Page 101 of Play Book

Time to bring this up in therapy.

Again.

“So, what were you excited about when you got in the car?”

“There’s a father-daughter dance in two weeks! I asked the teacher and she uncles and nieces could go too.”

“What’s the date?” I ask.

“The second.”

Of course.

A father-daughter dance on the second.

Why would it be on any other day but the one where I absolutely can’t be there?

“I’m on a road trip,” I say softly.

Her face falls again.

I really hate disappointing her, but what can I do? Even if Saylor didn’t have her fashion show that night, I would be in New York or New Jersey or something anyway. I wouldn’t be able to fly back to L.A. for one day.

“This is my life,” I say after a moment. “I know it’s frustrating. Sometimes it’s frustrating for me too, but it’s how I make a living.”

She sighs. “I know.”

“I’m sorry. Really.”

“They’ll just make fun of me again.”

“I thought they were being a little nicer this week?”

“Kinda. Rhea said she was sorry, that Candy and Layla were just kind of jealous that Rhea and I got to be friends so fast. But now they’re not as jealous anymore. And Mindy is my lab partner for science now, and she’s being nice because I’m good at it.”

“Don’t let her use you,” I caution.

“I don’t care. I’m really good at science and Mindy isn’t. If I help her bring up her grade, she’ll owe me.”

I grimace.

Is that what the world is like for an eleven-year-old now? Where she has to barter schoolwork for friends? I’m way out of my league with this, and sometimes it’s hard to know what I’m supposed to say.

“I just don’t want you to sell your soul,” I say. “I know you want to fit in and make friends, but make sure you make real friends. Friends who just use you because you’re smart and can get them an A aren’t the people you want to hang out with.”

“Maybe.” She shrugs. “But it’s better than getting picked on and being called the crack whore’s daughter.”

Another conversation that makes me uncomfortable.

But I’m not going to let a bunch of spoiled private school brats talk shit about someone they never met and don’t know anything about.

“Look, your mother wasn’t perfect, but she wasn’t that either. Don’t let anyone try to say she was. She was an addict. Addiction is a disease. If you want to talk about that more in therapy, we can, but that word—whore—is ugly and I don’t want you to use it. I mean, if you stub your toe and that’s your curse word of choice in the moment, I’m okay with it, but not in everyday conversation.”

For some reason, that makes her giggle.

“Ow! My toe. Stupid whore.”

And for the first time since she moved in, we laugh together.

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