Daddy's Little Angel

Table of Contents

 

 

 

GROSSET & DUNLAP
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2009009032

 

eISBN : 978-1-101-13889-2

For my father,
Robert W. Petroff,
the world’s best dad.
I know I’ll always have a real angel
watching out for me.
I miss and love you.

A lot went into this book, and there are many people I want to thank.

 

First, my incredible editor, Judy Goldschmidt, for your talent, support, and advice—and for taking a chance on me. I couldn’t be in better hands.

 

And special thanks to Francesco Sedita, Bonnie Bader, and all the people at Penguin who made this book a reality.

 

J. David McKenney for the fabulous cover illustration.

 

Jodi Reamer, my dream agent, for helping guide my career.

 

Micol Ostow—an amazing teacher, colleague, and friend. This would not be happening right now without you.

 

Darci Manley for screaming, “That’s the book,” when I said maybe I should write about a girl who finds out her dad is the devil. Then for your continued help throughout the whole process.

 

Joanne Donovan for the title suggestion and so much more. Yvette Ferreol for reading everything I wrote from the start. Anna Hecker and Jocelyn Davies for your constant encouragement, feedback, and friendship. Shana Grossman for your help, support, and photo expertise. Kristen Kemp for making me a better writer. The same goes, although in a different way, to Fox 5. And to Macy, Patricia, and all of my writer friends for all of your thoughts and suggestions.

 

To my family and friends: Thank you, thank you, thank you. There’s so much I want to say here and people I want to name, but this would end up being longer than the book. But know, I feel truly blessed to have you all in my life. Andrea, while you’ve only been part of the family for a short time, I could

not imagine it without you. We’re lucky to have you.

 

Jordan, you probably know me better than anyone. I couldn’t ask for a better brother. I’ll always be here for you, and I know the opposite is true as well.

 

And, finally, Mom. I don’t even have the words. What are you supposed to say to someone who always puts you first and is the most wonderful woman you know? You’re my biggest fan. Please know, I’m yours, too.

 

I love you guys.

“You’re evil!”

Okay, I know that’s not the nicest way to speak to your mother, but believe me—she deserved it.

For months—five of them to be exact—I had begged to go to the Mara’s Daughters concert. They’re 110 percent the coolest indie band ever, and they were actually going to play in my little podunk of a town. Why they’d come to Goode, Pennsylvania, was beyond me, but, hey, I wasn’t complaining. That concert was the biggest thing to happen here in like—forever. To top it off, they were going to perform on my thirteenth birthday.

Sounds like a dream come true, right?

Well, try actually getting tickets.

I thought it was a sure thing. In a rare moment of normalcy, my mother said she’d get them for me and my BFF Gabrielle Gottlieb. Only, tickets sold out online in fifteen seconds flat, lines at Ticketmaster stretched past eternity, and prices on eBay were so high that even if my mother sold our souls, she wouldn’t have been able to afford them.

That meant I was stuck with iTunes while the greatest band I’d ever heard was playing just a few blocks down the street. It felt like a cruel joke. Mara’s Daughters was unbelievable. You could totally get one of their songs stuck in your head for three days straight. Everybody said so. And by everybody I mean Cole Daniels.

He was another reason I really needed tickets. The concert was finally going to give me something to talk to him about. I’d overheard him in French class telling Reid Winters that Mara’s Daughters was the best new band around. And if anyone would know, it’s him. He’s a huge music fan. He’s always drumming on his desk and sometimes he even hums a little. It’s supercute. There’s no way he would ever miss a Mara’s Daughters concert. So it was extra important for me to be there, too.

But it didn’t look like that was going to happen. That is, until the morning of my birthday.

It started out like any other day. After pounding my snooze button more times than I could keep track of, I got out of bed, got dressed, and raced downstairs to inhale my breakfast quickly enough to make it to school by the first bell. But when I poured myself a bowl of Lucky Charms, something unexpected happened. An envelope containing two tickets to Mara’s Daughters came tumbling out of the box. The shrieks of joy I let out were so loud, my mother grabbed her five-foot totem pole for protection before rushing out of her room to investigate.

Don’t ask.

“Angel,” she said, practically trembling, “what’s wrong?”

With her frizzy, black hair fanned out on top of her head, her brown eyes lasering in on my face, her fuzzy, blue bathrobe hanging open over her floral granny nightgown, and that humongous stick in hand, she looked like she escaped from the insane asylum. But who cared? She had come through for me. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you,” I said. All I could do was hug her—pole and all. “How did you get these?”

“Huh?”

For a second she looked at me as if I had whacked her on the head with that giant piece of wood she was carrying.

“The tickets!”

She was completely confused.

“These,” I said, holding them up.

She approached me slowly and carefully. It was as if I were holding a small yet dangerous beast that could spook at the tiniest false move.

“Where did you get those?”

“The Lucky Charms.”

She snatched the tickets from my hand, as well as the envelope, which she turned upside down. A tiny piece of paper fell out. I hadn’t noticed she left the receipt in there. At least her behavior sort of made sense now. I figured she didn’t want me to know how much she’d spent.

She quickly scooped the receipt off the floor. Reading it made her eyes bug out. “You can’t go to the concert,” she snapped.

“What do you mean I can’t go? You’re the one who got me the tickets in the first place. You can’t take them back now.”

“I said you’re not going.”

“Please don’t do this to me,” I pleaded as I took a step toward her. “Not today. Not on my birthday.”

“I’m not doing anything to you. I’m doing it
for
you,” she said.

Tears welled up in my eyes. Why was she acting like this? I was already a nobody at school—one of those people no one even bothered making fun of. Why couldn’t my mother let me have one thing that would help me fit in, at least a little?

Mom tightened her grip on the receipt. I couldn’t figure out what her problem was. She was the one who bought the tickets.

“I’ll pay for the concert myself. I still have some babysitting money.”

“It’s not the money,” she said.

“Then what is it?”

Her eyes quickly glanced down at the receipt and back up again. “Nothing.”

Whatever was going on, the slip was obviously a clue. “Can I see that?”

“No,” she replied.

“Just let me . . . ”

My mother crumpled the paper into a tiny ball and started to put it in her mouth, but I grabbed her hand before she was able to get it in. I was ready for that one. It wasn’t the first time she tried to eat something she didn’t want me to see. Last summer she had my birth certificate for lunch.

I tugged at her fingers, trying to get the paper out. She held on tight, but I had an advantage. She still had the totem pole with her, so it made it harder for her to get away. With one final yank I managed to get the receipt out of her hand. Only it wasn’t a receipt. It was a note.

A note that said, “Love, Dad.”

I wrapped my arms around my stomach. What brand of mind game was my mother playing this time? “Why’d you sign the note ‘Dad’?”

She looked away from me.

I held myself tighter. “What’s going on?”

She still wouldn’t speak.

“Just tell me. Why would you do that?”

“I didn’t,” she said.

This was getting to be too much, even from my mother. I was used to her acting, well, different. She was a new age groupie—times ten. It was pretty bad. She even sold “magic” stones, potions, and other “healing” products online.
www.aurasrus.com
. Yep. Auras-R-Us. And just last week, I came home from school to find her putting a pair of my shorts on the George Foreman. When I asked her about it, she said she was preparing them for a physical safety spell, and went right back to her grilling as if it were just one of her ordinary chores.