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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 theafternoon 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. 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 ubercool, 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
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