your own, so you don’t have to live here with Cooper, which can’t be the healthiest arrangement for you.”
I turn quickly back toward the dishes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you?” Dad asks gently. “Why haven’t you returned Tad’s calls yet, Heather? Is it really because you’ve been too busy? Or is it because deep down, you know you’re in love with someone else?”
I nearly drop the wineglass I’m scrubbing.
“Ouch, Dad,” I grumble. “Way to hurt a girl.”
“Well.” He gets up from table and comes over to lay a hand upon my shoulder. “That’s just it. I don’t want to see you hurt. I want to help you. Lord knows you’ve helped me these past few months. I want to return the favor. Won’t you let me?”
I can’t look into his face. I know if I do I’ll say yes. And I don’t want to say yes. I don’t think.
Or maybe part of me does. The same part of me that’s ready to say yes to Tad, too, when he decides the time is finally right, and he pops the question.
Instead, I look into the sudsy brown water in the sink.
Then I sigh.
“Let me think about it, Dad, okay?”
I don’t see Dad smile, because of course I’m not looking at him. But I sense the smile anyway.
“Sure thing, honey,” he says. “Just don’t think about it too long. Opportunities like this don’t last forever. Well… you know that from last time.”
Do I ever.
12
Play date
(I wish I had one)
Play mate
(Wish I had one of those, too)
Play straight
(No cheatin’ with this one)
No fake
(I really mean it this time)
“Play Date”
Written by Heather Wells
I don’t have a clue anything out of the ordinary is taking place over on Washington Square West until I round the corner of Waverly Place the next morning, sleepily slurping the whipped cream topping off my grande café mocha. (About which, as Gavin would put it, whatevs. Like I totally didn’t go running yesterday. I deserve a little whipped cream. Besides, whipped cream is dairy, and a girl needs dairy to fight off osteoporosis. Everyone knows this.)
I’m licking off my whipped cream mustache when I see it—or think I see it, anyway: a giant rat.
And I don’t mean your everyday, gray-brown, cat-sized subway rat, either. I mean a GIANT, twelve-foot, inflated, semi-lifelike replica of a rat, standing on its hind legs and snarling directly across the street from Fischer Hall’s front door.
But how can this be? What would a twelve-foot inflatable rat be doing in front of my place of work? Could I be seeing things? It’s true I only just woke up. Relishing the fact that I got to sleep in this morning—no running for me—I rolled out of bed at eight-thirty, and, forgoing my morning shower—well, okay, bath. Who bothers with a shower when you can bathe lying down? — I just pulled on a fresh pair of jeans and shirt, ran a brush through my hair, washed my face, slapped on some moisturizer and makeup, and was out the door at five of nine. Time to spare for that grande café mocha. I didn’t even see Cooper or my dad. Both of them being early birds, they were already up and out—Dad had even taken Lucy for her morning walk. I was definitely going to miss that when Dad was gone, that was for sure.
But it doesn’t matter how many times I stand there and squeeze my eyes shut, then reopen them again. The rat doesn’t disappear. I’m fully awake.
Worse, marching back and forth in front of the rat, carrying picket signs that said things like New York College Doesn’t Care About Its Student Employees and Health Care Now! were dozens—maybe hundreds—of protesters. Many of them were raggedy-looking grad students, baggy-pantsed and dreadlocked.
But many more of them were in uniform. Worse, they were in New York College campus security, housekeeping, and engineering uniforms.
And that’s when it struck. The cold, hard terror that crept around my heart like icy tentacles.
Sarah had done it. She had convinced the GSC to strike.
And she’d convinced the other major unions on campus to strike along with it.
If my life were a movie, I’d have tossed my grande café mocha to the sidewalk just then, and sunk slowly to my knees, clutching my head and screaming, “Nooooooooo! WHY???? WHYYYYYY????????”