Take One

Chapter 2

I believed days like these were referred to as a good morning. For the first time in over a year, I got more than five hours of sleep alone. Waking up to a sunny day, everything almost felt normal. I nearly got choked up thinking about being a regular eighteen-year-old, not dependent on coffee and Red Bull; until I recounted the events of last night in my head. The dreams never made me start fires before. I shuddered at the thought of my horrors crossing the line between subconscious and reality.

It was clear I needed help, and I almost asked for it. Only half listening to dad talk about his disastrous meeting with a casting director for his latest project, I thought about how weird it would sound to say dad, my nightmares set the kitchen on fire.

Instead of actually saying it, I stayed quiet; wondering how many more of great grandma Imogen's curtains would have to suffer before it seemed urgent enough to ask for assistance. It was true that visitors always remarked the gaudy fabric didn't match the house's richer-than-thou aesthetic, but dad always had them up anyway.

"The keys are in the drawer of my desk."

"Which car do you not mind losing?" I muttered. If he didn't abandon me, none of this would have happened. Well, it probably would have, but less often.

From a young age, I'd always known what the job of a studio executive entailed. Through the years, it had gone from being exciting and cool to toxic and time consuming. Still, I eventually got used to the demands of it pulling dad all over the globe; but all that was before the nightmares. Now, I needed company.

This summer was supposed to be our time. We went here because of the distance from L.A. I kicked at nothing on the floor; feeling cheated.

Dad chuckled on the other end of the line, "I'm actually fond of the Maserati. You can take the Aston Martin."

"It's orange. I'm driving to Manhattan, not racing at Mount Panorama."

"The McLaren then, it's at least gray."

"Airbags good on the McLaren?" I rolled my eyes. Dad laughed loudly; blissfully unaware of me slowly losing my mind in this house.

It wasn't lost on me how all the car talk would sound to normal people. Sometimes I annoyed even myself. Still, I couldn't pretend to not know things to seem more relatable. Hence, me having zero friends back home. I got too tired of explaining my case.

Instead, I parted my life into two parallel lines. The unpopular high schooler and the Hollywood producer's daughter. I couldn't really mix either, so it was always just parts of a whole. No one from each side ever crossed over; not even my parents. It was basically a divorce for my life.

"I'm also fond of you, daughter." He joked. "Crash the car if you must, but don't hurt yourself. Have Adam crash it for you. Do you want me to call him?"

"No thanks," I replied; struggling to stay annoyed when I knew he was making an effort to sound stress-free. "Doesn't he have a class?"

"He's still my right hand," he said indignantly. "Why I took a student under my wing is beyond me."

"You got him because he's talented," I reminded, "Anyway, don't call him. I don't want him getting all pouty with me. I can crash the car tomorrow."

Dad apologized for leaving again before we said our goodbyes and hung up. I pushed the bunny eared headband higher on my head and sprinted up to his office. I had half an hour to shower and change out of my Dartmouth T-shirt and shorts into something decent.

It wasn't a coincidence that I never needed anything from dad's office when he wasn't home; it was one of the rooms in the house I never liked. The room was exactly like an old study from an English movie; the ones that looked owned by the mafia. It always smelled like cigars, stale coffee beans and leather. The walls were lined with floor to ceiling bookshelves. Most importantly, it was too dark even during day time.