His Most Prized Possessions
"Dorothy! Dorothy!" Brooke brushed aside a stray piece of hair that had pulled itself free of her tight bun. Models turned their heads in their make up chairs to stare at the frantic designer as she wound her way through the maze of backstage. "Dorothy!" Brooke yelled louder as she stamped her foot like a child.
"What?!" A lanky blonde girl appeared behind the screaming adult. She had lean legs, dark eyes, long blonde hair, and a perpetual broody expression. She was wearing skinny red jeans tucked into her black boots. Her tee-shirt bore the Clothes Over Bros logo above a burning heart. Brooke whirled to face the girl.
"Don't sneak up on a person like that. It's a good way to give someone a heart attack."
"Well you're not dead, so no harm no foul."
"Ouch, moody much?" Brooke raised an eyebrow.
"Sorry, I'm just tired is all and I have a big test tomorrow. What did you need?"
"Well I was wondering if you had found my hair dresser yet. He was supposed to be here over an hour ago. Right now I've got all of these done up models in ponytails."
"Yeah I found him," the blonde grumbled.
"And…"
"And I told him to follow me. To which he replied that I would need to add a few years of life onto my 'paltry few' before he would take orders from me." Brooke pinched the bridge of her nose.
"What is it with all these diva hairdressers? I tried to avoid females thinking that that might help, but no the diva gene seems to be prevalent in even the males of this profession." A few deep breaths.
There was a crash behind Brooke. "Umm Miss Davis," a worried voice called out. She closed her eyes.
"Just a couple more hours," Brooke whispered to herself. Then she opened her eyes. "Ok you go find the hairdresser and tell them that if he doesn't follow you he's fired and I'll deal with whatever disaster just occurred behind me." Dorothy gave a curt nod and moved through the mass of clothes and skinny models out of sight. Brooke watched her go for a minute before turning around. "Ok no one's job is on the line…yet."
With that calamity solved Brooke stood scanning the frantic people for Dorothy and the hairdresser. She didn't have to wait long for moments later Dorothy had pushed her way to Brooke, a snooty looking man sashaying along behind her. "Finally," Brooke sighed with relief. "I'm the designer Brooke Davis and you must be…" Brooke extended her hand to the hairdresser, but he cut her off.
"Your intern here was extremely impolite to me." Dorothy rolled her eyes. For a moment Brooke looked in her direction and then she looked back at the hairdresser.
"Apparently, very rude." Brooke's hand dropped. "Look I asked you to be here over an hour ago. And when you finally decide to grace my show with your presence you ignore directions given by me to Dorothy here who relayed them to you. And I'm sure Dorothy was nothing but professional with you, her mother taught her well."
"I'd like to discuss the definition of 'well' with her mother," the hairdresser mumbled.
"Well shoot, but I don't have much time." Brooke crossed her arms.
"Excuse me?" the hairdresser sneered. With a chuckle Dorothy explained.
"Mr. Snobby Overly Flamboyant Hair Dresser, meet my mother Brooke Bad Ass Bitch Don't Cross My Path Davis."
"Dorothy don't curse so much it's tacky," Brooke chided. Another eye roll from the teenager.
"You're her mother," the hairdresser's lip curled up. "Well you certainly don't look one bit alike."
"That's because she looks just like her father." Brooke smiled as she looked to her daughter. Some days it amazed Brooke how much Dorothy looked like her dad. When she looked at Brooke with those eyes it gave Brooke eerie feelings. Like she was looking at another broody blonde. Another shiver had come to Brooke when a week ago Dorothy had walked in the door and threw her bag down in a dramatic gesture before announcing that the kids at school had begun to call her Broody. The thought of the nickname Broody brought a smile to Brooke's face. Dorothy was definitely her father's kid. Dorothy tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as she shifted uncomfortably.
"Like I said mom, I've got a big test tomorrow, so I'm going to head home."
"You are not my daughter," Brooke said with disbelief. "A fashion show going on and you want to go hole up at home with a book."
"I want to go hole up at home with a book so that I don't fail out of high school and end up living off my mother for the rest of my life." Brooke beamed.
"Good plan, I'll call the limo around to pick you up."
"Thanks mom. I'll see you at home." Dorothy pecked Brooke on the cheek and then squirmed her way through the mass of people. As the exit door closed behind her, Brooke's smile remained. She had gotten lucky with Dorothy. She was so witty and beautiful. While that combination might be lethal in most teenagers, this was not the case with Dorothy. Instead she was like her father. She'd rather curl up with a book than be out partying. And Brooke was happy about that. She smiled brighter and then with a sigh, turned to face the chaos of her fashion show.
"Ok so I'll call you when I have more details on our studio time. Uh huh. See you soon. Bye." Peyton put the phone down. "I didn't think you were going to be here until eight," Peyton said to the blonde girl sitting across from her. The two were in Peyton's office. It was complete with a wall of posters displaying bands that Peyton had signed and bins full of Peyton's records.
"Yeah, but I didn't really have anything better to do." The blonde tapped her Converse clad foot to the beat blaring from Peyton's speakers in the corner of the office.
"Nothing better to do?" Peyton raised an eyebrow.
"Well Jason cancelled last minute so I went home for a bit. I was ready for a quiet evening of reading and snuggling under the covers, but as soon as I put the headphones in my ears and had just about tuned out the world I realized that I've finished all the books I got at the library."
"Are you serious? You went to the library three days ago and got like ten books. How is it possible that you've already finished them all?" The girl shrugged.
"I read."
"Behold Miss Maya of the Monosyllable," Peyton teased. Maya rolled her eyes.
"So do you need me for anything?"
"Not really. It's kind of been a slow time for me. But you can come in tomorrow and man the phones. I have a feeling things are going to pick up and I have to be at the studio with Max because I don't want a repeat of his last visit without an accompanying adult."
"Max is twenty five," Maya pointed out.
"Have you met the man? Sometimes he acts like a petulant child. I just have to be there to hold his hand when things don't go just as he wants them to."
Perking up a bit, Maya smiled. "Will he cry?"
"Maybe."
"I'm sorry I'm going to miss it." Peyton laughed.
"Gosh was I this cruel when I was in high school?" she asked more to herself.
"No. You were probably worse."
"Ouch."
"I've heard the stories. How you were the misunderstood artist. I'm sure all of those moody feelings manifested themselves as cruelty." Peyton shook her head. Maya stood and walked to the bins of records, beginning to flip through a few. "I can't believe you still own records. Enter the 21st century why don't you." She tugged on her black concert tee so that it would meet her denim mini. "Though I will give you that you have pretty good taste in music."
"Thank you." Peyton typed a bit on her computer.
"But it does help that you're so much younger than most of the adults I've met."
"I am not that much younger." Peyton twisted a blonde curl around her finger.
"Oh please. Whenever you come to school to pick me up I always get asked, 'is that your nanny?' Then I have to smile and say 'nope that's my mom'. Then I always get the 'you two look nothing alike' comment."
"Do you tell them that it's because you look exactly like your father?" The girl nodded. She had gotten this many times from her mother. How though they looked nothing alike it didn't mean she loved her any less. Peyton smiled at her daughter. Maya had long legs, deep eyes, and a ceaseless broody expression. Maya sighed as she flicked a few more records. Every day that she grew she looked more and more like her father. The blonde hair. The mischievous grin. The eyes that seemed so soulful and pained. And of course the trademark expression. Broody is what Maya's friends had begun to call her. Peyton smiled, thinking of another Broody.
"So I was thinking…" Maya started, her fingers still moving records. "Well you know Jason?"
"Your boyfriend? Yes I believe I've met him."
"Well what you might not know is that he has a band. He plays guitar." Peyton's fingers stilled on her keyboard. She knew where this was going.
"Honey they're still in high school. I really don't think that it would be a good idea to back them. But tell you what, let them all go to college and then maybe we'll reconsider."
"But mom…" Maya turned from the records. "If you sign them and they do well then maybe they won't have to go to college."
"So he stays here and you go to college. It still ends badly."
"Why do I need to go to college?"
"You're going to college," Peyton stated without a hint of question.
"You didn't go to college."
"Maya that was different. I had a baby to take care of. And let me tell you, if I had the chance again I would go in a heartbeat."
"Are you saying that you regret me?" Maya looked to her mother and Peyton stared into her eyes. Eyes just like her fathers.
"Not a chance." Maya didn't say anything, she just stared. "Fine give me the demo, but I'm not making any promises."
"Thank you thank you thank you," Maya squealed as she pulled a CD from her bag and put it on her mother's desk. "I promise you won't regret it."
"I swear if these guys have a sound at all like the Backstreet Boys or Nsync, I'm disowning you." Maya rolled her eyes.
"I promise they don't." She slung her bag over her shoulder. "But I think I might actually go to the library tonight. Get a few more books." She walked behind the desk, kissed Peyton's cheek and then disappeared. Peyton stared after her. Her daughter was growing up and it scared the hell out of her. With a shake of her head, Peyton stood and put the demo CD into the stereo, turning up the volume knob.