ADA

Holding my shoes in my hands, I pad across the floor, careful to avoid any creaky spots. The chill from the hardwood floors seeps through my socks, making me shiver. I can hear Aiden snoring as I pass his bedroom door.

I've managed to dodge my parents since my latest run-in with Liam—mostly by camping out at Jitters and Elodie's house. I want to keep my streak alive. We're all the celebrity gossip sites are talking about, and I'm guessing they aren't too happy about it.

When I texted Mom to tell her I'd be home late again last night, she said it was fine but that we were going to Talk today. She actually typed 'Talk' with a capital 'T.' When most people capitalize a random word in a message, it's a typo. But not my mom. She's a super successful attorney for a reason. She's meticulous in all things, including texting. Capitals, semicolons, hyphens, my mom's texts could put Strunk and White to shame.

But Agnes wants me to go photograph a press event for Cipher this morning, so I don't have time to have it out with my parents. I'm feet away from the door when my foot slips beneath me, sending me skidding into the wall. I fling my arms out, trying to catch my balance and lose my grip on my shoe. It falls to the ground with a whump. I freeze, listening.

Please, don't wake up. Please, don't wake up.

The only sound is the drone of the refrigerator. Whew. I reach for the doorknob.

"You might not want to do that."

Shoooot.

I spin around, plastering on my best I-would-never-try-to-sneak-out-of-the-house smile.

"Morning, Dad. I was just...um, going for a run." I hold up the sneaker I'm holding like it's proof.

"Uh-huh." He's clearly not buying it. "Well, before you go for your 'run,'" he uses air quotes, "you should probably know there are paparazzi waiting outside our building."

"What?" I drop my other sneaker and rush over to the window, peering through the blinds. "Oh, those morons." Chrissy and Tyler are standing on the sidewalk out front, scanning the windows. "Those aren't paparazzi. They're my coworkers."

"And they brought their cameras with them because?"

I fidget with my necklace, trying to think of an explanation that doesn't involve telling Dad they're here to take pictures of me. My caffeine-deprived brain comes up with nothing.

"That's what I thought," Dad says. "Sit." He points at the squashy armchair across from him.

"I don't have time. I have to get to a—"

"Sit."

I flop down in the chair, glaring down at my watch. This is the first actual press event I've been assigned and something tells me if I'm late, Agnes will make sure it's my last.

Mom walks into the room. She looks from my sullen expression to Dad's folded arms, and says, "I'll make some coffee."

"Thanks, Hon," Dad calls after her before turning his attention back to me. "I thought your goal was to become a photographer, not a celebutante."

"It is."

"Then why are your coworkers standing outside, waiting to take your picture? Why are there photographs all over the internet of you with that boy?" He scowls when he says 'that boy.' "And why are you calling him your boyfriend online when you keep telling us he isn't? Either you're lying to us, or you're lying to everyone else. Neither one is a good look, Baby Girl."

The disappointment etched across his face sends a twinge of guilt through my chest. But I haven't done anything wrong. People want to believe the stories about Liam and me dating. I'm not hurting anyone.

"Liam isn't my boyfriend." I fix my eyes on the slate-colored wall behind Dad's shoulder. Mom's decorated it with art prints of inspirational quotes and lotus flowers. "We're just posing for some photos together. It isn't a big deal."

"Since when is lying to the entire world not a big deal?" Dad's staring at me like he doesn't recognize me.

My eyes fall to the plush area rug. I focus on the blue, white, and gray swirls of the art-deco pattern.

"Ada," Dad's mouth twists in a frown, "you need to think about what kind of person this job is turning you into and if that's the kind of person you want to be."

I know exactly who I want to be. I want to be a paparazzo. I want to live a life amongst the stars just like Grams and I always dreamed about. And while she aspired to be one of the celebrities the paps are always chasing, and I'm more comfortable behind the camera in my yoga pants and sneakers, I want to create art that could last forever just like she did.

But Dad doesn't understand that. He's never been supportive of me becoming a photog.

Mom comes back into the room, carrying a tray with mugs of coffee, a pitcher of milk, and a bowl of sugar. Grateful for the distraction, I grab a cup.

"Is this real sugar?" I ask.

Mom likes to sneak all-natural sweeteners into the bowl instead of giving us the good stuff. Like we wouldn't notice the difference.

"Yes, but you shouldn't—" Mom starts, but I'm already shoveling spoonfuls into my coffee. She sighs, shaking her head.

My phone beeps, and I fish it from my camera bag, worried it's Agnes wondering where I am. But it's a message from Elodie.

Elodie: Did you make the reservation for tomorrow night?

Tomorrow is Elodie's eighteenth birthday. I'm taking her to dinner at this fancy new restaurant in Soho called Fab. Birthdays are a huge deal to Els. We threw massive parties every year when we were in high school, but this year, she wanted to do something 'classy' to celebrate officially becoming an adult.

I start tapping out a response. Dad clears his throat pointedly. I glance up, and he gives me a look that says he expects my full attention on our conversation right now.

Me: Dealing with the parents ATM. Will text later with details.

Elodie: Eeek! Good luck.

Mom and Dad are both watching me like they're waiting for me to explain myself. I lean back against the chair, fighting the urge to roll my eyes.

"It's only a few photos. You guys are making this into a way bigger deal than it is." I raise my coffee cup, taking a swig of the steamy goodness.

"It's more than a few photos, Ada. You and that boy are..." Dad trails off, snapping his fingers together like he's searching for the right word. "You know the thing with all the Tweets?"

"Trending?" Mom suggests.

Dad points at her. "That's it. You and that boy are trending and that, Young Lady, is serious."

Frankly, I'm a little impressed either of my parents know what the term trending means. At the moment though, I wish they didn't.

"You're overreacting. If posing for some shots will make my boss happy and get me closer to landing a permanent position, then it's worth it."

I glance over at Mom for help.

"Don't look at me." She raises her hands in front of her. "This all seems questionable. I don't like how they've got you kids pitted against each other. Something like this was bound to happen."

I sigh. "Everything's fine. You both worry too much."

"We should be worried when our daughter's boss is spreading lies about her in the press. We could sue for libel." Dad looks to Mom like he's expecting her to confirm he has grounds for his ridiculous lawsuit.

"They're saying I'm dating a famous actor, Dad. It's hardly defamation of character."

Aiden chooses that moment to grace us with his presence. "It's true." He yawns and scratches the back of his head. "Those rumors make it seem like she's a million times cooler than she is."

"That isn't helping." Mom shoots him a warning look.

"This is my career," I say, voice quivering. "It's not a summer job at Shake Shack."

My parents exchange a look, but don't seem convinced.

"This internship is everything to me, you guys. Grams isn't here anymore." I blink, eyes stinging. "I really need your support."

Saying her name tugs at the hole Grams left in my heart when she passed away. When I saw Faye Donovan and Ariani Shahzad last night, it was like being at all those movie premiers with her. It made me feel closer to her somehow, like she was there with me. If Grams were here now, she'd know how to explain this to my parents.

Aiden looks down at the floor, for once not saying anything. I know he misses Grams almost as much as I do.

I can tell my words hit their target. Mom looks out the window, and Dad swallows.

"Okay," Mom says. "We'll try harder to be supportive. We just want to make sure this is right for you, Hon. I know you think this is what you want, but I'm worried it might be more intense than you're prepared for."

"It is what I want. I can handle it." I say.

I can't help thinking about how ruthless those photogs were outside the Met. I feel the smallest flicker of doubt but squash it. I can handle this.

Dad still isn't smiling, but he nods. "Fine, but these rumors had better blow over soon."

"They will. Within a week, no one's even going to remember who I am."