“Okay, family!” The director, a long-haired Spaniard named Sergio, flicked the lights. “Everyone against the flag! Get ready with your lines!”
Kate and Isabel obediently walked into the hot spotlights and posed next to Mr. Marin. Mike poked Hanna’s side. “Go!”
Hanna hesitated. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to be in front of a camera—she’d always fantasized about becoming a famous anchorwoman or a runway model—but she didn’t want to be in a commercial with her stepsister like they were a big happy family.
Mike poked her again. “Hanna, go.”
“Fine.” Hanna groaned, sliding off the table and stomping toward the set.
Several of the directors’ assistants turned and stared at her confusedly. “Who are you?” Sergio asked, sounding like the hookah-smoking caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland.
Hanna laughed uncomfortably. “Uh, I’m Hanna Marin. Tom’s biological daughter.”
Sergio scratched his mop of long curls. “The only family members on my call sheet are Isabel and Kate Randall.”
There was a long pause. Several of the assistants exchanged uncomfortable glances. Kate’s smile broadened.
“Dad?” Hanna turned to her father. “What’s going on?”
Mr. Marin tugged at the microphone one of the assistants had threaded under his jacket. “Well, Hanna, it’s just that . . .” He craned his neck and located his assistant.
Swiftly, Jeremiah scuttled over to the set and gave Hanna an exasperated look. “Hanna, we’d prefer if you just watched.”
We? “Why?” Hanna squeaked.
“We’re just trying to spare you from more nosy press people, Hanna,” Mr. Marin said gently. “You were in the limelight a lot last year. I didn’t know if you wanted to bring more attention to yourself.”
Or maybe he didn’t want to bring the attention back to her. Hanna narrowed her eyes, realizing her dad was worried about the mistakes she’d made in the past. How she’d gotten caught shoplifting from Tiffany and then stole and wrecked her boyfriend Sean Ackard’s car. How the second A—the real Ali—had sent Hanna to The Preserve, a mental institution for troubled teens. And, the cherry on top, some people had believed Hanna and her friends killed Ali—their Ali, the girl who’d disappeared in seventh grade.
There was also what had happened in Jamaica, not that Mr. Marin knew about that. Not that anyone would know about that—ever.
Hanna took a big step away, feeling like the floor had dropped out from under her. Her dad didn’t want her associated with his campaign. She didn’t fit his wholesome family portrait. She was his old daughter, his castoff, a scandal-ridden girl he didn’t want to remember anymore. Suddenly, an old note from A flashed in her mind: Even Daddy doesn’t love you best!
Hanna spun on her heel and walked back to Mike. Screw them. She didn’t want to be in her father’s stupid commercial, anyway. People in politics had bad hair, pasted-on smiles, and horrible fashion sense—except for the Kennedys, of course, but they were the exception that proved the rule. “Let’s go,” she growled, grabbing her purse from the empty chair.
“But, Hanna . . .” Mike stared at her with round blue eyes.
“Let’s. Go.”
“Hanna, wait,” her father called behind her.
Keep walking, Hanna told herself. Let him see what he’s missing. Don’t speak to him ever again.
Her father called her name once more. “Come on back,” he said, his voice dripping with guilt. “There’s room for all of us. You can even say a few lines if you’d like. We can give some of Kate’s to you.”
“What?” Kate shrieked, but someone shushed her.
Hanna turned around and saw her father’s eyes pleading with her.
After a moment’s frustration, she handed Mike her purse and trudged back to the set. “Tom, I don’t think this is a good idea,” Jeremiah warned, but Mr. Marin just shrugged him off. When Hanna stepped into the lights, he gave her a big smile, but she didn’t smile back. She felt like the loser kid the teacher made everyone play with at recess. Her dad was only asking her back because it made him look like an ass**le if he excluded her.
Sergio ran their lines with the family, divvying up Kate’s lines between the two daughters. When the camera turned to Hanna, she took a deep breath, cast off the negative vibes around her, and got into character. “Pennsylvania needs a strong leader who works for you,” she said, trying to look natural, tamping down her wilted hopes. Sergio shot take after take until Hanna’s cheeks hurt from smiling so hard. An hour later, it was over.
As soon as the lights dimmed and Sergio declared it was a wrap, Hanna ran over to Mike. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“You were really good, Han,” Mike said, jumping off the table.
“He’s right,” a second voice said.
Hanna looked over. One of Sergio’s assistants stood a few feet away, two large black suitcases full of equipment in his hands. He was probably only a few years older than Hanna. His hair was cut in a messy yet artfully arranged way, and he wore snug-fitting jeans, a weathered leather jacket, and a pair of aviator sunglasses, which were propped atop his head. His fawn-colored eyes grazed Hanna up and down as if he approved of what he saw. “Totally poised,” he added. “With a ton of presence. You kicked that other girl’s ass.”
“Uh, thanks.” Hanna exchanged a suspicious glance with Mike. Was complimenting the clients part of this dude’s job?