Jack shakes his head. “It would still be feeding the corporate menace.”

“Record companies are corporations, why are they OK?” Rene asks innocently. “Don’t you own a label?”

A smile starts to tug on my lips. We’re not little girls any more, Jack. Rene isn’t the least bit intimidated by you.

Jack stares as if deeply offended. “For the same reason Dukakis is OK and Bush isn’t though they are both politicians.”

“I voted for Bush,” I inform my dad and the expression on his face goes through several rapid changes.

I bite my lip to keep from smiling. I’m not just messing with Jack. It is the truth. I turned eighteen before Election Day and my first vote was for a Republican. I felt an almost rebellious sense of glee when shoving the ballot into the box. I can’t say that I was enthusiastic about Bush. But I did like Reagan, the feeling of having everyone’s granddad in the White House watching out for us all, and he just seems like such a nice man. I don’t know if Reagan’s policies were good or bad. I’m not political and Jack is political enough for any one family. But I liked the quiet certainty the world seemed to hold when Reagan was President and Bush was his Vice President, so I voted for Bush.

“Enough.” Jack makes a comical gesture as though a dagger has just gone through his heart and I know he is only half joking. “Next you’re going to tell me that you don’t want Juilliard. You want law school.”

I make an exaggeratedly sheepish face and Jack freezes in mid-step. “Really?”

I climb from the car.

“It’s your fault, you know, that she is the way she is,” Rene says. “It’s every parent’s fault. We are all destined to be the opposite of our parents. So don’t blame Chrissie for voting for Bush. It’s your own fault.”

The look on Jack’s face is priceless. I laugh.

I loop my arm through my dad’s. “No, Daddy. I definitely don’t see law school in my future.”

A smile teases at the corner of Jack’s lips. “You can be anything that you want, baby girl. I was only teasing. Anything you want so long as you’re happy.”

He means it, but for some reason comments like that from Jack always piss me off. It makes me feel like there isn’t anyone guiding me through life. If I said I wanted to be a ditch digger, Jack would probably only say The world needs ditch diggers too. How are you supposed to make major life decisions with parenting like that?

Jack opens the heavy wood door, Rene darts ahead of me, and with a hand on the small of my back Jack guides me before him into the packed, dimly lit entrance. The restaurant Jack selected is a Santa Barbara landmark, dark with red carpet and red leather booths, dated in décor and known for its Italian food and generous drinks. The walls are lined with pictures, pictures of the famous, the political and the historic. There is a picture of Jack here with the owners, and one of my mother.

As I drop into our booth I notice in the center of a cluster of celebrity photos above Jack’s head there is a picture of President Reagan on his ranch in riding gear. I laugh. I stare at it until Jack turns to look. Jack frowns. I give him a smile. The frown lowers and he turns the photo so poor Reagan can no longer stare at the back of his head.

I laugh and I’m in a good mood again. Nothing in my life is certain, I’m still a mess, I don’t know why I feel the way I feel most of the time, and I don’t know where I’m going, but I do know that I am not my father’s daughter. And that’s OK.

Chapter Two

I feel sick, like I want to vomit. “What do you mean you are not going to New York?”

Jack leans back in the booth and stares at me. I must have said that too loudly. Even Rene looks uncomfortable. I don’t check to see if people are listening. People are always listening. I start to play with the paper from my straw.

My cheeks redden. “You promised,” I snap irritably since no one says anything.

Jack sighs. He leans ever so slightly forward with his elbows on the table. “I’ve had this thing going on,” he says quietly and I feel that rapid flash flood of emotion in me again. Thing. I hate when Jack blames “thing.” It could be anything. It could be nothing. But it is an old excuse, his things that ruin our time together, his schedule, things that take precedence, things I know nothing about, things he will never share with me. “…it can’t be helped, Chrissie.” That famous smile flashes at me again. “Besides, you girls are eighteen. I thought you would prefer New York without me. Who wants their dad along on spring break?”

I feel again that strange pressure of time running out. It is an odd thing to feel when you are only eighteen. All my desperate hopes for New York are that easily demolished. He doesn’t want to spend time with me. It is not my imagination. For some reason, he doesn’t want to get close to me. I dash a hand across my eyes. If I cry I’ll feel even more stupid than I do right now.

Silence descends at the table and I know it is my fault. We were having such a lovely dinner and I ruined it. Even knowing that, I am angry at Jack because I hate the silence. Jack says nothing when he thinks there is nothing to say that will help. I would prefer if he just said anything, got angry with me, said something pointless. That would suggest an effort, a note of caring, a note of something, a clue that we are father-daughter, irrevocably and undeniably connected in a way that neither of us can ignore.

From the corner of my eye, I see the cocktail waitress closing in on us again. Her shirt is cut too low, she has that pretty girl sort of obviousness that looks so pretty even when she is obviously flirting with my dad in that irritatingly phony way. She probably never thought she’d end up working here. Oh no, she was supposed to work somewhere better than slinging drinks in a locals’ haunt, she was supposed to end on a happy bed of stars like Eliza. I fix my eyes carefully on my father’s glass, the discreetly disguised mineral water filling the cocktail glass.

More drinks. Where does she think she’s going to put them? An endless stream of Jack Daniels has arrived since we sank into our booth, forgotten, cluttering the table to the point it was hard to fit our dinner plates on it. The waitress must be new since she thought it perfectly normal to interrupt our meal continually with bits and pieces of paper asking if Jack would autograph them and bringing every drink sent by a fan.

“Jeez, enough with the drinks already. Can’t you see he doesn’t want them? He’s been sober for ten years. I would have thought you were the type to at least read a tabloid.”

Oh god! Did I say that out loud? The sudden shock of Jack’s expression tells me I did. And darn, the waitress looks like she’s about to cry.

It is a horrible moment, that kind of earth-quieting, horrible moment that will only get more horrible rapidly. The owner of the restaurant is closing in our table. He must have heard. Be honest with yourself, Chrissie, everyone heard. In the commotion around me I start to grow smaller and smaller and more inadequate. I started this and I can’t get a word out of my mouth, not even to apologize to the poor cocktail girl who is shaking with mortification. Tom, the owner, is flustered and apologetic. Jack is charming and reassuring. Rene is fascinated and watching with a sharply arched brow. Fascinated by what? Oh, the poor pretty waitress. How pretty she looks now that she is crying.

“I’m sorry, Jack. Truly, my apologies. She’s new…” those are the only words I catch in the ensuing drama. The owner apologizing for the waitress. No one apologizes for me, and I was the bully here, a dreadful Eliza wannabe hurting people I think insignificant. I stare at the waitress. There are no words from my mouth, but I hear them in my head: It’s me! I’m the awful one. I didn’t mean to be mean. I’m just pissed off. It’s been a really trying day.