I’m beginning to think that you are in serious trouble.”
P IPER DREAMED ABOUT HER LAST DAY with her dad.
They were on the beach near Big Sur, taking a break from surfing. The morning had been so perfect, Piper knew something had to go wrong soon—a rabid horde of paparazzi, or maybe a great white shark attack. No way her luck could hold.
But so far, they’d had excellent waves, an overcast sky, and a mile of oceanfront completely to themselves. Dad had found this out-of-the-way spot, rented a beachfront villa and the properties on either side, and somehow managed to keep it secret. If he stayed there too long, Piper knew the photographers would find him. They always did.
“Nice job out there, Pipes.” He gave her the smile he was famous for: perfect teeth, dimpled chin, a twinkle in his dark eyes that always made grown women scream and ask him to sign their bodies in permanent marker. ( Seriously , Piper thought, get a life .) His close-cropped black hair gleamed with salt water. “You’re getting better at hanging ten.”
Piper flushed with pride, though she suspected Dad was just being nice. She still spent most of her time wiping out. It took special talent to run over yourself with a surfboard. Her dad was the natural surfer—which made no sense since he’d been raised a poor kid in Oklahoma, hundreds of miles from the ocean—but he was amazing on the curls. Piper would’ve given up surfing a long time ago except it let her spend time with him. There weren’t many ways she could do that.
“Sandwich?” Dad dug into the picnic basket his chef, Arno, had made. “Let’s see: turkey pesto, crabcake wasabi—ah, a Piper special. Peanut butter and jelly.”
She took the sandwich, though her stomach was too upset to eat. She always asked for PB&J. Piper was vegetarian, for one thing. She had been ever since they’d driven past that slaughterhouse in Chino and the smell had made her insides want to come outside. But it was more than that. PB&J was simple food, like a regular kid would have for lunch. Sometimes she pretended her dad had actually made it for her, not a personal chef from France who liked to wrap the sandwich in gold leaf paper with a light-up sparkler instead of a toothpick.
Couldn’t anything be simple? That’s why she turned down the fancy clothes Dad always offered, the designer shoes, the trips to the salon. She cut her own hair with a pair of plastic Garfield safety scissors, deliberately making it uneven. She preferred to wear beat-up running shoes, jeans, a T-shirt, and her old Polartec jacket from the time they went snowboarding.
And she hated the snobby private schools Dad thought were good for her. She kept getting herself kicked out. He kept finding more schools.
Yesterday, she’d pulled her biggest heist yet—driving that “borrowed” BMW out of the dealership. She had to pull a bigger stunt each time, because it took more and more to get Dad’s attention.
Now she regretted it. Dad didn’t know yet.
She’d meant to tell him that morning. Then he’d surprised her with this trip, and she couldn’t ruin it. It was the first time they’d had a day together in what—three months?
“What’s wrong?” He passed her a soda.
“Dad, there’s something—”
“Hold on, Pipes. That’s a serious face. Ready for Any Three Questions?”
They’d been playing that game for years—her dad’s way of staying connected in the shortest possible amount of time. They could ask each other any three questions. Nothing off-limits, and you had to answer honestly. The rest of the time, Dad promised to stay out of her business—which was easy, since he was never around.
Piper knew most kids would find a Q&A like this with their parents totally mortifying. But she looked forward to it. It was like surfing—not easy, but a way to feel like she actually had a father.
“First question,” she said. “Mom.”
No surprise. That was always one of her topics.
Her dad shrugged
P IPER DREAMED ABOUT HER LAST DAY with her dad.
They were on the beach near Big Sur, taking a break from surfing. The morning had been so perfect, Piper knew something had to go wrong soon—a rabid horde of paparazzi, or maybe a great white shark attack. No way her luck could hold.
But so far, they’d had excellent waves, an overcast sky, and a mile of oceanfront completely to themselves. Dad had found this out-of-the-way spot, rented a beachfront villa and the properties on either side, and somehow managed to keep it secret. If he stayed there too long, Piper knew the photographers would find him. They always did.
“Nice job out there, Pipes.” He gave her the smile he was famous for: perfect teeth, dimpled chin, a twinkle in his dark eyes that always made grown women scream and ask him to sign their bodies in permanent marker. ( Seriously , Piper thought, get a life .) His close-cropped black hair gleamed with salt water. “You’re getting better at hanging ten.”
Piper flushed with pride, though she suspected Dad was just being nice. She still spent most of her time wiping out. It took special talent to run over yourself with a surfboard. Her dad was the natural surfer—which made no sense since he’d been raised a poor kid in Oklahoma, hundreds of miles from the ocean—but he was amazing on the curls. Piper would’ve given up surfing a long time ago except it let her spend time with him. There weren’t many ways she could do that.
“Sandwich?” Dad dug into the picnic basket his chef, Arno, had made. “Let’s see: turkey pesto, crabcake wasabi—ah, a Piper special. Peanut butter and jelly.”
She took the sandwich, though her stomach was too upset to eat. She always asked for PB&J. Piper was vegetarian, for one thing. She had been ever since they’d driven past that slaughterhouse in Chino and the smell had made her insides want to come outside. But it was more than that. PB&J was simple food, like a regular kid would have for lunch. Sometimes she pretended her dad had actually made it for her, not a personal chef from France who liked to wrap the sandwich in gold leaf paper with a light-up sparkler instead of a toothpick.
Couldn’t anything be simple? That’s why she turned down the fancy clothes Dad always offered, the designer shoes, the trips to the salon. She cut her own hair with a pair of plastic Garfield safety scissors, deliberately making it uneven. She preferred to wear beat-up running shoes, jeans, a T-shirt, and her old Polartec jacket from the time they went snowboarding.
And she hated the snobby private schools Dad thought were good for her. She kept getting herself kicked out. He kept finding more schools.
Yesterday, she’d pulled her biggest heist yet—driving that “borrowed” BMW out of the dealership. She had to pull a bigger stunt each time, because it took more and more to get Dad’s attention.
Now she regretted it. Dad didn’t know yet.
She’d meant to tell him that morning. Then he’d surprised her with this trip, and she couldn’t ruin it. It was the first time they’d had a day together in what—three months?
“What’s wrong?” He passed her a soda.
“Dad, there’s something—”
“Hold on, Pipes. That’s a serious face. Ready for Any Three Questions?”
They’d been playing that game for years—her dad’s way of staying connected in the shortest possible amount of time. They could ask each other any three questions. Nothing off-limits, and you had to answer honestly. The rest of the time, Dad promised to stay out of her business—which was easy, since he was never around.
Piper knew most kids would find a Q&A like this with their parents totally mortifying. But she looked forward to it. It was like surfing—not easy, but a way to feel like she actually had a father.
“First question,” she said. “Mom.”
No surprise. That was always one of her topics.
Her dad shrugged
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