Read My Lips(62)

“Sweetie?”

He hears the doubt, even in my sigh. In complete contrast to my oblivious mother, my dad picks up on every little nuance in my voice; he always has.

“I’m just … curious …” I start, wondering whether I really, truly want to broach this subject right now, “how exactly I came to … enjoy this time here.”

My dad doesn’t sidestep around any subject. “All I had to do was call up Marv and tell him what a fine, promising young lady you are,” he discloses at once.

Marv? “And who’s Marv?”

“Marv, sweetheart! The Director of the School of Theatre. Haven’t you met him yet? He said he’d see you first thing and make sure you’re taken care of.”

I feel my head spinning. “The Director himself? Doctor Marvin Thwaite?”

“That’s the one. Is there a problem?”

I guess I was a bit naïve to not consider who my father’s contact was. Of course it’d be someone at the top. “I didn’t realize you two knew each other.”

“We went to college together, sweetie. He’s doing really well for himself, being head of the department and all. Pays to have friends in high places, eh?”

Presuming you don’t stoop to an all-time low with said high-placed friends. “Dad, why is Kellen here?”

“Oh, so he’s arrived? I wasn’t sure if it was this week or next. With all our focus on Winona’s show in London, I forget what day of the week it is unless Mia puts the schedule right in front of me.”

I don’t know who Mia is, whether a secretary or a friend or yet another of my father’s countless budding lighting design interns. “He’s arrived,” I state coolly.

“At least you’ll have a familiar face down there with you,” he says, meaning well.

No, I didn’t tell the story to my dad about Kellen Wright’s ill-timed advance on me. Being the selfless (read: spineless) individual I was four years ago, I thought that telling my dad that his twenty-nine-year-old golden boy was making a move on his eighteen-year-old daughter would have put an abrupt and horrible end to the man’s career before it even started. For all my dad knows, Kellen is still the angel he pretends to be. And to be fair, even with eleven years on me, Kellen has a youthful face that make him look far more innocent than he is.

“Dad,” I say, daring to step on his toes, “did you send Kellen down here … for me?”

My dad seems to find that amusing, breaths of his chuckling dancing through the phone in tiny bursts of static. “Leave the matchmaking to your sister. I’d never deign to commit such an act.”

“That’s not what I meant,” I mumble.

“I sent him there as a favor to Marv,” my dad carries on. “You know, to drum up a little media for the school. Ticket sales have been low, interest in the program has decreased, you know how it can be.”

“He … was part of the deal?” I ask, my pulse rising.

“What deal?”

“Marv lets me into his program, and you send him one of your lighting designer minions in exchange? Am I … Am I hearing this right?”

“Sweetheart, you’re twisting it around.”

“Do you realize that, in doing this, you just took an opportunity from … from someone else who could have designed lights and actually learned something?”

“It’s only one show, sweetie, and it’s really for the betterment of the whole department. Imagine, when all the shows sell out and Klangburg gets noticed, receiving more funds from benefactors, which can—”

“So it’s all about money? Is that it?”

My heart racing, I’m not even listening to him anymore; I just want to pick a fight. I’m furious that I’m—even indirectly—responsible for Clayton having lost his opportunity.

“The ‘big picture’ is a lot bigger than you realize, Dessie, and you’re standing too close. It’s better for everyone this way. The school. Its future. Your peers. And you’re enjoying your role in Our Town, aren’t you? Isn’t it what you’ve always wanted?”

I feel like some princess high up in a stony tower and my father’s handed me a porcelain doll. Was this handed to me? All of it? I didn’t earn my way into this school, fighting hard like Clayton did. For all I know, I didn’t even earn the role I’m playing.

Oh, god. Did he even arrange that? Does he know Nina too, or did Dr. Thwaite convince her to hand me the lead role, just like I was handed everything else?

I feel sick.

“Sweetheart?”

He’s been talking in my ear, but all I feel is rage. I was naïve not to have considered any of this before. It’s strange, how a call to my dad can make me aware of the pair of rose-tinted glasses I never noticed were balanced on the tip of my nose.