"When I saw the way you wiggled in the parking lot, I just had to meet you. You had some serious moves going on out there."

"Oh," I replied, reddening just a little, "Aren't you the bold one?"

---

Maisie Beale's Diary, excerpt:

I didn't even know I had a godfather. I probably should have guessed, but he died when I was a baby. This means I have a godmother somewhere, too. I have to remember to find out who she is.

Anyway, my godfather was one of Dad's rich friends. He was never married and he had no kids, so when he died he left — I want to say everything but I don't know if it's true. In any case, he left me a lot. Enough to make my parents fight over me. They don't want to share custody.

Why? Because whoever gets me gets to spend my trust fund. Even if it's my money, they get to draw off it for expenses related to raising me.

The one good thing that Ms. Goldenflower did was to hook me up with a lawyer. I kept asking her questions about divorce and about my trust fund. She wanted to talk about my feelings (as if they ever mattered). I wanted to talk about reality and the things my parents were fighting about.

Finally, out of desperation, she got me an appointment with a young guy who was the first adult on this planet who ever took me seriously.

The first thing I asked him was whether he worked for my mother or father. I'd heard about "conflict of interest" and really needed to know. He didn't work for either. Never had. Could not, as long as he represented me. He would bill my trust fund, so I was paying him. This defines loyalty in the world of lawyers.

I ran down my list of questions. I wanted to know if I could stop them from spending my money. He said that I could. He got my parents' financial papers from the divorce proceedings, and had a judge issue a stop on withdrawals from my account unless a custodial parent could demonstrate need. I also got a record of the money they'd already taken. They'd each taken a lot. My lawyer had my bank send a letter to each of my parents, so they'd know a lock was put on the account and that I had "received a comprehensive statement of all account activity to date." Put 'em on notice.

The sweet taste of victory didn't last very long.

I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised when the custody battle changed direction, but I was.

Instead of fighting to keep me, my parents starting fighting to get rid of me. They also wanted to cancel my therapy sessions. Before, when they thought they'd get my trust fund, each wanted sole custody. Now, they each want the other to have sole custody.

I'm not going to say that it hurt me.

It didn't hurt.

It just surprised me.

Still, it's one thing to believe that you're not wanted, but having legal, documentary proof that you're not wanted, is... just... it's something else.

I had to go to court so custody could be "awarded." Children's court. It was a little room, but the chairs were all normal size. The judge was okay. He tended to treat me like a kid, always reassuring me about unimportant junk and explaining obvious things. Still, he didn't overdo it.

He asked me which parent I'd prefer to live with. "Neither," I said.

He replied, "I can understand that. I can't blame you. In your position, I wouldn't want to live with them either."

Then came the nice part of the day: the judge told my parents off. He took his time about it, and he was very thorough. Dad tried to interrupt, but the judge shut him right up. He said, "Mr. Beale, if you don't close your mouth and listen, I'll charge you with contempt, and you'll spend the night in jail. And that's just for starters."

Once he had their attention, he ripped them up, down, and sideways, especially about how they'd used my trust fund and the way they were trying to dump me. He said, "I can understand your fighting over houses, bank accounts, cars... but this is a child! Someone who came from you and depends on you for her very life!"

In the end he said, "I'm sorry to do this to you, Maisie, but I have to award joint custody. I wish there was some alternative, but I don't see one. If you can find one, you give me a call, and I'll see what I can do."

---

 
I tried to get a good look at Ms. Means without being too obvious about it. She was a very attractive woman. I remember Dad said she was about 40. I hoped to look that good at 40. Her hair was cut in the short, straight style that's big now (it probably has a name, but I don't know it). Whatever it's called, it looks good on her. She wore a red silk blouse and black slacks — very simple, understated, elegant. I wanted her shoes.

She was a fair-skinned Black; her skin was a light caramel color, that went well with her reddish-brown hair.

There was a young man with broad shoulders, obviously her son, sitting next to her. His skin was slightly darker, and his hair was fuller and wavier. He had his mother's fine features, but set in a strong, masculine face. He could be an athlete, but I couldn't decide which sport.

There were two other people at the table: a gorgeous blonde woman with a miraculous tan. The girl sitting next to her was similarly blonde, though her skin was pale. She had an almost anorexic thinness, and caught me staring but didn't seem to mind.

I looked down at my plate, which was mysteriously empty. "Dad," I asked, "did you take my food?"

He started back, incredulous, and nearly choked with laughter.

"Marcie," my mother told me, "I think you need to slow down when you eat. You shovel food in your mouth like you're stoking a furnace."

"Thanks, Ma," I drawled.

"You're not even aware that you're eating."

"Okay," I droned.

"Do you even taste your food?" she asked. I sighed.

"You need to know," she shrugged. "It's not ladylike."

"Right," I said as I started to stand, "I get it. I'll work on it."

"Going back for more?" Dad asked, grinning. I nodded. Mom drew a long breath and gave me a cautionary look.

The buffet was set up on two sides of a long table. I went down the left side. This time I was trying to be selective, but everything looked so good! Still, I kept myself to tiny samples of each item.

When I came around the end of the buffet, I saw Ms. Means' son working his way down the other side, heading toward me. I had the feeling he was waiting for me.

"Oh, hey," he said.

"Hi," I replied, feeling suddenly shy. He was a good four inches taller than me, and I was in heels.

"Marcie Donner, right? I'm Trevor Means." He held out his hand.

"Uh," I said stupidly. I had both hands full, so I offered him an elbow. He waggled it, grinning.

"My mother told me your name," he said. "When I saw the way you wiggled in the parking lot, I just had to meet you. You had some serious moves going on out there."

"Oh," I replied, reddening just a little, "Aren't you the bold one?"

"I am," he agreed. "Fortune favors the bold."

"So I've heard," I said. "Has it favored you?"

"Today it has," he replied, grinning.

"I guess I left myself open on that one," I commented.

"Would you also be open to my calling you sometime?" he asked. "Sometime soon?"

I had to admire his grammar and style. He was confident and — what was the word? active? — yet he wasn't pushy. He wasn't pushy at all. He was persuasive.

"What sport do you play?" I asked.

"None really," he replied. "I play a little ball, but nothing serious. Why? Do you only date a certain type of athlete?"

"No," I said laughing. "You look like... you're built like a jock, but I couldn't figure out which sport... And you said 'ball' — which kind of ball? Basketball?"

"Guilty as charged," he replied, nodding. "Yeah, Mom said you were some kind of girl detective. I see she was right."

"Oh, no," I said. "I'm no detective."

"Huh. I was misinformed then. So, I'll call you," he concluded, and walked past me, smiling, before I could reply.

Very smooth. I looked in the direction of my table, but the buffet centerpiece blocked the view. Clever, Trevor, very clever.

"Trevor, how are you going to call me?" I asked through the foliage.

"Tell me your number," he replied.

"Will you remember it?"

"Try me and see."

I recited the number, and he said, "Got it."

When I got back to my table, Mom was looking at me in a strange way. "What happened to you?" she asked.

"Nothing," I replied, as innocently as I could manage.

At that moment, Trevor walked past. He didn't look our way. He didn't give any clue that he knew who we were, but when Mom saw him, her glance shot back to me. How did she know?

"Marcie," she warned.

"Mom," I said, protesting my innocence.

"What's going on?" Dad asked.

In answer, Mom pointed at Trevor's back with her eyes.

Dad sighed and looked at me. "My boss' son!" he lamented, as if that said everything.

"I didn't do anything!" I protested.

"You never do," Dad replied. "It all just happens somehow."

I blushed and looked down at my food, pushing it around with a fork.

Mom's eyes were still on me. "I have to say I'm a little jealous," she said. "I never got this kind of attention when I was your age."

Dad somehow managed a look that was both a frown and smile at the same time. "That's not how I remember it. As I recall, I had a lot of competition."

It was Mom's turn to blush. My mouth fell open.

"Now *this* sounds interesting," I said with a big smile, glad the tables had turned.

"Don't change the subject, young lady," Mom countered. "You've got to put the brakes on now. Don't give him your phone number, for one thing."

I tried to look nonchalant, but my face gave me away.

"Hoo boy!" Dad said. "Maybe it's time to take that cell phone away."

"Noooo!" I cried.

© 2007 by Kaleigh Way