The Black Sheep (2 page)

Obviously, they shouldn't have had a kid.
In fact, I think I was an “accident.” Rosa
didn't deny it when I asked her. She pursed
her lips the same way she did every time she
looked at my schedule and then gave me a big
hug. The last time Mom hugged me was four
years ago, before my first trip to math
camp.


If my parents had been more careful about
birth control, they could have directed
their child-rearing budget into technology.
They like computers, probably because
they're reliable and you can upgrade them
regularly. I'm less dependable. Although I
mostly get good grades, I have to work my
butt off and sometimes my system crashes for
no reason.


Don't get me wrong, it's not like I'm
starved or beaten or anything, and I know
that from the outside it probably looks like
I have it pretty good. But isn't a kid supposed to have some say in what happens to
her? Isn't she allowed to “just say no” to banking if she wants to? Aren't cults illegal in this country?


And so it goes for another six pages. It's ugly. In fact, it's like a volcano erupted and spewed lava all over the keyboard. I remember how much better I felt after I wrote it. What I should have done—it's perfectly clear now—was obey Rule Number Four. I could have so easily hit SAVE rather than PRINT. Instead, I acted before I thought about it, and now I'll be in lockdown until college.

I broke the same rule again today, which is why Judy is standing outside my bathroom door spitting out an indecipherable question at high speed.

“I'm not feeling well,” I say. It's a good answer to any question and also true.

“Nerves,” she says. “Do you have the runs?”

That I can decipher, as I'm sure Bob can, too. “Just an upset stomach.”

“Come out and we'll talk about your new family. That'll make you feel better.”

I'm surprised at how quickly I've picked up her fast-talking. Enrichment must have given me an ear for languages. “I doubt it.”

“You're buried alive here, KB. But never fear, Judy's going to dig you out.”

Or if that doesn't work, maybe she can just stun me with her shovel.

* * *

“Bob, zoom in on the knob turning,” Judy barks. Then she snaps her fingers at the young guy with the wild red hair who threw his jacket over Mozart. “Chili, get a wide shot.”

The door opens and my parents stand blinking in the spotlight. They are built like greyhounds—long, lean, and muscular. Mom's hair is slightly ruffled from the wind; Dad's is as stiff as a hairpiece, although I'm pretty sure it's real. They look at each other and for once I understand exactly what they're thinking: what the hell is going on here?

Judy doesn't keep them in suspense for long. She introduces herself with a Donkey smile and tells them about
The Black Sheep
. Then she announces, “Your daughter has been chosen from ten thousand entries to trade places with a teenager in California for a month.”

My parents' mouths open in unison, say “No,” and snap closed. They cross their arms over their chests, a gesture that might be impressive if they weren't wearing matching tank tops.

I start backing down the hall toward my bedroom, but Bob turns to pin me in a circle of light. Chili stays focused on my parents, and a third crew member covers Judy.

She waits until her camera is rolling before opening a folder and producing a stack of pages covered in pink high-lighter. “Let me read you KB's letter,” she says.

“That's
Kendra
,” my mother interrupts.

“Of course,” Judy says. “I think when you hear what Kendra had to say, you'll agree that some time away will do her good.” She reads several paragraphs—the worst ones—aloud.

My mother gasps when Judy reaches the part about the Met. “Torture Day? I thought you loved that.”

Judy pats my mother's arm. “Now, now. Every family has communication problems.”

At the end of the letter, all eyes turn to me expectantly. I stare at the floor and mutter, “I didn't mean it the way it sounds.”

“Speak up, honey,” Judy commands. “Are you saying you lied?”

“I was mad when I wrote it, that's all.”

“More like heartbroken.” She signals Bob to get a close-up of the letter. “There are tearstains on the page.”

That's almost as bad as suggesting I have the runs. I am not one of those girls who cry for no reason. “It's Sprite,” I protest.

She wraps an arm around my shoulders. “That's your pride talking, kiddo. Are you telling Judy you don't want a vacation in California?”

I keep expecting my parents to toss Judy and her army out of the house, but they seem to be paralyzed. Sweat is dripping down my father's face, and my normally pale mother is flushed. “I'm telling you I didn't really think it through.”

“That letter came straight from the heart,” Judy insists. “I cried like a baby when I read it, and so will the rest of America. That's how I knew we'd found our girl. This fine nation loves an underdog, and you can't beat a lonely child in search of love.”

“I'm not a child,” I say. “And I'm not lonely.”

“You haven't been hugged in four years,” she says, promptly hugging me.

I wriggle out of her grasp. “I have, just not by them.” I point at my parents, willing them to take charge, but they continue to stand there on stick legs, silent, bland, and beige.

Judy continues as if I haven't spoken. “You need a break. And fortunately, there's another unhappy teenager who needs a break, too.”

She tells us about Maya Mulligan, a fifteen-year-old from Monterey, who has written an equally long letter to complain about her family. Maya says her parents are hippies who are into saving the planet and leaving a “small footprint.” Whatever that means. She wants to experience life in Manhattan with a “normal” family.

“Normal?” I ask. “You'd better keep looking, Judy.”

“Normal is all in the eye of the beholder,” she says. “And as a contestant on
The Black Sheep
, you'll have a chance to see that for yourself.”

My father finally finds his voice. “Our daughter is not spending a month with beatniks.”

“Why not?” I ask, although I don't even want to go. “I'd be back before you even noticed I was gone.”

“Kendra,” my mother says, “enough.”

“I'm just communicating,” I say. “Unlike you two, I actually like to talk. I'm sorry if it embarrasses you.”

“Atta girl,” Judy says. “Let it out.” I notice that her head is twitching repeatedly to the right, and I wonder if it's a nervous tic. Then I realize she's signaling Chili to zoom in on my parents' reaction. “Your daughter is telling you that she's miserable.”

My parents exchange a meaningful glance, and Dad asks, “Are you miserable, Kendra?”

I waver for a moment before pulling my punch. “Not
all
the time.”

Judy wraps an arm around each of my parents. “Ken. Deedee.” Mom opens her mouth to protest but Judy picks up speed. “I know how tough it is to raise a teenager today, but it's obvious that you've hit a roadblock here. Kendra deserves to experience a family that has time to spend with her. She needs to explore her own interests. Do you have any interests, Kendra?”

I think about it for a moment. “I like to play the flute—or at least I don't hate it. And I, uh, like to shop.” Then I shrug to let her know I'm out of ideas.

“I rest my case. Your daughter's growing up without a personality to call her own.”

“Hey!” I have a personality. Whose side is she on, anyway?

Silencing me, Judy continues. “Here's your chance to do right by Kendra and give another kid a break in the process.”

My parents shake their heads as one.

“Why not?” I ask again. “This Maya might actually like living in a museum.”

“What are you afraid of?” Judy asks my parents. “That you'll lose Kendra forever? The truth is, letting her go is probably the only way to keep her.”

My mother's mouth twitches, and I think for a moment that she's going to laugh. Dad drapes an arm around her and turns to Judy. “Please collect your gear and go. You'll be responsible for any damages to the furniture.”

Judy backpedals quickly. “Think of
The Black Sheep
as a student exchange program. It's a developmental opportunity for Kendra and for poor Maya, who longs for all you have to offer here.” She points at the wall. “Maya has never seen a Monet.”

“Matisse,” I say.

“It's just a print,” Mom says. Her voice sounds faint and faraway. She leans around Bob to get a good look at me. “Is this really what you want, Kendra?”

Now that she's opening the door, I'm not sure I want to walk through it.

Judy saves me the trouble of deciding. “Of course it's what she wants. It's the opportunity of a lifetime.”

Dad says, “I'll need to know more about these Mulligans. Are they professors?”

“Not exactly,” Judy says, “but they're upstanding citizens.” She snaps her fingers at a man in a suit. “Stan, our attorney, will tell you all about them.”

Stan leads my parents to the stack of permission forms on the desk.

“Wait a second,” I say. “I haven't said I'll go.”

Judy hands me an envelope containing a plane ticket. “Finish packing, kiddo. The limo will be here early.”

“But—”

“I know you're scared, but don't worry. Judy will be holding your hand every step of the way.” The doorbell rings. “Lucy, I presume?”

Chili trains his camera on Lucy, who smiles and waves as she steps into the house. As I suspected, she dressed up for the occasion in white jeans and a halter top.

The army packs up and disperses. Finally Judy hugs me again and heads for the door. “See you tomorrow, KB.”

I wait for my mother to correct Judy, but she doesn't. Instead, she steps aside as Chili dashes back into the apartment to pluck his jacket from Mozart's head.

I
n the arrivals area of the San Francisco airport, a group of people waves a sign at me. Fluffing my hair nervously, I hurry toward them, only to discover that the sign reads,
WELCOME, FERGUS
. There's no way I look like a Fergus, even from a distance.

It's the latest in a series of disappointments today. First, my parents didn't come to see me off because they had to pick up Maya Mulligan at another airport. Then, my hopes of being seated next to a hot guy fizzled when a middle-aged nun in street clothes sat down beside me. She didn't admit she was a nun until halfway through the flight, and I spent the next half trying to remember whether I'd said anything offensive. And finally, no one, not even the nun, showed the slightest interest in why I was flying alone. I may not be thrilled about participating in
The Black Sheep
, but it's the most exciting event of my life so far.

Deciding it's better to look nonchalant when the Mulligans arrive, I turn to find a seat. A now-familiar light assaults me.

“Welcome to California!” Judy says. Today she's West Coast casual, in jeans, a white T-shirt with a fuzzy black sheep on the front, and flip-flops.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, too tired to be polite. Lucy called me at 4:45 A.M. to make sure I was up. As if I could sleep when I was about to fly across the country to live with strangers. I've never been away from home for a month before and Judy has the option of extending my stay to six weeks.

“Is that any way to greet your peeps?” Judy says, signaling Bob to walk backward ahead of us as she leads me to a bench. “You'll have to get used to the bright lights, kiddo: the eyes of the nation will soon be upon you.”

The eyes of many people in this lounge already are. They're gathering in clumps and staring, wondering whether I'm “somebody.” I shake my head to let them know I'm not. “Where are the Mulligans?” I ask Judy.

She shoves a bystander out of the way. “Don't worry, they'll be here. And listen, KB, we'll have to discuss your wardrobe. Some colors and patterns don't work on camera. Your red T-shirt is pulsing.”

I wonder if it's my racing heart that she sees through my T-shirt. She presses my shoulder until I drop onto a bench and then shows me the portable monitor. On the screen, my T-shirt appears to be dancing.

Judy turns to her army and shouts, “Tess, we've got some shine here!”

A woman I didn't notice yesterday comes at me with a powder puff. “Oh, no,” she says. “She's breaking out.”

Leaning in to inspect me, Judy says, “No worries. Viewers won't get past her pulsing T-shirt anyway.”

The crew laughs, like they laugh at all of Judy's jokes. I, however, refuse to suck up to her, especially since the jokes are at my expense. Rosa was always after me to stand up for myself, and there's no time like the present to start trying. “Excuse me,” I say, rising with dignity. “I'm going to the restroom.”

“Not now,” Tess says. “The Mulligans will be here any minute.”

“You can't tell me when I can use the restroom,” I protest. But the crew closes in to block my exit, and I realize that for the next month, they intend to control my bladder and the rest of me, too. Panic begins to flutter in my chest. “Let me go.”

Judy snaps her fingers and the crowd parts.

So much for showing them who's boss.

“Kendra, what is it about you and restrooms?” I peer under the cubicle wall and see Judy's flip-flops outside my stall. There's no spotlight, so I guess her sidekicks actually respect the gender barrier. “Any health problems I should know about?”

“I want to go home,” I say.

“Come on, where's your sense of adventure?” she asks. “Your letter said you were dying for something to happen in your life. Now it has.”

It's true that I crave adventure, but I was thinking more along the lines of bumping into Prince William in Hyde Park while my parents ran the London Marathon.

Judy moves over to the sink and washes her hands. “Think about the stories you'll be able to tell when you're back at school,” she says. “No one will have anything on you. Judy's going to make you a star.”

“I don't want to be a star.”

“Everyone wants to be a star.”

“Not me,” I say. “I just wanted more independence and to have some fun.”

“Well, think of all the fun you can have with twenty-five thousand dollars. That's how much each family will receive when the show ends.”

“Really?” That's a lot of money. No wonder my parents agreed to participate.

“Really,” Judy says. “Although, Maya will ultimately decide how your family spends the money.”

Naturally. There's always a catch.

“And you'll get to decide how the Mulligans spend theirs,” she says.

Whoopie.

“Plus, you get to keep the eight hundred dollars a week you earn, and spend it any way you like.”

Now she's talking. Even if we only go four weeks, I'd earn over three grand, which would finance a lot of trips to Sephora.

“See, it's all good, KB,” Judy continues. “The Mulligans are a blast. And your parents are going to see the show and realize how grown-up you are. When you're back in New York, they'll give you more freedom.”

“You don't know my parents.”

“I know how all parents think,” she says. “Once you've proven you can survive without them, they always loosen the reins.”

That does make sense. “Are you sure?”

“Trust me,” she says.

I open the stall door, and Judy is right in front of me, every tooth on display. She ushers me out of the washroom and dismisses the crew with a flick of her fingers. Setting her shoulder bag on a bench, she sits down and pats the place beside her.

“Take a moment to regroup,” she says, rifling through her bag.

“I hear what you're saying. I'll use this time to prove to my parents that I'm mature enough to make my own decisions.”

She brushes my hair back over my shoulder. “They'll be amazed at your transformation.”

Up close, her smile is terrifying, but it's not her fault she has such big teeth. And it's nice that she's being supportive.

She continues to fiddle with something in her bag until there's a flash of bluish white light.

“Is that a camera?” I ask, stunned.

“Of course it's a camera,” she says, plucking a tiny camcorder out of her bag and switching it off. “You're on a reality show. How do you think they get made?”

“But this was supposed to be a private moment.”

She stands and pulls her shades down over her eyes. “Say good-bye to those, kid. You're public property now.”

“But…”

“Enough whining, Kendra. America loves a sweetheart.”

I stare at her, realizing that I'm in deeper than I thought. “I can't do this, Judy.”

“Excuse me?”

“I can't go through with it. I'm sorry. You've got the wrong girl.”

She pulls a stack of papers out of her bag and makes a show of examining them. “Nope, that's your name on the contract. Judy's definitely got the right girl.”

A dilapidated, powder-blue van covered in decals pulls up in front of the terminal. I only have time to read two of them—
SAVE OUR SOUTHERN SEA OTTERS
and
OIL: THE SPILL THAT KILLS—
before the sliding door on the side creaks open and people start pouring out.

“Bob,” Judy says, “close-up on the Mulligans. Chili, you cover Kendra.”

A woman wearing a beret over long, graying hair wraps her arms around me and nearly crushes my rib cage. “You must be Kendra,” she says.

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Mulligan,” I say, when she pulls away.

“Call me Mona,” she says. “No one calls me Mrs. Mulligan—especially because my last name is Perlman. I never married Max, you know.” She turns to smile at a balding, paunchy man who has a large octopus tattoo on his forearm. “I like to keep him on his toes.”

Max shakes my hand. “We don't need a piece of paper to prove we're meant for each other. Been together thirty-eight years.”

“Thirty-eight?” I ask. “You're kidding.” They look old, but not
that
old.

Mona laughs. “We were barely teenagers when we met at the Monterey Pop Festival in '67. It was the Summer of Love that never ended.”

“We've got six kids to prove it,” Max adds, giving his wife's bottom an affectionate slap.

“Daddy, please,” says a skinny girl of about ten who's standing behind them holding a baby on one hip. Next to her, identical twin boys of about seven peer at me shyly.

Mona says, “Sorry we're late, Kendra. Max was snaking out someone's pipes. He's the most popular guy in the neighborhood.”

“Everyone loves a plumber,” Max says, starting to herd everyone into the van.

I hang back, but Judy prods me with her pitchfork. My eyes are riveted by Mona's outfit—a tie-dyed blouse and long skirt over Birkenstocks. I don't think she's wearing a bra, and after six kids she should be.

She points to the little pin on her chest. “I see you've noticed my otter. I'm obsessed with them.”

“It's so pathetic,” the girl says.

“Meadow, hush,” Mona says, settling into the passenger seat.

With Judy propelling me forward, I climb into the rear seat and take the only spot available—on an exposed spring between Meadow and one of the twins. The baby is sitting on Meadow's lap.

“Shouldn't he be in a car seat?” I ask, fumbling for my seat belt. My search turns up a couple of dog biscuits, which the baby promptly grabs. Meadow doesn't even try to stop him from shoving one into his mouth.

Mona calls from up front. “He'll be fine, dear. Max has never had an accident.”

The rest of the crew piles into a second van bearing the
Black Sheep
logo, but Judy joins us, sitting in the middle seat beside the other twin. She winks at me before raising the camcorder to her eye. I scowl back at her.

“Likability, KB,” she says.

I don't care if America likes me. I may have a contractual obligation to be here, but ratings are Judy's problem, not mine. She's got her work cut out for her, because I can already tell this show is totally predictable. They're going to dump the Manhattan girl into a hillbilly shack and watch her squirm. Or maybe we'll all live out of the van.

Meadow plops the baby onto my knee. “This is Egg,” she says.

I balance the rubbery little thing on my lap for a few polite moments before trying to slide him back to Meadow.

“You don't like babies, Kendra?” Judy asks, swinging her camcorder to catch the family's horrified reaction.

“Of course I like babies,” I lie. “Mona, your grandson is very cute.”

Everyone laughs uproariously until Mona finally gasps, “Egg isn't our grandson, dear, he's our son.”

“I'm so sorry,” I say, horrified at my gaffe.

“Don't be,” Max says, not offended in the slightest. “We started late.”

“After we got tired of trying to change the world,” Mona adds.

“Egg is an unusual name,” I say, to change the subject.

“It's really Milo, but we call him ‘Last Egg' for fun,” Mona explains. “I thought I was starting menopause but somehow Egg slipped in under the wire.”

Max gives Mona's thigh a squeeze. “Remember where it happened, sweetie?”

The twins answer for her: “The Save the Cormorant rally in Santa Cruz.”

Meadow flushes and says, “Don't talk about that on camera.”

“Oh, honey, relax,” Mona says. “The moment of conception is something to be celebrated. If you're in a committed relationship, that is. Why, I remember exactly where we were when you—”

“I know,” Meadow interrupts, exasperated. “The anti-sonar protest near Mendocino.”

Mona turns in her seat to grin at me. “Happens every time we're at a tent rally. Something about all those people coming together for a cause.”

“I don't get it,” one of the twins says.

Judy trains her lens on me as I silently pray they'll resist the urge to explain the facts of life to their son. I didn't learn them from my own parents and I don't want to hear them now. That's what television is for.

After a pause, Max says, “We'll talk about it at home, son.”

I sigh with relief, and Judy's mouth forms a huge crescent under her camcorder. There must be more than the standard thirty-two teeth in there.

Meadow stares at me, unblinking, until I raise my eyebrows at her.

“How come you're so skinny?” she asks.

“I'm not skinny,” I say. I am slim. And I might even be muscular if I ever lifted anything heavier than a cell phone.

“You're skinnier than me,” she says. “And I'm only ten.”

I am not skinnier than a ten-year-old. And why isn't someone telling her she's rude? Rosa would have escorted me to my room by my ear if I'd spoken to a guest like that. Judy, of course, is loving every minute of it.