Free After Perfect by Christina McDowell Page B

back. I casually walked away from the computer and tried not to think about it.
    But as the days got closer, my father appeared either despondent or rageful. Suzanne had hired Chloe to do some work for her at the stationery store too, and when she came home one evening, my father demanded that she give him her paycheck like I had done. Because otherwise, we wouldn’t have money for food until Gary pulled through for us with another wire transfer. But Chloe challenged him. I remember my father raising his voice, reeling from her unwillingness, his blood pressure through the roof as though he were some character out of The Sopranos , pointing his finger at her, lecturing her on family loyalty. Chloe went sobbing upstairs and into the attic, where she was sleeping.
    I looked up at Josh. I decided that since my father hadn’t been disbarred yet, it wouldn’t be a lie entirely if I said he was a lawyer.
    â€œDad’s a lawyer, Mom’s a philanthropist.” I picked up a Red Vine and chewed it.
    â€œCool. What kind of lawyer?”
    â€œIPOs—that kind of thing,” I said, shrugging it off and then changing the subject. “Are your parents still married?”
    â€œThey are. Been happily married for close to thirty years now. I’m lucky. What about you?”
    â€œYeah, mine too, really lucky.”
    A few days before the final competition, I was sitting in the audience. It was the dress rehearsal for the guys competing for the role of Keith Partridge. Emily and I were clapping and singing along, watching our friend Dave belt out George Michael’s “Faith” into the microphone, when I looked over and saw Josh’s father and Becky standing in the shadows of the wings next to the stage. He had his arms around Becky’s waist, his hands moving downward as he caressed her ass. She gave him little kisses on the cheek before they separated quickly. Oh my God, Josh’s dad is having an affair with Becky. I turned to Emily to see if she had noticed, but she was dancing along with Dave, who was as gorgeous as an Abercrombie & Fitch model, sliding back and forth onstage. I wondered if Josh knew. Thinking about it made my heart break for him. I wanted to be with him even more. I felt comfort in knowing I wasn’t the only one with a family full of secrets.
    I t was the final performance, and I was standing in the spotlight on the enormous soundstage. The cameras were rolling, pink and blue neon lights spinning above and toward me. I walked forward with the microphone and with animated joy declared, “Hi, my name is Christina Grace, and I’d love to be Laurie Partridge. Not that I’m unhappy with myself, but, come on, Laurie Partridge is hot!” I felt numb. I sang the Mamas and the Papas’ “California Dreamin’,” strutting back and forth onstage, searching for my parents in the audience. But I couldn’t find them against the blinding light, and when the judge read my scores—16.0, 16.5, 16.4, 16.2—I knew I had lost.
    Todd Newton, one of the hosts of the live show, ran up and pointed his microphone at me. “How do you feel now that you’ve been cut, Christina?”
    â€œI’m just glad I got the chance to perform; I feel great,” I lied. The role of Laurie Partridge would eventually go to Emily, and too much pride hid the pain of rejection I felt along with the other girls who didn’t make it. I had always been an actress—acting my way through life depending on who it was standing before me, molding myself into whoever I thought that person wanted me to be. I had no identity of my own unless I had the right props to define me. I craved validation, I craved significance. I wanted to be somebody. But I was so worried about how others perceived me, and I was so worried about my father; I never once stopped to think about who that somebody was.
    Before I knew it, David Cassidy was pulling me back onstage, where