The Black Sheep (16 page)

“Kendra isn't the type to challenge authority,” Mom says. “Someone has been feeding her ideas.”

Rosa throws her arms in the air and utters a string of Spanish expletives. “You're the expert,” she tells Dr. Ernest. “Why don't you say something?”

Dr. Ernest mugs for the camera, and the audience howls. “I think Doctor Rosa has made a good case, here. Mom, Dad, you're not listening to your daughter, and you're not taking responsibility for what's going wrong with your family. Does your daughter look happy to you?”

Three cameras zoom in for close-ups of my face, and I see on the monitors that while I was distracted the vault began to leak. Dr. Ernest takes a tissue out of his pocket and hands it to me. I'm ashamed of myself. Bishops don't cry—especially not on TV. Obviously, my defenses have been weakened by exposure to the Mulligans.

“Why assume it's our fault?” my mother asks. “Some people are actually happy living with us.”

Mom points to a familiar head of shiny black hair in the front row of the audience.

“That's different,” Dr. Ernest says. “Anyone can get along with a houseguest for a month. Unless y'all are willing to take ownership of the problem, you're not going to be able to move ahead as a family.” Ernest turns to Rosa. “Any suggestions?”

“Maybe a taste of their own medicine,” Rosa says. “Parenting lessons.”

Ernest smiles. “I like the way your mind works, Doctor Rosa. Boot camp for the parents it is.”

I know she means well, but Rosa's gone too far. She's made my parents sound much worse than they are. After all, they didn't turn me into a psychopath.

Dr. Ernest turns to the crowd. “Do y'all agree with us?”

“I don't,” I say, but my voice is drowned by the crowd's cheer.

Dr. Ernest rests a hand on my parents' arms. “Mom, Dad, this train was heading for derailment, but I think we caught it in time. We need to reeducate you. We need to help you let go of your old thinking and open your minds to new ideas. We need to tear you down so we can build you up to become the best parents you can be.”

“Parenting lessons?” my father says. “I don't think so.”

Mom shakes her head in mute solidarity.

“You may not
want
to attend my boot camp but I am telling ya, ya'all
need
to. In two short weeks, America is going to be voting on whether your daughter should divorce you. You'd better build your case now if you want to hold on to her.”

“Wait a second, America can't vote on my future,” I say. “That's unfair.”

“That's ridiculous,” my parents chorus.

“That's crazy,” Rosa says.

“That's show business!” Dr. Ernest says.

Like magic, my barnacle has disappeared. It takes a while to find her, but I finally spot a pair of flip-flops under a rest-room cubicle. “Judy?”

Silence.

“Judy, I recognize your feet.”

The toilet flushes and Judy emerges. “Oh, hi, KB.”

“What was Dr. Ernest talking about?”

“You mean the boot camp? Better talk to your beloved nanny about that.” She turns off the faucet and hits the button on the hand dryer.

I raise my voice to be heard over the noise. “I meant the vote.”

“Oh, that.” The dryer stops and Judy turns to me. “Didn't I mention it? Terrance thought it would be great to let America decide about the divorce.”

“This is a free country, Judy. I get to make my own choices.”

“Sure you do,” she says, patting my arm with a damp hand. “Just as soon as the show ends.”

The only good thing that's happened today is that I've discovered Maya isn't nearly as pretty in person as she is on TV. Her hair is definitely amazing, but her eyes are mere pinpoints of blue, unlike Mitch's. Plus, she's built like a linebacker from all those years of lugging her own kayak. There's no place for that kind of muscle on Fifth Avenue.

When I find her outside my parents' dressing room, she doesn't even pretend to be nice.

“What do you want?” she asks.

“Nice to meet you, too,” I say, reaching for the door.

Maya's hand closes like a steel clamp over mine. “You're not going in there.”

“My parents don't need a bodyguard.”

“But they do need someone who cares about their feelings. Unlike you.”

“You don't know anything about me.”

“I know everything about you—just like the rest of the country. I've seen how mean you are to them.”

“Yeah, well you're not known for your sweet personality in Monterey, either.”

She tosses her hair and glares at me. “I bet you're trying to turn everyone against me. You totally suck up to my parents.”

“I don't suck up to your parents. I don't need to, because they already like me.”

“They like anyone with a cause. Don't think you're special.”

“Maybe not, but the cause is special.”

“Yeah, yeah, Team Fourteen…That's all you ever talk about. I volunteered for seven years at that aquarium, and no one made a big deal out of it. Now it's all about selfless Kendra saving the otters.”

“I don't know why you're so bitter. You've had it pretty good in Manhattan. ‘Oh Mrs. Bishop, let's go to another gallery. If I could drown in culture, I'd die happy. Oh, Mr. Bishop, let's run another ten-K this weekend before I lose my endorphin high.'”

Maya's eyes narrow until they virtually disappear. “I call them Deirdre and Ken. They asked me to.”

“Well, good for you. I call them Mom and Dad, and if you don't mind, I'm going to speak to them.”

“I do mind.” She blocks the doorway. “You've hurt them enough for one day. Deirdre is crying, you know.”

Crying! Impossible. It's never happened in my lifetime. “She's just embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed to have a daughter like you.”

I'll be getting nearly five grand from the show, thanks to the extension, and that might be enough to hire an assassin.

“I wouldn't put
my
mother in a position like this,” Maya continues.

“The divorce wasn't my idea,” I say. “I only agreed to explore it because I needed more time in Monterey to finish what I started.”

“You shouldn't put a cause above your own family,” Maya says.

Now I see what's bothering her. “Maya, if you feel your parents are involved with too many causes, you should take it up with them, not me.”

“I was just trying to give you a bit of friendly advice,” she says. “You keep saying you want more freedom, and I'm telling you to be careful what you wish for.”

Maya was obviously on the receiving end of all the bad personality traits in the Mulligan gene pool. “I don't need advice from someone who listens to Britney Spears.”

Maya's eyes widen in shock. “Keep your hands off my things!” she says. “Including my ferret.”

“Manhattan loves me. He sleeps with me every single night.” I stop short of mentioning that I'm almost as close to her brother.

I try to push past her, and she pushes back. “If your parents disown you—and they're talking about it—don't think you can steal mine,” she says. “I'm moving home soon, and there won't be room in that house for both of us.”

“No kidding,” I say, turning to walk away. “I'll tell Meadow your ego needs a king-size bed.”

“You're going to end up all alone in the world, Kendra Bishop,” she shouts after me.

“That's fine with me,” I shout back. She opens the door to my parents' dressing room, flounces in, and slams it behind her.

My parents are not going to disown me, I'm quite sure of that. In the unlikely event that they do, however, I have a Black Sheep Rule to sustain me:
From independence comes strength
.

I hope.

W
hile I was away doing the talk-show circuit, Lisa came up with the idea of holding a rally during the Boulder Beach charity golf tournament tomorrow.

It's pretty similar to an idea I had last week, only back then it was called a sit-in and Lisa thought it was stupid. By renaming it, she gets to take full credit. There must be more educational value in a rally, although I can't see how.

What
is
stupid is Lisa's idea of holding an overnight campout on the actual site of the fourteenth hole. I don't understand why we have to rough it overnight when we could just get an early enough start to beat the golfers, but no one asked my opinion. Obviously, Mitch goes along with whatever Lisa suggests. I guess that's because she's his mentor, whereas I am merely his girlfriend.

The only reason I'm not complaining about it as we rattle along toward Carmel in the Mulligans' van is that I don't want to ruin the short time we have alone.

Mitch isn't nearly as thoughtful. “So, how was Maya?”

It's the third time he's asked the same question. Every time he takes a break from talking about Lisa, he talks about Maya. It's frustrating, because I begged Carrie to take Meadow with her so that Mitch and I could talk about
me
. Two days ago I allowed Dr. Ernest to break me down in front of millions of viewers. It was such a sad lapse of Black Sheepism that I still haven't recovered, and I could use a little moral support from my boyfriend.

“She seemed fine,” I say. My vague answers haven't been cutting it, but what am supposed to do when the truth—that his sister is a bitch—isn't pretty? Lie, of course, as any good girlfriend would do. “I think she's having fun in New York.”

He looks unsatisfied. “What else did you talk about?”

“Music, pets…nothing important.”

“I get the feeling you're not telling me the full story,” Mitch says.

I sigh. “Maya said something that upset me, that's all.”

He glances over at me. “What?”

“She overreacted about the divorce thing. She said I was mean and that she'd never do something like that to Mona.”

Mitch smiles, apparently satisfied. “It sounds like the trip's been good for her.”

What?! He's totally missing the point, which is that his sister said I'm mean. He should be defending me like a normal boyfriend and reminding me that everyone hates Maya. Then he should reassure me that my parents will never disown me, no matter what. And that even if they do, he'll always be there for me.

Maybe he agrees with Maya that I am a bad, ungrateful daughter. Or maybe he saw my parents in action on
Dr. Ernest
and realized I'm damaged goods. He's probably going to dump me before it gets any more serious.

Unless I dump him first.

Mitch reaches over to take my hand. “I missed you,” he says. “I thought you did great on
Dr. Ernest
.”

On the other hand, there may be hope for us yet. “I can't believe he brought my parents onto the show,” I say.

“I know.” He squeezes my hand. “I felt bad for you.”

He did? That's so sweet! I won't tell him I locked myself in the hotel bathroom after the show for so long that Judy threatened to call the fire department to break down the door. He'll see that on
The Black Sheep
soon enough. For now, I can put on a brave front. “It was okay. I was mostly in shock.”

“How come you never told me about Rosa?” he asks.

The problem with confiding in guys is that sooner or later (in my case sooner) it gets uncomfortable. This discussion may be what I thought I wanted, but now that I have to ante up, my words have receded to the primitive part of my brain. I stare at a crack in the van's windshield. “I don't know.”

He waits for me to say more before adding, “It seems like you were close.”

I can't lie to him when he's holding my hand; he would feel it. Which means I have to tell the truth, no matter how lame it is. “We are close,” I say. “She's the one who raised me.”

There's no time for more, because we've reached the center of Carmel, and Mitch has to let go of my hand to guide the van into a parking spot. I'm simultaneously relieved and disappointed to end the discussion.

Mitch cuts the ignition, and a well-dressed couple turns to stare as the van continues to gasp and sputter for a few seconds longer. Eventually it releases a great belch of smoke that blocks the couple from view.

“How long has this heap been in your family?” I ask Mitch as he claws through the camping gear to find what we need for our day at the beach.

“Longer than I have,” he says. “With so many kids and only one income, my parents can't afford a new one.” Lowering his voice to a whisper, he adds, “Don't call her a heap. If you offend her, we might have to walk home.”

“You're right, I should just be grateful that your dad let us take it for the day.”

“He was glad to have an excuse to rent one for the drive to Garberville,” he says.

“I figured your parents would give up the quilting show to join us tonight. They love a good tent rally.”

He winces. “I know, but I didn't mention this one, because they only attend protests held on public property. Dad says their trespassing days ended when they became role models. They want us to use our voices, but they also want us to stay out of trouble.”

“It's just a peaceful sit-in,” I say as we climb out of the van. “What could possibly go wrong?”

Mitch doesn't answer because he's scanning the street for the source of an odd sound. It falls somewhere between human and animal vocalization.

Our eyes light on
The Black Sheep
trucks, and Mitch pulls me behind the van so that we can spy on Judy, who is eating a Popsicle while chatting to someone I recognize from the Paco's Tacos opening. She directs tooth wattage at the guy and touches his arm with her free hand. Then we hear the noise again.

“Is she…giggling?” I ask.

“It's a mating call,” Mitch says, smiling. “That's Ted Silver, a photographer from
The Carmel Pinecone
. He felt so bad about the photo of you in the sheep suit ending up on
Nelle
that he came by the aquarium and offered to help with Team Fourteen. Judy took such a shine to him that I keep inviting him back.”

“You're matchmaking?”

Mitch returns my incredulous look. “I'm trying to distract her. I'm sure she's already heard about the rally and has something up her sleeve. Maybe Ted can keep her out of the way.”

“So you're pimping him for our cause?”

“He's a consenting adult,” Mitch says, shrugging. “Besides, Judy doesn't try to hide what she's really like.”

Not normally, but that isn't the Judy I know, listening to Ted with such rapt attention. “It doesn't seem fair to Ted,” I say. “She's evil.”

“Yeah, but she's hot.”

I stare at him, horrified. “How could you say that?”

“I'm just being objective,” he says. “I can hate her and still see that she's hot—in that librarian-with-a-wild-side sort of way.”

I must have been imagining our connection earlier. I don't know this guy at all. How could he possibly find me attractive if he finds Judy attractive? Sure, she's got good features, but that smile is something else. And she's
ancient
. “Is that how guys really think?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that when a girl thinks a guy is evil, she can't see anything attractive about him, even if he's the hottest guy on the planet.

Mitch smiles. “All I'm saying is, Ted knows what she's like and he isn't complaining.”

He certainly isn't. When I look over again, he's taking a bite from Judy's Popsicle.

Carrie tosses me a tube as we spread our towels on the sand.

“Sunscreen?”

I pass it back to her. “Thanks, but I'm already covered.”

“I'd add some more,” Meadow says, moving my towel so that she can put hers next to Carrie's. “You're pretty pale.”

I move my towel back. “Remind me why I agreed to let you come today?”

“Like you had a choice,” she says. Max and Mona packed Meadow into the rental van with the rest of the kids this morning, but at the last minute she convinced them to let her stay behind, and we got stuck with her.

I squint to examine her face. “I hope that's not my eyeliner you're wearing.”

“No,” she says, “it's mine.”

“Good. Because I have one just like it and it gave me conjunctivitis.”

“Conjunctawhat?” she asks, looking nervous.

“Pinkeye. Never seen so much pus. I meant to throw it out.”

Meadow races off to find a washroom, and Carrie gives me a high five.

“Kendra!” Mitch calls from the water, where he and Calvin are bobbing in the waves. “Come on in. The water's warm and Calvin will keep the sharks busy.”

“Later,” I call, pulling a magazine out of my beach bag. For Carrie's benefit I add, “Like, in my next life.”

“Maybe a swim would help you relax,” Carrie says, lying back on her towel.

“What makes you think I'm not relaxed?”

“The magazine's upside down,” she says. “You're thinking about
Dr. Ernest
again, aren't you?”

I nod. “What if America votes ‘divorce,' and I have to emancipate from my parents?”

“You won't let that happen,” she says.

I'm not sure how I'd be able to stop it, but I let it go for now. “Will you visit me in New York?”

“I'd love to, especially since we wouldn't have a camera crew tailing us. Speaking of which, where's Judy? Did you slip her a sedative?”

“Don't give her any ideas,” Judy says. We turn to see her behind us, holding a camcorder. She unclips a walkie-talkie from her belt and speaks into it: “This is Wolf One to Little Red Riding Hood. I've got the lamb. What's your twenty, Red Riding Hood?”

Chili's fuzzy red hair emerges from a cluster of girls nearby. He lowers his camera and raises his walkie. “Stop calling me that.”

“Camera guys are so touchy,” Judy says, motioning me to move to the edge of my towel so that she can sit beside me. She pretends to be blinded by the glare off my legs. “Jeez, KB, have those sticks ever seen the sun? I hope you've got a little SPF going on.”

“The sun shines in New York, too, you know. I'm not an idiot.”

Judy powers off her camera. “Don't get snippy with Judy. Especially not when she's doing you a favor by letting you join the seal rally.”

“I can do whatever I like. It's a free country.”

“
The Black Sheep
is a country unto its own,” she says.

A country with unjust legislation. They get to make up all kinds of lies about me, but if I make a single decision for myself, they threaten to sue.

Judy leans over and lifts my sunglasses. “Don't think for a minute that you're doing anything I don't want you to do, KB. Even on her worst day, Judy is smarter than you are.”

She probably is smarter than I am, and worse, she has no conscience to slow her down. If Judy decides to keep me away from the rally, she'll find a way.

After staring at me for another moment, Judy drops my glasses and says, “As it happens, I've decided to stay true to my journalistic integrity and let events unfold as they may.”

Virtually nothing in my life has unfolded naturally since I arrived here, thanks to Judy. “But you're a reality show producer with a nasty boss to please,” I say.

“I was a journalist first, KB. And Terrance doesn't scare me.”

“Then how come you've kept me on such a short leash this week?”

“Sometimes you've gotta look like you're playing the game, kid. But Judy's journalistic integrity will not be compromised under any…” Her voice trails off as Ted Silver walks by. Carrie and I grin at each other, but Judy is too entranced to notice. Eventually she turns back to us and asks, “Where was I?”

“Your integrity won't be compromised,” I prompt.

“Right. Terrance has no idea what the people of America really want, because he's been stuck behind a desk too long. I used to want his job, you know, but I've realized that I can do more by getting my hands dirty in the field.” She sifts a handful of sand to illustrate her point. “For some reason, ‘Joe Average' relates to your seal cause, KB. He wants nothing more after a long day at the factory than to watch little Kendra Bishop try to fight the Establishment. It gives him hope that he can do more with his own sorry life.” She pauses to reflect for a moment. “I owe it to Joe Average to deliver on this protest, and I refuse to let Terrance Burnside derail it simply because he wants to cut deals at some stuffy old golf club.”

I prop myself on one elbow to look at her. “So what you're saying,” I summarize, “is that the Boulder Beach execs turned down your membership application.”