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Better Days	By : fitzsns Category: Individual Celebrities > Orlando Bloom Views: 2553 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know Orlando Bloom. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 15
- 16
*~*~*~*~*
CHAPTER ELEVEN: FAYE
New Brunswick, New Jersey

Thursday, April 17, 2003
“Starbucks.”
“Faye? Is that you?”
Kill me. Kill me now. “Mom?”
“Hon, you really should identify yourself when you answer the phone at work.”
Seriously. That big cappuccino machine over there. Just drop it on my head. Put me out of my misery. Why oh why is my mother calling me at work? Someone is dead or dying, it has to be. Otherwise she would have lumped it in with this week’s installment of the “Answering Machine Monologues”. “Sorry, Mom. Starbucks, Mrs. McKenna’s major disappointment speaking. How was that?”
I can actually hear her rolling her eyes before glaring in my father’s general direction. She’s always blamed him for my ‘smart mouth’. “I certainly didn’t call you at work to go ten rounds with your smart mouth, Faye.”
“No? Why did you call me at work then?”
"Miss?" There’s a woman wearing a business suite of the likes one usually only sees confined to Ally McBeal re-runs, gesticulating wildly at me for a reason I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know. It’s not like there aren’t three other employees milling about that are clearly not on the phone. Plus I can only deal with one headache at a time so I pretend I don’t notice her and try to concentrate on what my mother is saying.
“Well, I can never get you on the phone at home.”
“You seem to have great conversations with my answering machine, though, so I don’t see the problem.”
“Miss?”
Ugh. “Hold on Mom,” I say, cutting off whatever reply I was about to get from her. I may not want to talk to my mother right now but I want to deal with this woman even less. I look up at the woman who is so obviously in the midst of mid-morning jitters. “I’ll be right with you,” I say, shocking myself with my own politeness.
“I've been waiting for 5 minutes!”

So much for polite. “Sorry, not even close to the record, lady.”
Ya know? I hate people. I really, really hate people.
I have worked as a waitress at one of the busiest restaurants on Long Beach Island every summer since I was 17. Before that, I worked in the refreshment stand in my town municipal pool and as a cashier at the local grocery store. I’ve come across every manner of attitude and temper, but I never hate people as much as do when I’m working here. Starbucks customers- by in large- are complete assholes.
It’s not my fault this lady ordered a cup coffee so complex as to make Ayn Rand step back and say “Whoa, that’s over my head”. Our new runner, Daisy- poor girl- looks like she’s performing brain surgery putting this chick’s coffee together.
That reminds me. I haven’t made fun of our new runner’s name yet. My blissful email relationship with a certain Mr. Bloom must be softening me up. I have to tell you- while I’m deprived of that glorious voice of his (among other things) save for random phone calls- I’m really enjoying this dating through correspondence thing. Shit, I forgot about my mother. We’ll have to get back to that later.
“Sorry, mom. So what did you need?” I try to soften my tone a bit. My mother may be a pain in the ass that routinely makes me feel about three inches tall, but I was born on the hottest day of the year, during a blackout, after twenty-nine hours of labor. Or so I’m told. And it's got to count for something, right? I mean, I wouldn't want to do anything that felt good for twenty-nine hours.
“Well, you’re father has something he wants to talk to you about so I thought it might be nice for the whole family to have dinner at the house this Sunday and since I can only ever get that machine at your apartment, I figured I’d try to call you where you can’t screen me.”
Ohhhhkay. Um. “Have you talked to Devon about this?” I am definitely not going if Dev isn’t going. It’s not that I don’t want to find out what this mysterious thing is that my father wants to talk to me about but I can always set up something for lunch next week that wouldn’t involve me sitting at my dining room table (the scene of so very many traumatic events) with my mother (and if she goes totally “family dinner” nuts, my grandmother, too) without my brother as a buffer.
“Well, I’m calling him next,” she says as if I just asked the dumbest question ever asked. Which is totally unfair. I know dumb questions. I work part-time at a Starbucks. God I hate this job.
Speaking of, Mr. Pete just came out of his office… crazy micro-mini business suit lady is talking to him. They’re looking over at me. Why?? I didn’t take her order. I’m not the one making her order. Why is she focusing on me? “Listen, mom, I have to get back to work. I’ll call you when I get home.” Aha! Not only is it true but it also gives me a chance to talk to Dev before I have to give her an answer.
“A simple yes or no would do, Faye.”
I think I’ll just retire to the restroom and pull out all the hairs from my head individually. “Mom, I need to check my schedule- see what I have due in class next week, I have to see if I’m working. I promise, I’ll call you later. I really have to go.”
“Fine. Make sure you actually call me this time. No making up some imaginary conversation in your head and then later swearing that it happened, you hear me?”
Sieg Heil. “Loud and clear.”
I’m not off the phone three seconds and Mr. Pete is in my face. “Miss McKenna-” Only calls me Miss McKenna when he’s annoyed with me- remember that? “- important phone call?”
“My mother, Mr. Pete.”
“And was it important enough to justify your treatment of that customer?”
Treatment? I barely uttered a complete sentence. I look over his shoulder to see the lady in question smirking at me. What is this woman’s problem? Does it give her some sort of smug satisfaction busting the chops of minimum wage slaves? Is this how she gets her kicks? She was in one hell of a hurry a minute ago, but apparently she has all the time in the world to watch my boss scold me.
And he will. I’d get “scolded” even if I told him my mother called to tell me she’d accidentally set herself on fire and needed me to bring over some water. See, Mr. Pete only has two gears. 1) Best buddy- seen at it’s most pathetic when he’s begging you to cover a shift. And 2) Disciplinarian- the one I get most often. Because I am a bad seed. Or should I say, bad bean? Get it? Like a coffee bean? Get it? Mr. Pete cracks himself up... I'm sure.
But seriously folks… here’s where I’m at. It’s April. I have finals coming up. Then I’m graduating… I’m outta New Brunswick for good. I really don’t need this job anymore. I really don’t have time for this job anymore. Oh, and have I mentioned how much I hate this job? It kind of slipped my mind that I should be quitting this job soon. I think I’ve just been coming out of habit more than anything else. Yes, I’ve worked here every year since I was a freshman but that doesn’t mean I have any kind of loyalty. I’ve always hated it.
So, do I let Mr. Pete, once again, talk to me like I should be riding the special bus to class or… ?
*~*~*~*~*
“I quit my job today.” I’ve found that I like to start these conversations with Orlando with a kind of “oh…kay…” feeling. If we’re going to do this “getting to know each other” thing, I feel I should give him an accurate view of my personality and I’m not sure if he knows yet just how… odd… I am.
“So did I.”
Oh… kay… Trying to steal my odd thunder, is he? “Oh yeah?”
“Well, I quit every day so I don’t think they’re taking me seriously anymore. Plus, I have a contract and they already paid me a lot of money and stuff. ”
Heh. “Shame on you. Do I need to tell you the story of the boy who cried wolf?”
“No.”
“Really? Cus, one day you’re really going to quit and none of the villagers are going to come running and then you’ll die.”
“I don’t remember the story ending that way.”
“It’s implied.”
He’s laughing now. Good. Despite the playful banter, I can tell he needed a laugh.
“Stop teasing me,” he whines pitifully, “I’ve had a hard day.”
“Poor baby. Is the heat getting to you out there?”
He sighs. I can hear the burst of breath against the receiver. “The heat, the hours, the stress…”
Comfort or mock? Comfort or mock? “Are all movie stars as whiney as you are?”
“No. Most are far worse,” he laughs. Woo Hoo! He's cool with mocking when in a bad mood. "C'mon now, pity me. I have it rough here. My muscles ache and I have sand in bad places."
Okay, is he just the cutest thing or what? I'm glad I'm getting to know this side of him. I still have my doubts about what kind of legitimate shot we have at a real relationship but I have no regrets about agreeing to this arrangement. He's just great. I've had way more fun talking and writing to Orlando these past couple weeks than I had in a year of dating Danny. How sad is that?
Plus, (and here's the best thing) that thought right there was the first time I've thought about Danny in days. Hopefully thoughts of him will just continue to get fewer and farther between. This is that "time taking care of all things" thing everyone talks about, isn't it? It seems like it happened over night but maybe being able to confront Gina that night helped kick it into gear. Plus is doesn't hurt to have another man in my life showing me how different things can be. Sigh.
"I'm sorry about the sand, Mr. Bloom, but I'm really not equipped to deal with that kind of trauma. You may need to talk to a professional."
"Fine," he says with a long-suffering sigh that made me grin, "Mock me in my time of need."
"Hey man, I just told you that I quit my job and you just turned it all around on yourself and your prissy actor problems," I say in my best wounded drawl. "I think a little mockery is a civilized form of retaliation."
"Your right, I'm sorry," he says sounding appropriately abashed. "What happened, Mr. Pete scold you again?"
"As a matter of fact," I reply, my indignation from this afternoon rising again. I told him all about Mr. Pete in one of my emails earlier this week. I love it that he pays attention when I write. Heh. "Actually he didn't get that far. I felt it coming on and I had this perfect moment of pure existential clarity"
"And what did this perfect moment entail?"
"I am a human being and the degradation one suffers when waiting on caffeine crazed yuppies day in and day out is nothing short of a crime against humanity. Little 20-something assholes in bad suits, cell phones permanently attached to their skulls, snapping at us miniscule worker bees because their definition of extra foam differs from the standard Starbucks definition of extra foam- a definition that was beaten into our heads by a man who makes us call him Mr. Pete. For the love of all that's holy, I couldn't go on humiliating myself like that."
"And the real reason is?"
There he goes again, thinking he knows me. "It's the end of the year. I have to concentrate on finals. I remembered I was going to quit anyway," I admit.
He laughs and I make a face at the phone. He can't see me so the effect is kinda lost. "Anyway, I thought you were going to law school," he says.
"I am." What's that got to do w-
"Well in few years, you could be that 20-something asshole in a suit with a cell phone permanently attached to your skull."
Oh the horror. "Don't even joke about that. That is not who I'm going to be."
"That's what I want to hear about in your next email."
"What?"
"Why you want to be a lawyer. I'd have you tell me now but I really need to crash and I don't want to fall asleep on you. I hear girls get offended by that sort of thing."
"Eh. Depends on the circumstances."
"I'll keep that in mind," he laughs, stifling a yawn I'm pretty sure.
I love how is voice is kinda gravelly and soft and it makes me think about lying in bed with him, talking about nonsense things while we both drift off to sleep. The thought makes me a little sad because I still have my doubts that we'll ever get to that place. But I have as much hope as I do doubt and that's saying something, right?
"Okay, you go get some sleep," I tell him. "I have to call my brother anyway. My mother is trying to arrange some kind of family get-together this Sunday and I want to make sure it doesn't turn into the Battle of the Bulge. Dev's pretty good at redirecting mother-daughter snipes to safer topics like last week's Law and Order and the new Gatorade flavor."
"That's quite a talent," he says. Another yawn.
"Indeed," I laugh. It really is. "Now go crash. I'd hate for you to be so out of it tomorrow that they take your next resignation seriously."
"You really do care."
"Sure. That and I'm avoiding personal guilt."
A few minutes later, after we finish up those little end-of-conversation banterings that happen when you have to hang up and don't want to, I stretch out on my couch, quite content with myself and my current situation.
It's odd, really.
It's not like my mind doesn't wander from time to time- in class, at work- to ponder how it is that I got to this unique little sphere of unlikelihood I find myself in. My life has never been the sort that is filled with lots of random, improbable events- despite what the past few weeks have suggested. I don’t live in Port Charles, for fuck’s sake. I mean, by all accounts, I should be going fucking insane right about now. I finally claw my way out of the soul-destroying post-break-up mire I was bogged down in, only to tangle myself up in a new relationship (with a god damn celebrity, no less). All my stress levels should be spiking something awful right about now.
But that is the complete opposite of what I'm feeling.
Don't get me wrong. Every time I see a new email from Orlando or see his number show up on my caller ID, I get those nervous little jitters all over my body. But they're not the "oh my god this is never going to work and my bruised little ticker just can't take anymore" jitters. They're anticipation jitters. They're "I can't wait to see what I'm going to find out and I can't wait to tell him what's going on in my life" jitters.
In fact, the only stress I'm having about all this is the stress caused by worrying that I don't have stress when I should. Make sense? Could you explain it to me, then?
Thinking about my lack of stress has reminded me of something that will, no doubt, cause me major stress. Have to call Dev about Sunday dinner.
As the phone rings, I'm thinking more about ways to get out of going at all than I am ways to ensure that Dev shares my pain.
"Hey, Faye?"
"Yeah."
"Hold on a sec, okay?"
"I'm holdin'." I hear him mumble something to whoever he's with and then a lot of static. Still waiting...
"Faye?"
"I'm here."
"Sorry, I'm at dinner. Had to go outside."
"Did you just walk out on a date? You could've called me back." We both know I'm only saying that for show. If he doesn't talk to me now, it is guaranteed that I won't get a hold of him until it's too late. We call it Devon's Law.
"It's cool. Third date. I'm comfortable leaving my cell phone on."
Asshole. "And you wonder why you've never been on a fourth date."
"Think that has something to do with it?"
"Finding it acceptable to take non-emergency calls in the middle of dinner when you've only just gotten past the "so what do you want to do when you graduate" phase? Maybe. But enough about you. We need to talk about me. Did Mom get a hold of you?"
"About dinner? Yeah. I can't. I've got my Econ final paper due on Monday."
Death to selfish little brothers everywhere. "Okay, see, that is unacceptable. Either you need to find a way to finish it before dinner on Sunday or you need to help me come up with an excuse."
"I haven't even started it yet. There's no way I can have it done in a day."
Fucking slacker. "You've had all effing semester to work on it, lazy ass."
"Just tell her you have something due."
"Are you new?. You already used that. It wouldn't even matter if it were true now." What the hell is he thinking? Has he met our mother? She knows the score. She knew I would call him to make sure he was going. If I told her a had a paper due she'd think that I assumed that because the excuse worked for him, it'd work for me.
"Faye. You know how I hate to be the grown-up but I'm going to do it anyway because it's for your own good. You are 22 years old. In less than a month you will have a college degree. You're going to Law School. You need to learn how to make it through a meal with your mother without a referee. Now, grow up. You are going to go to that dinner."
Who does this little shit think he is? Telling me to grow up... Grumble, grumble... "Deh-ev..." Way not to sound whiney, Faye.
"No. You are going to go to that dinner. You’re going to go and sit there and every once in a while you are going to smile so as to indicate warmth of some kind. Perhaps even love. Besides, Dad will be there. It's not like it's going to be a free-for-all."
Who the hell died and made him Dr. Phil? "When did you get all 'tell it like it is'?"
"I'm surprisingly mature."
My ass. "You're really not coming?"
"Faye, there comes a time every child's life when they have to learn to take their overbearing, critical parents' shit with a smile. For you, that time has come. I believe in you. Now go forth and put the wisdom I've imparted into practice. I'll be there in spirit, grasshopper."
Mind if I puke? I mean, really. What the hell has this kid been reading? Must make a mental note to search his apartment for self-help paraphernalia next time I'm over. Not that he would need it. Little prick can do no wrong. Grumble, grumble. "Fine. I'll go. Alone. Into the lion's den. But if I come out missing a limb, I'm going to use what's left to make sure you never procreate."
"Got it. You loose a leg, I'll loose a testicle. Now, I gotta get back to Samantha. Think I should tell her you were calling to update me on our dying grandmother, or what?"
Asshole.
*~*~*~*~*
Short Hills, New Jersey

Sunday, April 20, 2003
My house looks like something out of an Ethan Allen catalog. Growing up, my mind would always flash on a quote from Ferris Bueller's Day Off: "It's very beautiful and very clean. And you can't touch anything."
Seeing my childhood home, you'd think I had way more in the way of money growing up. In truth, it's just excellent camouflage. I never knew how my mother did it, but she managed to keep this house looking like we had the kind of money our upper-middle class neighbors had. Appearances were always very important to my mother. She always wanted the other mothers in the PTA to think she belonged there.
Truth was, my father's parents left him the house and just enough money to keep it. If my parents had sold the house, the profit along with the inheritance would have kept us very comfortable living in any number of other townships in the area. We certainly weren't in the Short Hills tax-bracket. My father teaches 12th grade History at a parochial school in Middletown. But he loved this house. Had too much sentimental value. And my mom liked the idea of living in Short Hills.
Now, my mother and I have our differences. She drives me nuts and no one can hurt me the way she can. But that's not to say that I don't love her. I know that she is worth a dozen of those other women who live in this town. A big part of the animosity between my mother and me comes from the fact that I can't understand why she constantly needs to prove that she belongs here.
Enter Danny Hamilton. Forget near perfect grades, swimming trophies, student body president, acceptance letters from every college under the sun. Forget the fact that I busted my ass waiting tables to save up money for law school. When I brought a Hamilton home, I thought my mother would explode from sheer pride. When I told her I had gotten into Stanford but Danny wanted me to stay on the east coast, she didn't blink. To her, it was a no brainer.
Watching my mother cut her lemon chicken into the tiniest pieces that can still be considered food, I feel like a huge piece of the puzzle has just fallen into my lap. Of course. A first year psych major who regularly sleeps through class could've figured this one out. Danny had to be right for me because I felt like, in my mother's eyes, it was the only thing I'd ever done that was worth anything.
Part of me knows that isn't true. I know she was proud of me every time I brought home an aced test or any of the other things I always wished she'd give me a pat on the back for. But like me- like all of us, I guess- her own neuroses just got in the way.
Maybe that was a part of why it took me so long to get over him. It's not like she let me forget that I wasn't marrying into the Hamilton's anymore. Almost every one of her messages has some kind of dig in there. She always has to remind me how everyone else we've ever come into contact with is succeeding in one area of their lives or another. I may not be able to go to Stanford. I may have missed my shot, but dammit, I'm still going to law school. I'm going to graduate Summa Cum Laude, despite the hole I've been living in all semester. I wonder if any of these people she's telling me about knows that. Now that Danny is out of my life, does she think she has nothing to brag about?
Okay, I'm getting morose again. Will not let this happen. Take parents' shit with a smile. Well, maybe not a smile... baby steps, Faye. Let's not go crazy.
I've been here for over an hour and I've heard nothing of this mysterious talk I'm supposed to have with my father. He's barely spoken, but that's nothing new at the dinner table. My mother doesn't shut up.
Right now she's telling me how my cousin, Daphne, is pregnant with her 5th child. She takes a beat before offhandedly commenting that she probably wouldn't have any hope of grandchildren if it weren't for Devon, her perfect son...
I have a perfect image in my head about what I would do if I were a lesser daughter. I'm grinning evilly and informing her that her perfect son has no intention of getting married any time in the near future and considering that he can't get past a third date, odds are she'll be dead by the time he gets around to spawning (and lets not forget that his ability to do so hinges on how this night goes for me)... unless it's an accident, in which case, I hope she'll accept her bastard grandbaby with same enthusiasm she's showing for the offspring of this cousin of ours that only contacts us when inviting us to things we have to bring presents to.
Speaking of, here's the really fucked up part. Apparently this chick, who we haven't heard from since the last time she contracted a fetus, had the nerve to send a shower invite to my mother and I, telling us that she’s registered at Bundles of Joy. Fifth baby. This is the fifth time she's done this in almost as many years. What could she possibly need?
I’m drawing the line!
Where’s my gift for not getting knocked up? I made it my entire life so far without getting pregnant once. I want a gift basket with a carton of smokes and an assortment of Grey Goose and Bacardi.
"Mom, I'm not going to another shower and I'm certainly not buying her anymore baby crap. She can't possibly need anything she doesn't have."
"You're right-"
Whoa, what alternate dimension did I just fall in to?
"-but-"
Never mind.
"-she's still family and you're still going."
Yeah, I'm still going to have to go with "no" on that one, but I'm not going to fight this battle now. I have to fall back and regroup. I think backing out at the last minute is the way to play this one. Really, I'm not sitting through another one of these things. At the last one, one of the sperm-machine's old biddy aunts decided it would be cute to wrap the contents of her baby basket individually. For like forty-five minutes, we were all sitting there going "Ooooh, crib liners..."
I'm almost too distracted by the horrid memory to notice that there is a rare lull in the conversation. But before I have the chance to bring up whatever it is I actually came here to talk about, my mom swoops in for the kill.
"So, Faye, dating anyone new?"
My first instinct in start mentally measuring my trunk to see if her body would fit inside. But then I think... why shouldn't I tell them about Orlando? I mean, I don't have to give a full disclosure but if my mom thinks I'm putting myself back out there, she just might give me a break on the Danny Front. Of course, that would mean the creation of the Orlando Front and daily blitz attacks until my defenses crumble.
Oh, what the hell? May as well go down in a blaze of glory. "Actually, I am seeing someone new."
"You are?"
Well look who just joined the battle. Not only that, but my dad actually managed to respond before my mom and I don't think I've seen that since... never. My dad's never been one to speak unless he has something to say, but it's no secret that every smart ass bone in my body came from his end of the gene pool. Now that I think about it, he's been a lot more quite than usual that last few times I came home from school. And he sure as hell doesn't seem pleased to hear this news.
Hmmm... tread carefully... potential mine field. I slide a glance over at my mother and she seems surprised but not unhappy. This is a switch. "Um, yeah. It's nothing serious. We're just kind of getting to know each other but I really like him. I don't know if anything will come of it, but..."
"And what's this boy's name?"
"Um," I'm finding it hard to pay full attention to my mother's question because my father is looking downright pissed now. What did I do? "His name's Orlando."
"Unique," my mother comments with uncharacteristic brevity. She seems to have noticed, too, that my mild mannered father is looking a bit like a chained Doberman right now and I'm sure she wants to get bit in the ass about as much as I do. I don't think I've ever seen my dad like this, and it's a little scary- I'm not gonna lie. I look back over at my mother and the look she has on her face tells me she knows more about what's happening than I do.
"Dad? What's wr-"
"And what does Orlando do?" he asks, his voice deceptively calm.
Hmmm... I have a feeling I'm about to step on a mine and get my foot blown off. Poor Devon. Never to know life beyond his own. "He's an actor."
I'm completely unprepared when my father brings his open palms down on the table with such force, it knocks over his glass. What is going on?
"I can't believe this is happening again."
"What? What's happening again?" I'm so lost... and still kinda scared. My mother is almost always pissed at me for something or other- or at least supremely annoyed. It barely makes a dent now past the already chronic feeling of being her big disappointment. But when my dad is mad at me... I don't even want to go there. It's happened so rarely that I don't even know how to deal.
"I will not sit by and watch you throw away your future again."
"I'm not throwing anything away. I met a guy I like. It's not like we're getting marr-" Ohhhhhhhh... I get it. And now I'm kinda pissed right back. "That's what this is about? I make the mistake of trusting the wrong man once and all of a sudden any guy I see socially..." Whoa... deep breath. "Did it ever occur to you that maybe I learned from my mistakes?"
Honestly, you'd think I was sitting on the top of a big whore float in the slut-town parade throwing my college credits out like beads to any guy who'll show me his dick. Is this what he thinks of me?
"It occurred to me that you threw away the biggest opportunity of your life- the one thing you've been working for you're whole life. You gave up your dream, Faye, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let you let some two-bit celebrity take away what's left."
Two-bit celebrity? How did he know who Orl... Devon. I'll kill him. Forget his testicles... I'm taking his damn head off. How dare he tell my father about Orlando? And he doesn't even know that Orlando came to see me again or anything that happened since. So the only story he had to tell was... oh he's so dead. Why would he ever... ? He wouldn't have told the whole story, right? Just enough that dad knows I met Orlando on Spring Break. I mean, Devon doesn't hate me or anything... if he does, he's been playing it pretty close to the chest the past 20 years.
"Dad, no body's taking anything from me, least of all Orlando. We're just talking. He's not even in the country."
"Wait, this boy's a celebrity?" Before you judge my mother, it's not what it sounds like. She's not drooling over the money. She's just curious cus since Devon started interning in Entertainment Tonight's New York office, she watches it religiously and... wait... here it comes... "You're not talking about Orlando Bloom, are you?"
I want to crawl under the table and die.
I ignore my mother for the moment. "Dad, we're just talking. I'm not even contemplating giving anything else up for him or anyone. I'm not making that mistake twice. And, I have to say, it's really unfair of you to fly into a rage over this when it's not like you had anything to say when I came here looking for advice when Danny asked me not to go to California. I didn't come here for a fight... well at least not one with you. Is this the thing you wanted talk to me about? Just wanted to let me know what an idiot you think I am. That I can't have a relationship with a guy without tossing everything that matters to me out the window? I already have one parent who finds me a crushing failure. I really don't know how to handle two."
I know it might seem overly dramatic and not a little bit childish, but I'm crying and I don't want to deal, so I leave the dinner table and run upstairs to my old room. I'd just leave but I really don't want to drive when I'm this upset. I don't want to die. Plus I borrowed Sid's car to get here and I don't think she'd appreciate me wrapping it around a telephone pole.
*~*~*~*~*
After I calm myself down, I spend the next twenty minutes contemplating what possessed me to paint my room this shade of green. I can't even describe it. I don't even like green. These are what I like to call non-thoughts. I usually have a cooling down period after scenes like the one the just happened at the dinner table in which I'm completely unaware of all information in my brain that can be seen as important on any level and can only focus on part of my brain that stores trivialities. That's the same part that enjoys The Legend of Billy Jean and Road Rules marathons.
I'm almost hypnotized by the horror show that is my bedroom walls when I hear a light knock on my door. I look up to see my dad. He looks calmer which is a relief. He doesn't wait for me to ask him in but comes and sits on the bed next to me.
"I'm sorry I lost my temper down there."
"Me too." Honestly, I'm more mad at myself than him. I guess that's one thing about what happened with Danny I won't be getting over any time soon.
"That's not why I asked you to come home," he says, playing with an envelope in his hands for a moment. "I don't doubt your intelligence, Faye. I'm just scared."
"Of what?"
"You growing up. You're an adult now. You have to make your own decisions and sometimes you're going to pick the wrong one. I want to be able to protect you from those mistakes and I know I can't." He hands me the envelope. "Anyway, this is why I asked you to come home."
“What’s this?” I ask, pulling out what I discover is a letter inside. It don't even know what I'm looking at. What... How... what does this mean?
“I know it’s not Stanford, but…”
“UCLA?" I still don't understand what this is. I applied to UCLA as one of my back up schools. I already know I got in, but I would have had to reply over a month ago. "I don’t… Dad, the commit date is way past. If-”
“Faye, I’m sorry about what happened with that smarmy little piece of… Danny. I know your mother heaped a lot of pressure on you when you started seeing him and a lot of grief when it ended but you know you’re mother…”
“Yeah, she doesn’t even know she’s doing it.”
“I’m not totally innocent either. I think maybe we were all a little dazzled by having a Hamilton as a potential son-in-law. Believe me, I didn't think I had it in me either. But I won't let your dreams be crushed because of this. I should have spoken up when you turned down Stanford to stay on the East Coast. I just thought you were in a place in your life where you had to make your own choices and Danny seemed to make you... happy. You may be growing up but sometimes the mature thing to do is to ask for help and I didn't give it when you did.
"Rutgers Law is a decent school but it’s not in your league. Now I couldn’t do anything about Stanford, but Kyle Forester is still the Dean of Students at UCLA and he owed me a favor. And the Dean of Admissions owed him one. Again, I know it’s not Stanford but it’s a first tier law school and it’s in California. I know you were looking forward to some distance before this whole mess started and I think it would do you some good. Make a new start and all.”
Oh my God. I'm not going to be stuck in Newark. I can still go to California. I don't believe he did this. I don't believe he could do this. But now that I think about it, I do remember him mentioning Mr. Forester was at UCLA when I was doing applications. I didn't really give it thought because I was so set on Stanford.
Now, under normal circumstances I may have scoffed at using family connections like this to get me into a school. Offended even considering how hard I've worked. But this is different. I got in on my own. And my dad... my wonderful dad... pulled some dad strings and got me a new commit date. I can't... even... “Dad, I don’t know what to say.”
The look on my face right now must be so sappy you could die, but I don't care. Gone are the furrows in his forehead and back are the laugh lines around his eyes. This is my dad. “Well say yes, but to them and first thing in the morning or your spot is going to someone on the wait list.”
I'm still in a bit of... well... shock... “Thank you, daddy.” Yay. Big dad-hug. These are the best. This is so much better than scary-dad downstairs. Which reminds me that- even though his freak out downstairs really had nothing to do with Orlando specifically and would have been equally scary if I told him I was seeing Allen the CPA- at the end of this happy, teary-eyed interlude, my mother still knows that I'm involved with Orlando Bloom. Grumble, grumble.
“So you two make up?”
I look up to see my mother's head poking in the door. “Yeah,” I confirm, giving dad a peck on the cheek, just in case this scene isn't mushy enough. Don't care.
“Okay, so say it.”
Oh jeeze. My mother has this thing... this rule for after fights in the house. I guess if you instigate as many fights as she does, you'd come up with this rule, too. “Mom…”
“Say it so we can get on with our lives.”
“I love you Dad.”
“I love you Faye.”
Then I see it. That great twinkle in his eye he gets before he... “Did you ever know that you’re my hero?”
“You are the wind beneath my wings.”
“Honestly, George. And you wonder where she gets it from.”
My father grins that great grin of his. "I've never wondered."
Mom rolls her eyes, smirking the smirk that is always the response to dad's grin before her eyes land on me with a thud. Here it comes. "Now that that's all settled, let's talk about Mr. Bloom, hmm?"
At least my world is still consistant in some ways...
*~*~*~*~*
TBC
- 15
- 16
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