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  “She did work there when all that secret testing was supposedly taking place,” Mama continues. “And do you remember the Christmas party that year? I remember seeing her chatting with Gregory Stark on the balcony. Of course, I didn’t think anything of it at the time. But with everything that’s been in the press lately—”

  “That’s a little far-fetched, Ana, don’t you think?” interrupts Papa. “She only worked for us a short time, if I’m not mistaken. Besides, you saw the list of trial participants when they released it to the public last week. Her name wasn’t on it.”

  I drop the cufflinks into Mama’s hand, and she fastens them to Papa’s sleeves.

  “You read too much into things, Ana,” his voice sounds like a teacher telling his student to relax. “In any case, I’ve got enough on my mind without worrying about who may or may not have had a conversation at a party more years ago than I can even remember.”

  “You’re right, of course,” Mama agrees. “I’m sorry, Beto. Let’s just concentrate on tonight and having a wonderful time.”

  Papa turns and gives Mama a quick kiss, then another.

  “I think I’ll go finish getting ready in my room,” I say, not wanting to stick around in case things get any kissier. As I turn to leave, I nearly crash into Jordan coming through the door.

  “Wow!” His eyes shine. I do a little curtsey for his benefit. “You’re a knockout, Sunshine.”

  “You’re not half bad yourself,” I tell him. And he’s not, although in his tails and gloves I can’t decide if he looks like Fred Astaire or a butler.

  Papa waves him over, and the two of them start talking about tonight’s event. I hear several names of important people tossed out, and Jordan advises Papa how to approach each one so as to make the best possible impression. That’s my cue to leave. I still need to find my heels, which are buried somewhere in the back of my closet. It’s been a while since I’ve needed them, and I’m hoping they’re still in decent shape. I’d ask for Mama’s, but she wears a half size larger.

  The fundraiser turns out to be a huge success. Papa struts around like a political peacock, hobnobbing with all the tycoons and government officials who are more than eager to empty their wallets for him. If it weren’t for the stiff, black-suited security guards shadowing his every move, he would have looked like any ordinary guest having a good time.

  Mama stands dutifully beside him, her hand elegantly clasping a flute of champagne. I choose to remain cloistered behind a large round table with forest green linens and a copious flower arrangement, a perfect hideaway for someone determined not to make contact in a room packed with several hundred humans—a can of sardines dressed in silk gowns and cumberbuns.

  I sit for a while, enjoying the music. I wonder why Papa doesn’t ask Mama to dance, but even from where I’m sitting I can see that his attention has been diverted by Senator Morgan, a stodgy-looking man with a halo of fuzzy white hair and a face webbed with purple veins. Stepping away from them, Mama heads to the bar for a refill.

  “Peek-a-boo.” Jordan slips into the seat across the table. “Having fun?”

  I give him a sideways “yeah right” glance.

  “I didn’t think so,” he says, laughing. “Anything I can do to help?”

  “Take me home?”

  “Your dad would hang me. How about a dance? The band’s not bad.”

  I shake my head. “No, thanks.”

  “Oh, c’mon, Mira. Live a little.”

  Funny. That’s what I was trying not to do. I consider Jordan’s offer, but as luck would have it, nature calls just at that moment. I guess the four empty plastic cups on the table—the ones once filled with cherry cola—have finally hit me.

  “Maybe later?” I try to sound like I mean it. Jordan pretends to pout. “Why don’t you dance with one of those foreign heiresses over by the door?”

  “You know your father expects me to keep an eye on you tonight,” he says, finishing off the glass of wine in his hand. “Like it or not, Sunshine, I’m yours for the entire evening.”

  The pressure mounts. I have no choice but to dodge the social gauntlet and get to the ladies room pronto. “Listen, Jordan, I’ve gotta—you know—go.”

  He starts to get up from the table.

  “Alone,” I add, over-emphasizing the word. The bathrooms are just on the other side of the room. I slide out from behind the table, taking the flower arrangement with me. The last thing I need is for everyone to notice the candidate’s daughter and start introducing themselves. Just the thought of having to shake a bunch of rich old geezers’ hands makes me ill, let alone the possibility of one of them brushing his wrinkled fingers across my arm. I can’t even begin to imagine what thoughts and emotions would come barreling into my brain. Ugh!

  Making sure my shawl is wound tightly around me, I carry the arrangement high enough to obscure my identity and low enough to see through the sparse greenery near the top. It feels a little like prowling through African grasslands, though my field of vision is rather limited, blocked by a sprawling fern on one side and a sprig of baby’s breath on the other. I keep my back against the wall and make my way toward the restrooms as quickly as I can manage in my heels—not my heels, Mama’s. I couldn’t find mine after all. So I’m tottering along trying to keep my ankles from snapping, when all of a sudden something whacks me in the hip and knocks me off balance. The flower arrangement catapults out of my hands, and I hit the floor face-first.

  The silence in the room is palpable. Maybe if I lay here sprawled out on the wood parquet someone will call an ambulance, and they’ll wheel me away on a gurney covered from head to toe with a white sheet. …No such luck.

  “I am SO sorry!” The apology comes from above me. “Are you okay?”

  I glance up to identify the culprit. Moppy brown hair. Dazzling eyes. It’s him! The guy from Dr. Walsh’s office! What was his name?

  David. No. This cannot be happening.

  “We seem to be making a habit of this.” He smiles, recognizing the girl who keeps falling at his feet.

  “What?”

  “When you stepped on my foot with your heel, I sort of fell against you.”

  “I stepped on you?”

  Could this be any more embarrassing?

  “Yeah. Those flowers. Probably couldn’t see me.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I work here,” he replies cautiously. “I’m a special events server.”

  I realize now that he’s wearing a white waistcoat, bowtie, and the same eye-strain producing Vans from the other day. A tray of scattered hors d’oeuvres lay near the now demolished flower arrangement. Since I’m already on the floor, I start gathering up the mushroom puffs, as David squats down beside me.

  “Let me do that.”

  Together we scoop up the rest of the puffs and the scraps of greenery. David deposits all of it into the nearest trash bin, and then offers me a hand. I silently thank Mama again for the gloves while I do my best to get on my feet with as little ineptness as possible.

  Though the conversations throughout the room have resumed, Jordan watches me like a hawk from the table. His expression asks if I need any help. I appreciate that he hasn’t leapt to my aid, which would have drawn even more unwanted attention my way. Sending him a smile, I wave to let him know I’m fine and I’ll be back soon. Then, I turn to David.

  “Right. Okay. Well, it was nice to see you again—David—and I apologize for—”

  “I wasn’t there for me.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “At the psychiatrist’s office the other day? I drove my uncle there for an appointment.”

  “Okay.”

  “I just didn’t want you to think…”

  “Of course.”

  “Not that there’s anything wrong with—I mean, you were there. I mean—” Looking away, he combs his fingers through his dark curls. “I’m sorry,” he adds. “I’m not very good at expressing myself.”

  I give him a polit
e smile. “I’d like to stay and chat, but—” I nonchalantly glance toward the ladies room. My bladder is about to explode, and if I wait one more minute I just might have another embarrassing moment.

  “Right,” David says. “Sorry.”

  “You say that a lot.” I offer a little laugh, knowing that the majority of our dialogue has been based on apologies.

  As I turn to go, David’s eyes remain fixed on mine. It’s a little awkward—but nice, too. He gives a little wave, tucks his tray under his arm, and turns toward the kitchen as I head straight for the bathroom.

  Relieved at last, I exit the restroom while tugging my left glove back up to my elbow. Not far from where I am, Mama and Papa stand beside each other as numerous cameras snap poses of them for the press. The pics will likely show up in every major paper before dawn. But something doesn’t seem right. Papa’s arm is wound tightly around Mama’s waist, as she lists to one side like a sinking ship. Each time she starts to collapse, he props her back up for another round of pics. Then I realize—Mama’s smashed.

  I’ve never seen Mama drunk before.

  When the cameras start to disperse, Mama pulls away from Papa and heads back toward the bar. She lifts a glass from the counter, but Papa takes it from her and sets it down again.

  “Ana, don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

  She doesn’t say anything, but gives him a playful little smirk. Picking up the glass, she swallows it down. This isn’t at all like her.

  Papa frowns. Then he straightens his tie and half turns toward the room. His voice is louder than it needs to be, loud enough so that several people turn to look.

  “Suit yourself, Ana. Just be sure to take enough insulin tonight to cover all that champagne.”

  Marching away, he leaves Mama alone with her empty glass. Jordan’s already there with her, holding her elbow to keep her steady. He’s too concerned about Mama to notice me.

  I’m about to join them when I feel a tentative tap on my shoulder. I prepare for the tsunami of memories and feelings that are sure to follow, but nothing comes. Mama’s shawl is a thin but adequate shield between David’s skin and mine.

  “Listen Mira,” he says, his eyes locking on mine. “This party’s about over. What do you say we grab a cup of cocoa?”

  “I can’t leave,” I tell David, keeping Mama in my line of sight. “My father would kill me.” But I have to admit, the offer is tempting. I’ve hardly had a moment alone since I’ve been home from the hospital.

  “We won’t go far,” David urges. “There’s a Starbucks just outside at the corner.”

  Across the room, Papa’s attention is on Mama. Even Jordan has temporarily forgotten about me as he helps Mama to a chair. I watch the security team for a second. At the moment, all eyes are on them. Maybe a few minutes away wouldn’t hurt.

  “Is there a back way out of here?”

  David smiles wide. “Come on.”

  I follow David through the kitchen and down the back stairs. A minute later we’re in Starbucks ordering two hot chocolates with whipped cream. Taking a table in the back near the window, we jump right into conversation, knowing that there’s only twenty minutes to closing.

  “So, you’re Alberto Ortiz’s daughter? Well, that’s totally intimidating,” David laughs, undoing his bowtie and stuffing it into his pants pocket.

  I swirl the whipped cream into my drink with a straw; the white froth perfectly matches my gloves. “Yeah, right. I believe my bumbling has already proven that there’s nothing intimidating about me.”

  “By your bumbling, you must be referring to your falling all over me.”

  He cringes at his own comment, as I burst into laughter.

  “That sounded very wrong,” he says with a groan.

  The TV hanging over the counter is way too loud, so I lean over the table a little to hear David better. “But you knew who I was before, didn’t you?”

  “Not really,” he says. “I mean, I saw you at school sometimes, and I knew your name, but I didn’t make the connection until now.”

  “I see. So, if we went to the same school you must live in Flintridge.”

  “Actually, I live with my Tio Ramón in North Hollywood. I got special permission to go to school in Flintridge because he’s the custodian there.”

  “And you work as an events server on the side?”

  “Just for the summer. I’m socking away every penny to pay for college.”

  “Really? What do you want to study?”

  David drops his head, seemingly embarrassed. “Government,” he answers quietly. “I want to go into politics.”

  “Now you’re just trying to impress me,” I tell him. His smile vanishes and his eyes get wide. Now I am intimidating him. I fish for something to say to set him at ease. “I thought for sure you must be studying herpetology.”

  He laughs at my allusion to our first meeting. “The study of reptiles and amphibians?”

  “Charlie is a reptile, isn’t he?”

  Leaning back in his chair, David’s face relaxes into a comfortable grin. “A bearded dragon, actually; and Charlie is a her. I take her with me sometimes to keep me company. She jumped off my shoulder just as you came into the room that day. I made a nose dive for her, but you—well, the rest is—”

  “The rest is history I’d rather forget.”

  “Really?” asks David, a twinge of disappointment in his voice. “I’m kind of glad it happened.” When he smiles those dimples of his send pleasant chills through my body.

  “So, what about you?” he continues. “Other than the fact you’re the future first daughter of California I know nothing about you.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Tell me one thing that no one else knows.” Unwrapping the straw, he plunges it into his drink.

  Something no one else knows. For a second I actually consider telling him about my condition, but I don’t want him to realize how weird I really am—at least not yet.

  “Well, I was adopted. But I guess my parents know about that, and a couple of other people, so that doesn’t really count.”

  “Adopted? I would have never guessed. You look so much like your dad.”

  David takes a long, hard pull on his straw. A moment later he’s gasping, his tongue hanging out of his mouth.

  “Oh gawd!” he says, his words distorted. “I burned my tongue!”

  Rushing to the counter, I ask for some ice water. While the cashier fills a Styrofoam cup, I glance up at the TV to see a local anchor covering a story about a murder trial. As soon as I get the cup, I promptly return and hand it to David. He fills his mouth with the water, swishes it around, and swallows.

  “Better?” I ask, trying to restrain myself from laughing. This guy is something else. Handsome as heck, but naïve and sweet and…

  David nods, shrugs, and then laughs again. “I’m making a great first—I mean, second impression, aren’t I?”

  Is he for real? Could any guy be this nice?

  “Hold on.” I raise my hand to point out a spot of white at the corner of his mouth. He flinches, jerking his head back. We both freeze.

  “I’m sorry.” I say, feeling suddenly awkward. “You have some whipped cream…”

  David licks off the cream, groans, and drops his head onto his arms. Then raising his eyes, he looks at me with a pained expression. “Could we just start over?”

  “Sure we can.” I try not to giggle like a relieved schoolgirl. “As long as we erase my tripping over you at the doctor’s office, stabbing you with my stiletto heels, and flinging mushroom puffs and mums all over the place.”

  “Done. But only if…”

  “If what?”

  “If you let me take you out tomorrow night.”

  I hesitate. This isn’t quite what I had planned when I got all gussied up tonight for an event I didn’t even want to attend. Grabbing a cup of cocoa is one thing, a date is quite another.

  “I just recently got out of relationship.” The wor
ds come out so fast, I sound almost robotic.

  “Oh.” Lifting his cup, David takes a cautious sip.

  His single word response catches me off-guard. What did I expect? For him to protest? To insist? To beg and plead? Was he really giving up on me so easily? I had recently broken up with my boyfriend. At least…he would have broken up with me if I’d given him the chance. So would a date be so terrible?

  The sound from the TV is now so loud I can hardly hear myself think. The cashier must have turned up the volume. I’m about to get up and ask him to turn it down a little, but the face staring back at me from the screen stops me in my tracks.

  “Hey, isn’t that your dad?” asks David.

  I nod and listen.

  “Alberto Ortiz, former Rawley Pharmaceutical CEO and frontrunner in the race for the Governor’s mansion, denies any knowledge of wrongdoing on the part of Rawley researcher, Gregory Stark. Three weeks ago documents were turned over to law enforcement stating that Stark allegedly performed human trials of the ‘wonder drug’, Gaudium, prior to FDA approval. Unfortunately, Stark is unavailable for questioning. He has been dead for sixteen years.”

  The TV switches off and the Starbucks cashier announces that it’s closing time. David and I empty our cups and toss them into the garbage on the way out. It’s barely midnight, but from the trail of well-dressed guests streaming out of the convention center, it looks like the fundraiser is officially over.

  We laugh as we step out of the shop, but our laughter is cut short by the sound of a sharp metallic click. David sucks in a nervous breath and freezes in place. His eyes widen in fear, and for good reason. Someone’s got a gun pressed against his temple.

  I immediately recognize the gun as Jordan’s Colt pistol, and take a deep breath.

  “You move, you’re dead,” growls Jordan.

  “What are you doing?” I’ve never seen Jordan draw his gun before, let alone point it at anyone. “Put that thing down!”

  Jordan ignores me, roughly shoving David’s head with the gun barrel. “Who are you?” he shouts. “Put your hands where I can see them!”