Chapter Twenty-one

Lina paced back and forth down the quiet corridor of the ICU. Every now and then a nurse or doc would say hello and she’d be forced to look up and mumble something in response, but other than that, she just kept moving.

Hilda scurried up the corridor and tapped her on the shoulder. “You’re pacing like a caged cat, sweetie. What’s wrong?”

Lina barely looked at her. It took all her self-control to stand still. Her foot tapped wildly. She’d known and loved Hilda for most of her life, but right now she was too nervous to make small talk. She remembered belatedly that Hilda had asked her a question, but she couldn’t remember what it was.

Hilda peered up at Lina, giving her the same once-over she always did, then she clucked disapprovingly. “My daughter’s a beautician, you know. She could do fabulous things with that hair of yours.”

The transplant nurse had been dishing out beauty advice for years. Every time she saw Lina, she came up, pinched her cheek, and shook her head, muttering something about how pretty Lina could be with a little less makeup. Ordinarily Lina laughed at Hilda’s half-joking advice.

Not today.

Her father was going to see her in a few minutes. What if he thought she was ugly?

With a gasp, she shoved her hands in her pockets and spun around, leaving Hilda gape-mouthed behind her. She ran to her mom’s office and sneaked inside, shutting the door. She hurried to the antique Victorian mirror beside the bookcase and peered into the glass.

The girl who stared back at her was pale and puffy-eyed from lack of sleep. Her hair stood out in a thousand uneven spikes. The black eye pencil she’d applied beneath her lower lashes made her look like she’d been punched in the face.

How come she’d never seen that before?

Oh, God, she thought in a sudden panic. Her daddy was going to think she was butt-ugly.

She rummaged through her mom’s desk drawer and pulled out a comb, trying to rearrange her haircut, but it was no use.

When she went back to the mirror, she felt a sinking sense of fear. She still looked like one of those runaways you sometimes saw haunting the downtown streets after dark.

The door clicked open and Lina spun around again. She was so nervous, she dropped the comb. It hit the linoleum floor with a clatter.

Mom walked into the room, and Lina felt almost sick to her stomach. As always, her mother looked like she just stepped off the pages of a makeup advertisement—golden-brown hair swept off her face in carefully controlled curls, beautiful hazel eyes highlighted by just a little brown mascara. Wearing a cream-colored cashmere sweater and black pants, she was the picture of cool sophistication and class.

That was what her father thought was pretty.

Lina glanced at herself in the mirror again and winced. “I can’t do it, Mom. I have to come back tomorrow. I think I got food poisoning from the cereal this morning.”

“He’s waiting for you,” she answered quietly, closing the door behind her.

Lina felt her heartbeat speed up. “H-He said he’d see me?”

Mom frowned and moved toward her. “Are you okay?”

Lina nodded, then shook her head, then tried to nod again, but the tears came, flooding her eyes. “No,” she whispered.

Mom stroked her cheek. “It’s okay to be nervous.”

“I’m ugly.”

“You’re gorgeous.”

“I never should have let Jett cut my hair.” She looked up at her mother quickly, waiting for the I told you so, but thankfully, it never came. Finally she said, “Do you think … maybe you could make me look like you?”

Mom studied her, a smile lurking at the corners of her mouth. “Oh, no … you’re much prettier than I am.”

“Yeah, right,” she whined. “And Bosnia is a great vacation spot.”

Mom took her hand and led her to the chair behind the desk.

Lina sat down.

“Tilt your face up,” Mom said. When Lina complied, her mother used some cream and a tissue to take off all Lina’s makeup, then she reapplied just a little. Mascara, blush, and some pale pink lipstick. Then she combed Lina’s hair back from her face and sprayed it with something.

Lina started to get up.

“Sit there,” Mom commanded as she walked over to the antique armoire in the corner of her office. Easing the ornate doors open, she rummaged through the clothing and pulled out an ice-blue angora sweater. Turning back to the desk, she smiled. “This was supposed to be a Christmas present.”

Lina stared at the soft sweater and felt ashamed. She knew that come Christmas, she would have glanced at something this feminine and tossed it away, thinking that her mom was a hopeless nerd. She turned her gaze to her mother. “It’s way cool, Mom. Thanks.”

Mom laughed. “Just what you would have said on Christmas morning.”

Smiling, Lina pulled the Coors beer T-shirt over her head and threw it in the corner, then slid into the incredibly soft sweater. When her mother led her back to the mirror, Lina couldn’t believe the change.

This time a beautiful young woman stared back at her. The sweater made her eyes look impossibly blue. For once, instead of looking ghostly white, she looked pale and sort of fragile, like those girls in the Calvin Klein ads. Impulsively she twirled around and threw her arms around her mom, holding her close.

Then she realized what she’d done and she drew back, embarrassed.

Mom smiled. “You need to know that he’s very sick, your father. He’s just had heart surgery and he’s got to take it easy. He’ll be discharged in about an hour, but he’s still going to be moving slowly. I’ve made arrangements—if things go well—to help him find a house today. All three of us.”

“Sorta like a family,” Lina said, surprised by the wistfulness in her voice.

Mom looked startled, then a little sad. “More like new friends.”

Lina nodded. Taking a deep breath, she straightened her shoulders and tilted her chin up. “I’m ready, Mom.”

“Good. He’s in room 264-W.”

“You’re not coming with me?”

Mom shook her head. “I think you guys need some time alone.”

Lina tamped down the flash of fear that came at her then. She thought about how pretty she looked, how the pale blue sweater made her eyes look as blue as Francis’s, how her black hair looked sophisticated instead of ragged.

I’ll make him love me. The vow came back to her and she grabbed hold of it, held it to her chest, and prayed she could make it come true. She looked up at her mom, and wanted to say something, but nothing seemed good enough. She could see the fear in her mother’s eyes, and she knew that the fear was for both of them.

She gave her mom a quick smile and headed off. She hurried down the long hallway, past the nurses’ station, past the family waiting room.

By the time she reached his room, her heart was beating wildly and there was a fine sheen of sweat on her palms.

She peered through the observation window and saw a man standing at the window on the opposite wall, his back to her. He was wearing a denim shirt and Levi’s, and his hair was long and dark brown. A good sign, she thought—long hair.

She took a deep breath and knocked on the door. At his muffled “Come in,” she pushed the door open and went inside.

“Hello, Lina,” he said in a smooth, even voice that sent a shiver of recognition down her spine. It was a voice she knew but couldn’t place.

She waited nervously for him to turn around.

Slowly he turned. Her breath caught as she recognized him. Her knees went weak. She would have reached out for something to hold onto, but there was nothing nearby.

It was Angel DeMarco.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered, feeling disconnected and confused.

He flashed her the megawatt grin she’d seen a million times on-screen. “I see your mom didn’t tell you who I was.”

She tried to say no. The word came out as a high-pitched squeak.

“Come on over here.”

She moved like an automaton, her mind whirling with thoughts. Her father was Angel DeMarco. Her father was Angel DeMarco. Her father was Angel DeMarco. The kids weren’t going to believe this. Brittany Levin was going to shit.

Then it hit her, so hard it wiped everything else from her mind. “DeMarco,” she said.

He nodded, giving her a softer smile, more intimate than anything she’d seen on film. “I’m Francis’s brother.”

For a second she couldn’t breathe right. “They never told me.”

Something passed through his eyes at that, a darkness that made her think she’d hurt him.

“I never read that you were from Seattle, or that you had a brother. I … I thought I read somewhere that you were from the Midwest.”

A smile crooked one corner of his mouth. “Tactical maneuvers to muddy the trail. I didn’t want anyone to know where I’d grown up. Sorry.” He came toward her, moving in the shuffling gait of all post-op patients. Instinctively she reached out for him, and he took both of her hands in his.

Lina looked up into his legendary green eyes, and for a heartbeat, she couldn’t catch her breath. He had Francis’s eyes—even though they were green instead of blue, they were Francis’s beautiful eyes. And he had Francis’s way of looking at you, really looking the way so few people did.

“You’re more beautiful than I imagined,” he said in a husky voice, his eyes filled with the same wonder she felt.

Tears stung her eyes and she didn’t care. “Thank you.”

“I … I don’t know anything about being a father, you know.”

“That’s okay.”

“Maybe we could start slow, just start out being friends.”

Friends. The words caused a dizzying rush of excitement. It was what she’d always wanted—a father who was her best friend. She bit down on her lip to keep from laughing out loud again. He was going to be everything she ever wanted in a dad; she could tell. He was going to take all the pain and grief and fear in her life and make it go away. From now on, she’d always have a safe place to be.

He let go of her hand and touched her face, gazing deeply into her eyes. “Don’t look at me that way, Angelina.”

She drew in a sudden, surprised breath. For a disorienting second, she’d thought he was going to call her Angelina-ballerina. But he hadn’t, of course he hadn’t.

“What is it?” he said, eyeing her.

“Nothing … just that Francis used to call me Angelina.… No one else does.”

“It’s your name,” he said, then his voice fell to a whisper. “I mean it, Lina. Don’t think I’m a god or something. I’ll only let you down.…”

It was such a ridiculous thing to say, she ignored it. Instead she just kept staring up at him, memorizing everything about his face, about this moment, about how it felt when he held her hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll love—”

He pressed a finger to her lips suddenly, silencing her.

She blinked up at him in confusion. When he withdrew his hand, she said, “But—”

“Make me earn it,” he said harshly, staring into her eyes with a seriousness that frightened her. Suddenly they weren’t Francis’s eyes at all. “It’s the only chance we have.”

Angel looked down at the piece of paper on the clipboard. All it required was his signature and he was as free as a bird.

He was strangely reluctant to sign it.

He glanced around at the cheesy little hospital room he’d inhabited for the last few weeks, and suddenly it felt like home. He recognized the birds that huddled along his windowsill, and the way the sun crept through his yellowed curtain at sunset. He’d started to like the smell of disinfectant and mashed potatoes and gravy. Even Sarah the Hun had become a friend.

“You okay?” Madelaine asked.

He didn’t know what to say. He felt like an idiot, and yet he was suddenly afraid that he couldn’t make it on the outside, that the heart that felt so strong and new in his chest would weaken out there, give out on him. Or that he’d fall into his old boozing, irresponsible lifestyle and be lost again.

“I don’t know. I thought I was ready, but …”

“Lina and I will be here for you, Angel. You’re not going to be alone out there.”

“Thanks, Mad.” He touched her face, a fleeting, tender caress that reassured him. “I don’t know what I’d have done without you during all this.”

She smiled. “You would have done fine.”

He shrugged and looked around again. “I keep thinking I should have luggage … something to show for all the time I’ve been here.”

She placed her hand on his chest, right over his heart. “You do.”

Behind them, the door opened, and they both turned, expecting to see Sarandon and Allenford for the momentous good-bye.

A middle-aged woman stood in the room, wearing a ragged wool coat and mud-splattered rubber boots. “I’m looking for—” She saw Angel and her mouth dropped open. “Oh, my Lord, it’s you.…” She looked at Madelaine. “It’s Angel DeMarco.”

Madelaine stood there for a second, then surged forward, gripping the woman’s arm and guiding her outside, slamming the door shut behind her.

A minute later, Madelaine was back, looking grim and angry. “They let her walk past security. Her father’s in 246-E.”

“Shit,” Angel cursed. “We’ve got to get out of here. As soon as that woman gets to a phone, she’s gonna think she’s won the lottery. They’ll pay her and give her her fifteen minutes of fame.”

Madelaine looked at him. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry—it had to happen.” He grabbed a mask from the bedside table and tied it behind his neck. Before he lifted it to cover his face, he said, “Here’s the story: I was here for an undisclosed amount of time and underwent successful cardiac surgery. I have been discharged and no one knows where I am. Anything beyond that is no comment. Have Allenford call a press conference as soon as possible. And let’s get me out of here. Now.”

Madelaine nodded. “Let’s go.”

Long before the first reporters showed up, Madelaine had Angel in her car, and they were speeding away from the hospital.

Lina and Angel had taken to each other like ducks to water. She glanced in the rearview mirror and watched them. They were sitting side by side, their heads cocked together, talking animatedly. Lina was saying it was way cool the way they’d hustled Angel out of the hospital. Angel was telling her about some time he’d hidden out in the back of a pickup while his fans stormed a soundstage.

Madelaine maneuvered the car down Magnolia Street and pulled up in front of the first house she’d chosen for him to view.

“What do you think of this one?” she asked, putting the car in park.

Lina and Angel looked out the window, then looked at each other and simultaneously shook their heads.

With a sigh, she shifted back into drive and headed off. It irritated Madelaine that they wouldn’t even look at it, but more than that, it made her feel excluded. It wasn’t as if she’d chosen the houses at random. She’d taken an inordinate amount of time. She’d spoken with several realtors about the best array of houses for rent within ten minutes of the hospital. Then she’d done a quick drive-by of the seven best, and made appointments to see them all today.

They were already on house number four, and Angel had yet to get out of the car. He’d hated the first three on sight.

Finally she pulled up in front of her favorite of the houses she’d chosen.

She killed the engine and cast a quick look at the house. She knew that Angel wouldn’t like it, not Angel of the Las Vegas high-rise condo and the limousines, but she couldn’t resist showing it to him. It was the kind of place that Francis would have loved.

It was a small log cabin with mullioned windows and a big wraparound porch. Built at the turn of the century, it had been a summer house for one of the city’s founding fathers, and the subsequent generations had built other, more modern homes. So it sat on a sweeping Lake Washington waterfront lot, untended and vacant. Most people wouldn’t pay the exorbitant rent the family wanted—for that money they could get first-class construction in Broadmoor.

Huge old maple trees lined the brick walkway that led from the winding asphalt road. Stubborn Shasta daisies grew in random clumps amid the grass.

“Next house,” Madelaine said, waiting a split second for a two-voiced call to move on.

Silence.

She twisted around and looked in the backseat. Angel and Lina were both staring at the house.

“Francis would have loved this house,” Lina said. Opening the door, she got out of the car and began walking up the path.

Madelaine looked at Angel.

“I’ve never imagined myself living in a log cabin,” he said after a minute.

She smiled apologetically. “I know it’s not your style.”

He gave her a grin that was so quick and white, she felt stunned by it. “It didn’t used to be, but neither were afternoons driving around in a Volvo.” He shuddered dramatically.

She couldn’t help laughing. “Let’s go inside.”

They got out of the car and came together at the end of the walkway. Angel stumbled. Without thinking, Madelaine curled an arm around his waist and let him lean against her.

She realized a split second later that she was holding him. Her breath tangled in her throat and she turned slowly, meeting his questioning gaze. They stood that way for an eternity, neither one of them saying anything.

“I never told you thanks,” he said finally.

She felt a fleeting disappointment, but didn’t know why. “No need,” she answered.

“Not true,” he said, staring into her eyes so intently that she wondered what he saw. “I’ve learned there’s always a need.”

Impulsively she reached up and brushed a lock of hair from his eyes. She realized a split second later that she’d done it because he’d sounded so much like his brother. It was exactly the kind of thing Francis would have said in a moment like this. At the thought, she felt a pang of loneliness. “He would be proud of you right now.”

There was no question of who he was. Angel grinned and looked down at her. “Because I’m holding his best girl?”

She saw a transformation in his eyes—this time there was no trace of Francis and his gentle, caring soul. This time there was only Angel, fiery-tempered and brutally honest, and he was looking at her as if she mattered. Her heartbeat sped up. Suddenly she felt as if she were sixteen again, standing in the arms of the boy who loved her.

She told herself not to care, not to want anything from this man who’d broken her heart, but she knew even as she had the thought it was too late, and the knowledge scared her to death. “No. Because you’re changing, Angel. And we both know how hard that is to do.”

He laughed and pulled away from her. Turning back to the log cabin, they started up the pathway together. Halfway there, Angel reached down and took Madelaine’s hand in his.

The next morning, when she got to work, the parking lot was full of news vans. Reporters had descended on the hospital like a pack of ravenous hyenas, flashing photographs of anyone who walked up to the front door, barking questions at everyone they saw.

Madelaine was winded and irritated by the time she pushed through the crowd, muttering “No comment” a dozen times. When she got to her office, Sarandon and Allenford were waiting for her.

Madelaine sighed and tossed her suede coat over the back of her sofa. “Angel knew this was coming. He was seen yesterday just before we discharged him.”

“Must be that lovely woman I saw on ‘Hard Copy,’ ” Sarandon said calmly, taking a sip of coffee.

“What does Angel want us to do?” Allenford asked.

“Confirm with the press that he had cardiac surgery. Say that the surgery was successful and he was discharged. Beyond that, he wants a no comment.”

“That won’t last long.”

Madelaine heard the edge of eagerness in Chris’s voice, and she supposed she understood it. The surgeon wanted the world to know about his great work. “No,” she said. “It won’t. But it’ll buy him a little time.”

“Okay.” Chris pushed to his feet, and Sarandon popped up beside him. “Let’s go … the three of us.”

They strode out of the office and turned the corner, coming down the hallway of Intensive Care like the astronauts from The Right Stuff, Chris was in the middle, with Sarandon on his left and Madelaine on the right.

In step, they pushed through the front doors and marched down to the parking lot.

“I have a statement to make regarding Angel DeMarco,” Chris said.

“Just a second,” someone screamed.

Reporters and camera operators zoomed up to the three doctors, formed a tight circle around them. Microphones shot into Chris’s face.

He looked calm and unruffled. “Mr. Angelo DeMarco was recently a patient at this hospital. Following his much-publicized collapse in Oregon, he was transferred here for cardiac surgery. The surgery was completely successful, and Mr. DeMarco has been discharged.”

“Does he have AIDS?” someone yelled.

“No, he does not.”

“When was the surgery?” someone else wanted to know.

“I’m sorry, I don’t have that date with me,” Chris said calmly.

“Why are you hiding the date?”

Chris nodded briskly. “Thank you for your time.”

Lights flashed, cameras clicked, questions rang out.

But the press conference was over.

It was quiet here in the early morning hour before school began. Thin yellow clouds spread across the tree-tops, and the first glimmering rays of the sun glanced off the metal bleachers. Lina could feel her feet sinking into the squishy, rain-soaked grass, and it made her feel strangely buoyant to leave a set of footprints across the football field. As if, for once, she was actually here.

She heard the kids talking long before she reached the lip of the ravine. Their chattering voices floated up from the dark copse of trees, accompanied by the sweet smell of marijuana.

She couldn’t wait to join them. She jammed her hands in her pockets and raced to the edge of the ravine, staring down at the crowd she’d tried so desperately to belong to.

They were down there, clustered together, passing a thermos around in one direction, and a joint in the other. The few kids who weren’t smoking pot were puffing away on their cigarettes.

Lina frowned, disappointed suddenly. Last night Angel—her dad!—had talked to her about drugs and booze and cigarettes.

She’d heard it all a million times before, but last night was different. First of all, Angel was her dad, and she wanted him to love her. But too, he seemed to understand her in a way no one ever had before. Last night, as they’d sat together on the porch swing, listening to the tinny clanks of her mom cooking inside, Lina had looked into her father’s green eyes and felt as if she were looking into a mirror. He was the first adult she’d ever known who remembered what it felt like to be a kid.

When she told him that, he laughed and said it was because he’d never grown up. But then, in the middle of all their joking, he turned serious. When she pulled out a cigarette and started to light up, he grabbed her hand and stared at her so long, she became scared.

“First of all,” he said, “you can’t smoke around me because of my surgery. But more importantly, smoking is for idiots, and you seem like a smart kid to me.”

His words made her feel small and stupid, and mumbling something, she put the cigarette away. After that, they lapsed into silence. Night fell slowly, drizzling across the untended yard, blurring the edges of the trees. A white moth came out of hiding and fluttered around the porch light.

Finally her dad spoke again, and this time she could tell that he was thinking long and hard before each word. “I’m an alcoholic, Angelina, and a drug abuser, and … worse. I know what sends a person out into the darkness, looking for a little bit of light—even if that light comes with a helluva price and only lasts for the length of an evening.” He turned to her then, and she saw the disappointment in his eyes. “I’ve ruined my life—and drugs and booze were how I did it. Please, please don’t be like me. It’d break my heart.”

“Hey, Lina!” Jett’s voice cut through her thoughts.

Distractedly Lina looked down the ravine and saw Jett standing in his usual spot, clutching the thermos in one hand and a joint in the other. “You bring anything to drink?”

Lina frowned. For the first time, it bothered her that Jett always asked for something from her. “Nope,” she yelled down.

He looked away from her before the word was even finished. “Bummer!” he yelled, and everyone laughed, then he went back to passing the joint around.

Lina stood there for another minute, waiting for someone else to call to her, or invite her down. But the kids seemed to have forgotten her existence. Shoving her hands in her pockets, she made her careful, picking way down the loose embankment, her tennis shoes crushing the muddy ivy and mushrooms in her path.

She moved into place beside Jett and said nothing. In the distance the second school bell rang and everyone laughed.

Someone handed Lina the joint. She stared at it, blinking at the smoke that stung her eyes. Then she passed it to the next person in line.

Jett frowned at her. “You don’t wanna get high?”

She shrugged. “Don’t feel like it.”

“Why not?”

Everyone waited, breathless, for the answer.

“I met my dad last night.” She felt a rush of adrenaline as she said the words.

Jett took a long drag and held it in, then exhaled the smoke at her face. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah,” she said, grinning up at him. “He’s Angel DeMarco.”

There was a moment of stunned surprise, then everyone burst out laughing.

“Sure he is, Lina.” Brittany laughed. “And my dad’s Jack Nicholson.”

Jett frowned at her. “So who is it really?”

Lina stared at them. All of a sudden she felt unwelcome here, and she wondered if she’d ever really belonged. “I told you, it’s Angel DeMarco.”

Jett stared at her, one black eyebrow rising slowly. “I read he had AIDS.”

“No,” she answered. “He just had bypass surgery. No big deal.”

“Oh, right,” Brittany said with a humph, “like you would know.”

She spun to face the crowd. “I do know. I spent the whole weekend with him, and he told me he had bypass surgery.”

“You’re a liar,” Jett said softly, and she knew the second he spoke that the group would follow him. Then he grinned at her. “Hey, give me a smoke, willya?”

“Buy your own,” she snapped.

Jett spun to face her again. “What did you say?”

She stared up at him, seeing his drug-pale skin and bloodshot eyes and the too-black hair that fell across his forehead. She wondered what she’d ever seen in him. Disgusted, she shook her head. “My uncle Francis was right. You guys are a bunch of losers.”

The look in Jett’s eyes turned ugly. “Oh, really?” he whispered.

She backed up. “Yeah, really.”

Jett followed her. She tripped on a stone and thudded to a sit. He came up close, towering over her, grinning down at her. “Where do you think you’re going?”

She squished her hands on the muddy earth and shot to her feet. “I’m getting the hell away from you guys.”

He laughed, but it was a cold, angry sound that made her afraid—just like it was supposed to. “What’re you gonna do, make friends with the cheerleaders? They wouldn’t hang with a skank like you, Hillyard.” He laughed again. “And no one’s gonna believe a lame story about Angel DeMarco bein’ your dad, either. Get real. We’re the only friends you’ve got. Now, quit actin’ like a bitch and give me a smoke.”

Lina slapped his face. The smack reverberated in the dense, moist air. She realized a second too late what she’d done—she saw the anger dawn in his eyes, and she was off, scrambling up the bank and running across the football held. He reached for her, missed and cursed, but by then she had a head start.

Lina didn’t look back. She ran all the way to the school and skidded into the quiet hallways. Breathing hard, she raced to Vicki Owen’s door and knocked hard. When the counselor said, “Come in,” Lina burst through the door and slammed it shut behind her. Sinking onto the seat, she gulped in a few aching breaths, then looked up at Miss Owen. “I need help.”

A half hour later, Lina sat in the school gym, alone, waiting for some guy she didn’t know. Miss Owen’s nephew or cousin or something.

Miss Owen had listened to Lina’s story about Jett and the gang and said very simply, “You need new friends, Lina.”

Lina had laughed. “Oh, yeah. I’ll get some out of the Wheaties box tomorrow morning. All I need is a few proofs of purchase.”

Miss Owen had just smiled and told Lina to go to the gym and wait. And so she was here, sitting on the cold wooden floor of the basketball court, her arms crossed. Waiting.

After about ten minutes, the door creaked open. A guy paused in the opening and then began slowly walking toward her. His footsteps left an echoing wake in the huge room.

Lina stared at him, making out more and more of his features with every step. He was tall—way taller than she was—and he had short blond hair. His skin was pale, with two ruddy spots of color on his cheeks. He wore a huge, baggy sweatshirt and oversized jeans.

She recognized him finally. He was the school’s student vice president—Zach Owen. “Hi,” he said, looking at her with a directness that made her uncomfortable.

She nodded but said nothing.

He flopped to a sit in front of her. “My aunt tells me you’re in trouble.”

“Nothing I can’t handle.” She raked him with her eyes. “Besides, what would you know about trouble?”

He laughed, and for a second he reminded her of Francis, with his crinkly-faced smile. “It’s an act,” he said softly, as if he could read her mind. “Last year my parents died and I went off the deep end—drinking, drugging, you name it.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “Yeah, right, and I’m Michael Jackson’s love child.”

He grinned at her. “You don’t look like him.”

“Very funny. Look, I gotta run—” She started to get to her feet and he grabbed her, held her in place.

“Don’t run.” It was all he said, just two simple words, but in his voice she could hear understanding. And suddenly the two words didn’t seem simple at all. Slowly she bent back down to her knees and looked at him, really looked. “How’d you stop?”

“Aunt Vicki put me in detox. When I dried out, I transferred to this school. At first it was hard.… I didn’t know anyone. But I ran for vice president to make friends, and I won.” He grinned sheepishly. “Course, no one ran against me.”

“I found out this weekend that Angel DeMarco is my dad.” She hadn’t meant to say it, somehow it just came blurting out. She waited, shoulders tensed, for him to respond. To make fun of her.

He studied her. “Yeah, you sorta look like him.”

“I do?” She heard the completely dorky awe in her voice and she winced, embarrassed.

“You’re way prettier, though.”

The compliment fluttered through her. A quick smile jerked one side of her mouth. “Thanks.”

She looked at him again, and saw for the first time that he sort of looked like a young Hugh Grant. Not really like a nerd at all.