“Police cars?”
He narrows his eyes in confusion. “I’m talking about your parents.”
“Oh. Right.” That makes a lot more sense. “No, not always. I mean, they were always attentive. But the excessive concern started when I was onPenelope to the Past. Fame, even minor fame, brings the creeps and weirdos out of the woodwork. Then, even as the creeps and weirdos went back into the woodwork for the most part after I was off TV for a while, Mom and Dad remained on high alert. And there they’ve been for the last fifteen years. They mean well, but it gets old.”
“How did you even wind up acting anyway? I’m assuming it wasn’t your parents’ idea. And you weren’t exactly talented.”
“Wow, thanks,” I say.
He holds up his hands. “I’m only repeating what you yourself have said multiple times.”
“Yeah, yeah, sure.” Let’s be real, I can’t even pull off convincing fake indignation. “Nepotism. Nepotism is how I got my start. My aunt Talia is a Hollywood casting director. She convinced my parents to let me do a few local commercials when I was six. Someone at the network saw one I did when I was ten for a furniture store in Burbank and thought I had the right look for the roleof Penelope, so they asked me to audition. My parents weren’t thrilled about it—my mom was pregnant with my brother, and it meant a lot of changes for our family all at once—but I enjoyed doing the commercials and hadn’t realized yet I was getting by on my cute face alone. I hopedPenelopewould show everyone how great I was, lead to bigger and better things. I wanted to be a movie star. But a funny one. I’d just seenCluefor the first time, and I was a little obsessed with Madeline Kahn.” I give Hollis a rueful smile. “I memorized scripts easily, but I discovered that actually delivering all those lines was another story. I had no illusions of stardom by the time I stopped acting. Puberty shattered the last few remaining ones.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve seen the screenshots. The yellow bikini. That’s why the show ended.”
“I don’t understand.”
“After that episode, some people at the network were absolutely aghast that I dared to develop breasts. Didn’t I know Penelope was supposed to be awholesomecharacter?” I roll my eyes, hoping it will help hide the way that memory still hurts a little when I press on it, not unlike the dull ache of the bruise on my forehead.
“Wow, fuck them,” Hollis says.
“Well, there was also a not-insignificant contingent that was thrilled that Penelope now had sex appeal. They figured my new tits would do great things for the ratings, open up new marketing opportunities.”
“Okay, I’ve changed my mind. Fuckthem.”
“The whole thing was terrible for my mental health. I wasself-conscious enough about my body at that age. My contract was up for renewal at the end of the season, and Mom and Dad told me I wasn’t going to be on the show anymore. I pretended I was mad at them for making the decision for me, but I’m sure they could see through my feigned anger. I was actually incredibly relieved to be done with it.”
Filming those last few episodes was a nightmare; trying to say my lines and move just right while feeling disoriented in my own skin. Knowing with absolute certainty that people were having discussions about my every new jiggle and curve. I force a smile, close my eyes, and let out a long sigh. Hollis’s hand blankets mine, warm and reassuring, but he pulls it away when Trooper Rodrigo appears beside my window.
“I spoke to the owner,” he says. “He confirmed you have permission to drive this vehicle. I made him aware of the taillight issue, and he promised to fix it as soon as you return the car, so I’m not going to bother with a repair order. But please do remind Mr. Dubicki when you see him.”
“Thank you,” I say, taking our proffered documents from him.
“Have a good one now.” Trooper Rodrigo knocks twice on our roof before walking back to his cruiser.
It’s after seven, and the assortment of gas station snacks feels piled against one side of my stomach, leaving me half nauseated, half hungry. Without either of us saying a word, I take the next exit and pull into a Taco Bell parking lot. Hollis and I switch seats so he can take care of ordering when we go through the drive-thru; I try not to make a big deal about how much I appreciate that his doing this for me has become automatic, just another part of our routine. A bean and rice burrito evens out the asymmetricalfeeling into something heavy but more fully distributed at least. I’m glad I’m not driving now, because the only destination I can see up ahead is Zzztown.
I go to plug my phone back into the stereo, but Hollis grabs my hand mid-reach for the aux cord. “Hold on,” he says.
“Hollis, please. I’m tired,” I say in a voice that’s much whinier than I intend.
“We’ve gone through your whole playlist twice already during this trip. And it’ll drain your phone battery.” Hollis turns on the radio and flips through the stations, probably looking for the local NPR affiliate.
“But—”
Before I can complete my objection, he lands on the station he wanted. It’s not the news, though. It’s the Doobie Brothers’ “What a Fool Believes.”
“I saw a billboard for a classic rock station a few miles back,” Hollis explains as if anticipating my question. “I took note in case I suddenly snapped and threw your phone out of the window in real life instead of just in my daydreams.”
“Oh,” is all I manage. Michael McDonald’s soulful vocals wrap me in a cozy embrace. I stare at Hollis’s profile through drowsy eyes, not even trying to hide my examination of this grumpopotamus who keeps surprising me with his kindness. As I replay the day’s events, starting with the dark and stormy early hours of the morning when he first kissed me and ending with this moment, my chest aches with something like affection. Something almost like—
No. Not going there. I don’t want to be like the fool in the song, falling hard for someone who will barely think of me at all once we part.
The startling realization that the only thing standing between me and future heartbreak is my own infamously weak willpower should probably keep me awake, but somehow my exhaustion wins out. I dream of Michael McDonald wearing a reflective vest and my broccoli flower crown, holding a large, orange construction sign—Caution: Dangerous Conditions Ahead.
17
