Page 15 of The Princess and the Paparazzi
“Try it with a squeeze of lime and some strawberries in it sometime,” I suggest.
“Really?” She looks at me curiously. “What makes you say that?”
“It’s how I like it,” I admit. “But it just occurred to me that you might like it, too.”
“Interesting,” she says, turning back to the fridge. She rummages around and pulls out a lime and a basket of strawberries. “So you’re a tea witch as well as a coffee one?”
“Let me help you with that.” I look around for a cutting board while she washes the fruit. “Got a cutting board?”
“Over there.” Lorelei gestures at a drawer. “And the knives are right there on the counter. Don’t stab me.” She laughs nervously, and I’m not entirely sure she’s joking. “Sorry, terrible joke. I have stalker anxiety. Comes with the kid-star territory. I really need to put that knife block in a cabinet. I’ve just watched too many true crime documentaries.”
“Ugh, I know,” I commiserate. “Those shows will mess with your head. I mean, nobody gives a damn about me, but I still get the willies when I’m home alone. Maybe that’s why I still live with my uncles at twenty-seven.”
“Oh, is that how old you are?” Lorelei pauses for a moment, patting the berries dry.
“Yeah,” I smile. “Sort of pathetic. But it’s not like I live with them, live with them. I have my own apartment over their garage.”
“Sounds nice,” Lorelei says. “I haven’t lived with anyone since I was sixteen.”
“Shit!” I exclaim. “I can’t imagine living on my own at sixteen.” It sounds so lonely.
“I was pretty used to it. We filmed on location a lot forMoxie, and I spent half of my life in hotels anyway.” Lorelei hands the limes to me. “How much do you put in?”
“Just a squeeze.” I quickly quarter the lime and squeeze two halves into glasses, reserving the other two for garnish. “And maybe two berries?” I suggest. “Sometimes I muddle them, but I also like to eat them, in which case I leave them whole.”
“Sounds good to me.” Lorelei tosses two berries into each glass and pours the tea. She hands me my cup and directs me back out to the egg-shaped, hanging chairs on her sunny patio.
“Great view,” I comment. The patio has a spectacular view of the mountains, near and far, like a torn paper illustration—the closer ones in shades of green, layered on top of more distant and taller silhouettes in shadowy purples and gray tones. It’s such a perfect spot to relax. Like something out of a magazine.
“Yeah, I guess it doesn’t suck,” she agrees, looking at the scenery as if she’s only just noticing it now. Then she leans back in her seat, closing her eyes. She looks so tired. Maybe she isn’t sleeping well. I wonder if I’m going to have to touch up her photos. I guess we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.
“So,” Lorelei speaks without opening her eyes, “you mentioned you were adopted? What was that like for you?”
Her chair sways, and her words hang in the air for a moment as I consider my answer. Lots of people are curious about my adoption and want to know more about it. The truth is, I don’t think about it all that much. I think about my mom, and what things were like before I lost her. But I don’t think much about what happened before she adopted me. I don’t really wonder about my birth parents or feel like there’s stuff I need to know.
“Being adopted was normal, I guess? I’ve always known I was adopted, and it isn’t a big deal,” I say. “I mean, I don’t remember anything before it happened. I was only six months old when my mom came for me.”
“And you mentioned your uncle traveled, too?”
“Yeah, she didn’t want to make the trip alone. At least it wasn’t cold when they went. It was summertime, so they didn’t have to freeze.” I stretch out in my seat and take a sip of the iced tea.
“This tastes perfect,” I say.
Lorelei reaches out her glass and clinks it to mine. “To new friendships,” she says and takes a sip. “Damn! Thatisgood.” She takes another sip and licks her lips before continuing. “So when did your mom go to Russia for you then? I’m guessing it was twenty-seven years ago?”
“Almost exactly,” I nod. “My ‘gotcha day’ is coming up. We used to celebrate it when I was a kid,” I backtrack immediately to explain. “A gotcha day is kind of like a birthday for adoptees. It’s the day your family adopted you.”
“Oh, I know what it is,” Lorelei says quietly, rattling the ice cubes in her glass. “Mine’s in June, too, but we never really celebrated.”
“Really?” I sit up in my seat. “You’re adopted, too? Why don’t I know that? I had no idea!” I sift through theMoxie McAllistertrivia that’s still filed away in my brain, alongside the lyrics to every song Miley Cyrus and Taylor Swift ever recorded. I can remember the type of waffles Moxie liked—round, not square—and that Lorelei was rumored to have had a crush on a Jonas brother.
I don’t recall anything about Lorelei being adopted. I would have remembered that. I didn’t have many adopted peers growing up, and I can practically recite every celebrity I know who was adopted, along with the ones who were dyslexic, like me. One of the main reasons I loved Moxie’s show so much was that the main character was supposed to be dyslexic. But instead of her dyslexia being a disability, it gave Moxie superpowers that she used to solve crimes. She had highly tuned visual abilities. I could relate. Nobody can find Waldo faster than me.
“My momager didn’t really want me to talk about being adopted. In fact, she didn’t really tell me until I was eleven, which is stupid because I still had some subconcious memories of the orphanage, even if I just thought they were nightmares.”
“You were in an orphanage?” I ask. “Where?”
“Siberia,” Lorelei says. “That’s why I asked you whereyouwere adopted from.” She turns to give me a significant look, and I get chills all the way down my spine, to my fingertips and toes. My hand shakes. I have to set down my drink.
