Credence

“Give it to me!” I shout as Noah holds my phone out of my reach. “Come on.”

He plants his hand on my forehead and pushes me back as we sit at the table and he inspects the photo. “Holy shit,” he says loud enough for everyone around us to hear. “Why do you hide this?”

I launch up and snatch the phone out of his hand, plopping back down in my seat. “Because it’s a dumb picture.”

“Then why do you keep it on your phone?”

“Because,” I tell him. “It’s the only thing I’ve done that I’m proud of.”

I go to exit out of the link to the one article about me ever written, along with the photo shoot the magazine insisted be done to accompany it, but Jake plucks my cell out of my hands instead, taking his turn to look at the pic.

I glare, opening my big mouth to protest, but I decide against it, casting a worried glance around at the other families trying to have a peaceful meal in the steak house.

It was my fault, showing it to Noah in the first place. Last spring, Vanity Fair did an exposé on the children of the stars and featured me in their “collection.” Unfortunately, a photo shoot came with the territory, one shot in particular of me in my French braids, a sports bra, and some lacrosse gear. I looked sweaty and dirty but kinda sexy, and even though the entire thing was a lie concocted by my parents’ publicists to make me look and sound incredible, I really liked the experience. Even though I’d never played lacrosse in my life.

It was the one time I felt large.

Yes, the article was bullshit about how involved I was in school. Nothing was true in regard to my activism and hobbies, and I only got the feature because of my parents. I hated the idea when they made me do it.

The photo shoot, though… I felt pretty. Even if I felt stupid after it was over.

“It’s a great picture. We’ll put it up on the website,” Noah tells his father and then lifts his arms, knife and fork in hand as he recites the words on an imaginary header. “The New Addition to Van der Berg Extreme.”

I roll my eyes, turning my attention to Jake. “Give it to me.”

He passes it to Kaleb who takes it and barely glances at it before handing it to Noah.

“Now,” I grit through my teeth, trying to keep our banter down. I only meant to brag about how I’ve worn less in public than I am tonight when Jake got snippy about my backless dress again at dinner. I didn’t want them gawking at me in my bra, though. In public.

Glasses and silverware clank in the rustic old restaurant, and the smell of barbecue sauce and French fries fills the air, making my nose sting from time to time.

The steak was overcooked, the Coke is watered down, and the floor is so greasy, I can spell my name on it with the heel of my shoe.

But I wouldn’t have anything different for my eighteenth birthday. I’ve had more fun already tonight than I did in all my past birthdays combined.

Noah hands the phone back to me, and I take it, turning it off and sticking it under my thigh, so they can’t get it again.

“So, what do you say?” he asks. “Wanna look sexy like that on our website?”

“Shut up.”

I tuck my chair back in and take a sip of my soda.

“It’s a really good idea,” Noah argues, turning to his father. “That’s what we’re missing in our marketing. Something pretty.”

“Noah, Jesus…” Jake shifts uncomfortably in his chair and lifts his bottle to his lips.

“No, seriously,” he continues. “Look at all the other sites. All the shows and expos we go to. What do they all have in common? Hot girls. We could get a photographer up at the house and do a photo shoot of her on the bikes. It’ll be great.”

“It’ll be snowing by morning,” Jake says. “No photographers are getting up the mountain.” He shoots his eyes to me. “And no one’s getting down.”

I pause, a shiver almost running through me as I hold my uncle’s eyes. I’m not sure if I see a warning or a challenge there in regard to the months ahead, but I raise my glass in a cheers, ready for whatever.

Jake grins, raising his beer and Noah follows, all of us clanking our glass together. Kaleb eats his meal.

“Besides,” Jake adds, setting his beer down, “we may never see her again after the spring anyway. Not sure we want to add her to the letterhead quite yet.”

I shake my head, knowing he wouldn’t mind if I stayed forever and would love the assurance right now that I will.