Accidental It Girl (25 page)

Funny, I didn't realize I was looking down.

“You fucking him?” cries an American.

“Come on, Sadie. Give us the whole ugly truth and we'll let you walk home,” shouts Phil. “You gonna marry that asshole or what?”

That's my life they're talking about. That's
my
life.

Don't pick your head up. Don't look up. Don't let them see you crack—they feed on it.

I can feel the tingling sensation of a cringe, an angry glare desperately trying to surface on my face. I inhale deeply, and when I exhale, a barely audible groan escapes my lips.

And my heart sinks.

The verbal assault gains momentum. A hail of insults and obscenities are tossed my way.

Finally regaining the strength of his abrasive voice, Phil screams, “Are you loving this or what? Huh, Miss Fucking Perfect? Your career is so fucking over.”

At this, I look up. I can feel my face reddening, my teeth clenching, my fists just begging to go through Phil's lens and deep into his skull. What did I ever do to him? What did I do that was so awful it deserves this in return?

Glancing at my surroundings, I see that we're now drawing an audience. Pedestrians have stopped to watch us pass. They point and smile like they are gazing up at the SpongeBob SquarePants balloon in the Thanksgiving Day Parade. A wide array of faces are plastered to the expanse of huge windows at Starbucks. Traffic slows as passengers and cabbies rubberneck while going past. This is a spectacle, a show for all who are here—an amusement. These men will frame some souvenir snapshots, cutting out the chaos of the other photographers and extraneous passersby, and create a tiny little world where a girl who should be happy, who should be smiling—a girl who kissed a movie star—walks home from the deli looking deeply upset.

When the pictures are on the printed page they'll only tell the story each of these guys wants them to tell. Those crisp glossy images will leave out the bit about how this girl, vulnerable and unprotected, was ambushed by a dozen people who clawed at her and pushed her around while screaming obscenities. The people who see the images won't know that the only reason she looked up from the pavement was the cruelty of one disgusting photographer. And, I suppose, when people look into the pages of
Celeb
and see these astoundingly pointless shots of a woman walking home, they won't notice that I am shaking a little and trying to keep myself from crying. They won't notice that I'm scared or comprehend how lost and lonely I feel right now. They won't know how overwhelming it is to be completely powerless in the face of the scrutiny and the aggression, or that the printed pictures aren't nearly as agonizing as the experience of having them taken. People will probably just glance at the shot and move on, flip the page to a layout of
American Idol
contestants or something equally ridiculous. So I will have been hurt, insulted…I will have gone through all this…for
what
?

I'm just trying to walk home. All I want to do is go home!

This is what Ethan wanted to show me. This is it.

Oh, God, I made people feel this way. I made
Ethan
feel this way. When I followed him that night at the airport, when I walked into that stupid restaurant…I did
this
.

No wonder people hate me.

I feel the tears, only after they begin trickling down my face. The passersby don't look concerned. They just point. The rapid-fire
click-click-click
of the cameras increases steadily, capturing each and every drop as it rolls over my cheek.

Suddenly, there's an abrupt, unceremonious tug at my shirt—from behind. The force of it propels me back, compelling my feet to move with it, or risk being tipped backward and dragged like a tree that's just been felled.

A pair of strong hands grip my waist and force me toward the street.

“What—?” I yelp.

A slow, soothing voice says, “I've got you, Sadie.”

I
expect to see Todd sitting next to me in the cab, but instead it's a disheveled mop of sooty black hair and deep beautiful blue eyes.

“I tried to call you,” Ethan says, touching my hand. “I'm sorry I didn't make it in time.”

I look out the dirty window of the cab, trying hard not to let my emotions get the better of me.

Watching the city go by, I say the only thing that I can think to say, “You win.”

I get it now. I understand it completely. How it hurts to be in the middle of all that, the way that I hurt Ethan, the way that I hurt a million other people. I drew a line in the sand, a line I would not cross, but it was so arbitrary and pointless. It was a mirage. Every time I pointed my lens at someone, I compromised a little part of myself, weakened what few bonds I had with the part of me that believed in unveiling the truth.

All those pictures in those magazines, all those pictures Ethan took of me…they were like mirrors. Showing me that I'm not the person I thought I was. Showing me just how far removed I am from the person I once wanted to be.

Do you know what it felt like being in that pack, having all those people stare at me as I fought and willed my way down the sidewalk? It felt just like when I was little and my mother paraded me around to her friends. All those eyes drilling into me. I swear, I could feel what they were thinking. Just like when I was playing the part of Paige's darling daughter. I've been running from that, but all the while I was slowly becoming just like her. It was like slapping salve on an old wound—masking it, but not healing it. I was oblivious or just unconcerned by how my job—my choices—affected other people. Just like Paige.

 

I walk into the apartment to a jumble of greetings and apologies, and worry. Brooke and Luke look sleepy and startled, while my mother appears to have been primped and polished by a team of stylists. Beside her slick beauty, Todd looks like a rough-hewn caricature. His caterpillars bounce and wiggle as he—and the rest of them—spot my unlikely rescuer.

“Hi,” Ethan says, self-consciously lifting his hand by way of a greeting.

“Hi,” the peanut gallery says in time.

“Sadie, are you—” Brooke tries.

“Not. Yet.” I say, staggering into my bedroom.

 

I drop the squished egg sandwich on my bed and race to the giant Brown Box. Gripping the torn outer edge of the paper, I wrench it down. I rip through the cardboard, shredding it into a thousand little pieces, and finally understand what my mother meant in her note.

Sometimes the things we run away from should be given a chance to catch up. A reminder of things past—and perhaps future.

The contents of the box, quite literally, takes my breath away.

It's a self-portrait I took my last year of college. The self-portrait that earned me the title of Graduate with the Most Potential. Originally a modest eight-by-ten, it's now larger than life.

In the photograph, I'm sitting on a simple wooden stool, wearing a worn-in old white T-shirt and tattered jeans. My hair was shorter then, pulled off my face. In the warm, grayish sepia tones of the photograph, you can see the tension in my muscles, the way my teeth are slightly clenched—defiant. My posture is straight and proud—shoulders back, chest out. My eyes are wide open, piercing through the lens. All I can think now is, That girl has courage.

I looked so happy then, so determined. I was so sure of my future, of what I was going to do with my life. I
knew
that I would be a success. I
knew
that I could make it. Then, two weeks later, my father died. My father died, and I got scared. My father followed his dream straight to the grave, and my mother followed hers straight out of my life. I blamed my choices—to abandon art photography, to abandon my dream—on my father's debt and my mother's unwillingness to help me. But it was my fault. I let go of the portraits because I didn't want to end up like my parents. I didn't want my dream to swallow me up like their dreams swallowed them.

The tears begin again, unstoppable.

A noise over my left shoulder startles me.

“I had it blown up,” my mother says quietly, approaching me.

“Why?”

“So you couldn't ignore it.” She puts her hand on my back, rubs it gently from side to side.

“I've been trying to tell you…in my way,” she says. “Perhaps I haven't said it as well as I should.”

I stutter, “I wouldn't have believed you anyway.”

She puts her hands on my shoulders, forces me to turn toward her, to look her in the eye. “I didn't send this because I'm not already proud of you, Sadie. Portraits, or no portraits, I am proud of you.” She takes a deep breath and exhales by way of a sigh. “Your dad was a good man—kind, loving, generous to a fault—but I know that in some ways he was just as selfish as I was. We both neglected you for these
things
we were so determined to have. Our priorities were completely off,” she says with regret. “I sent this because I don't want you to give up. You survived the chaos your father and I put you through. You can do
anything
. And that includes not repeating our mistakes. Do you understand?”

I nod yes.

My mother gives me a squeeze and then rises to leave.

“Hey, Mom?” I say through my tears. “Thank you.”

She blows me a kiss and slips out, leaving only a hint of rose water behind her.

 

After an hour of staring at my self-portrait, and one long hot shower, I feel strong enough to face the masses.

I step out into the living room. What had been a quiet but steady chatter drops off to complete and utter silence.

“I'm not dying, people,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “Oh, but Todd?”

“Yeah,” he replies sheepishly.

“I quit.”

He nods. “Sort of saw that coming.”

“All right. I need a drink.”

 

Standing in the divot by the window, I look down on First Avenue at the troupe of photographers staking out the entrance to the building.

“Hey,” says Brooke, pressing her head against the window beside me and staring down to the street. “I really am sorry about yesterday.”

“I know,” I reply, trying to see the make and model of a suspicious black SUV double-parked across the street.

“Seriously, Sadie,” she presses, turning around and staring across the room at our motley collection of friends, relatives, and the odd celebrity.

I turn around and join her, leaning my back against the window.

“I did some digging last night,” Brooke says. “I looked into that story Ethan told us about when they were both after the part in
Dereliction of Duty
. I'm pretty sure he was telling the truth. Right after that, Ethan started getting the bad press and rumors of drug use and all that. Duncan Stoke is an asshole.”

“You're over him then?” I pose gently.

“I guess,” she says, shrugging her shoulders.

A hail of rambunctious laughter erupts from Ethan, Todd, and Luke.

Brooke gazes at Ethan and adds, “You know, I think you might have a decent guy there.”

“He's not
my
guy…” Yet.

“Are you worried about the celebrity stuff or…”

I take a deep breath. “No. I don't think so. Not anymore.” I'm not afraid of what any new pictures might reveal. If I can get a good handle on who
I
think I am, I'm pretty sure the opinions of everyone else won't be a problem.

“Good,” Brooke enjoins. “'Cause I think he's a keeper.”

Hmmm…a keeper. I've never had one of those.

 

I open the fridge for another beer, and when I turn around Ethan is standing in the entryway smiling at me. He's pink and warm from the heat, and the beer, and a lot of very boisterous conversation with Luke and Todd.

I smile back, not knowing exactly what else to do.

His face suddenly goes all serious, his eyes doing that world-weary brooding thing they do so well. “I'm sorry,” Ethan says.

“For what?” I ask, taken aback.

“Uh…” he says, “the stalking…criticizing…general
mayhem
.”

“Don't apologize,” I reply immediately. “I should thank you.”

“Oh, please. No problem. Anytime,” he jokes.

“Once might be enough, actually.”

He retorts, “The Yoda toothbrush still hasn't been captured properly…for posterity, I mean. So…”

“Cute.”

“Thanks,” he replies.

“I think we have a problem though,” I say softly. “How do we…uh…” I try to read the tiny movement of his eyes over my face, the little wisp of a smile that seems to be perking at the corners of his mouth. I don't know how much I can say without completely screwing this up. I'm used to
situations.
This is the first time I've ever been interested in having an actual relationship with someone. “How do we make it stop?”

“Make what stop?” he asks, eyeing me with a roguish grin.

“Kissing in front of a kosher deli…torrid love triangle…you and I dating…Any of these things ringing a bell?”

He replies immediately, “You want to stop the stories?”

“Wouldn't
not
stopping them be kind of
inconvenient
for you?”

“Not if it's the truth,” he counters matter-of-factly.

I wait for him to elaborate, clarify,
something
…but he just stares at me with those big blue eyes.

“Help me out here,” I say. “Was that you just saying you want to date?” Ah, must be more specific! “Me, I mean. Date me?” I am like the biggest dork ever.

“Yeah,” he replies sweetly, dropping the roguish thing.

I let the tingling this inspires wash over me and settle in. “Oh,” I say, as an enormous smile bursts to the surface.

“Does that mean you want to? Date? Me, I mean,” he asks teasingly.

I crinkle my nose up dramatically, teasing right back. “Eh,” I grunt. “I don't know. I just quit my job and all…. I've got to get back into the legit photography. I think I might try celebrity portraits. Like Annie Leibovitz…only, you know, not as amazing. Something like that. I'm probably going to be really busy.”

“I have to tell you, Sadie,” Ethan says, inching toward me, “it would probably be best if you lie low for a while.”

“Oh,
really
?” I ask, playing along.

“And the place I'm staying is pretty fantastic.”

“Is it?”

“The room service is outrageous. There's a concierge…maid”—his right eyebrow arches wryly—“in-room
massage
…It's a veritable
who's who
of minions. We could probably survive—I don't know—ten, twelve days without ever leaving the bed.” He smiles at me, practically beaming—his eyes doing that amazing, irresistible sparkling thing they do.

“
Really,
” I reply wryly, “never leaving the bed?”

“And you know, I'm something of a celebrity myself,” he says.

“You don't say…”

He edges toward me, wraps one arm around my waist and slides the other slowly up to my neck. “Maybe you could use me…”

“Are you getting fresh with me?”

“You've got a dirty mind, girl. I mean, you could use me to practice your
photography
.”

He tips his head down and his lips meet mine. It's a kiss so slow, soft, and intense that it's almost paralyzing.

Ethan pulls away. “Did I mention there's a minibar? If we play our cards right, we might not have to leave till fall.”

I'm beginning to think he doesn't hate me anymore….