Free No Strings Attached by Randi Reisfeld Page A

know her dad’s identity.
    When she was twelve, Susan told her his name.
    Which only made Harper want to meet him more. He was famous! That made her important! And she, a street-smart New York kid, could do this without her mom’s help. But Susan dissuaded her. “He was never a father to you,” she’d said sadly. “I think of him as a sperm donor, that’s all. I’m glad I got you out of it.”
    That’s how she knew her mother, for all the time that had gone by, had never forgiven her father for walking out.
    The following year, having bulked up on after-school specials and weepy TV movies, Harper had demanded, “Does he even know about me?”
    Susan conceded that he did.
    â€œDid he ever try to contact me?” Harper had probed, hoping maybe her father had wanted to but Susan had prevented him.
    Susan had taken a deep breath. “Here’s the thing, honey. At first, he tried to send money to help support you—which I’m sure his lawyer put him up to—but I refused it. I signed a waiver promising I’d never ask for anything, and never make it public. Because a scandal is exactly what he would’ve wanted—it would’ve given his bad-boy image some street cred. But Iwasn’t playing. I was no one’s victim, and you were no one’s pawn. You were mine.”
    Harper had learned all this just when her friends were beginning to date, just when boys at school had begun to notice her. It was a lucky crossroads. She, unlike so many of her teary, brokenhearted friends, knew from the jump not to trust boys, never to be vulnerable, never to open yourself up to that much hurt. She practiced what she believed.
    Until Luke Clearwater came along.
    â€œGuess what?” Harper said as she swung into the room she shared with Katie.
    Her roommate was at the mirror—how new!—applying lip gloss. “Mmwhat?” Katie said while smushing her lips closed.
    â€œYou can float away on OJ. There’s a ton in the fridge with your name.”
    Not taking her eyes off the mirror, Katie frowned. “You’re not helping her by cleaning up her messes. Even I stopped tossing away the half-eaten, fly-ridden fruit. I put them in her room instead.”
    â€œHow thoughtful,” Harper deadpanned. “I’m sure she appreciates that.”
    â€œThat’s not the point. Alefiya’s never going to learn to be responsible for herself unless something impacts her directly.”
    This amused Harper. “Speaking of learning, how long do you think it’ll take our Rebel Grllz to figure out your game?”
    Katie bristled. “Since you’ve got it down, wanna clue me in?”
    â€œThat you could care less about them. That you’re using them for their proximity to rich guys—and access to their parents’ wallets.” Harper hopped onto her bed.
    â€œYour point?” Katie shrugged, continuing to separate and lengthen her lashes with her NARS mascara.
    â€œIt’s not right, it’s not moral. The only thing you’re teaching them is how to shop and be manipulative.”
    â€œWho died and made you Oprah? The campers love me, and I’m not hurting anyone, so what’s your issue?”
    Seriously, Harper gave herself a mental jab: What was her issue? What did she care what Queen Katie did? It was true the campers worshipped Katie-The-Kick, from her silky platinum tresses to her cutesy designer sundresses. Katie was teaching them exactly what they wanted to learn, what most girls who came into contact with Katie wanted to know: how to be her.
    As opposed to Harper’s group, who were learning how to create the perfect protest poster, memorizing the ode to Barbie by Nerissa Nields (“If she were mortal, she would be/six foot five and a hundred and three,”) and learning classic songs like “War, What Is It Good For?” and John Lennon’s “Revolution.”
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