Map to the Stars (2 page)

“No way. You're making this up. Please tell me you're making this up.” Wynn's familiar freckled face—already sunburned and peeling in June—stretched across my computer screen as she leaned in closer to her webcam. After five days of hassling the building manager, our wifi connection was finally working and I wasted no time in Skyping my best friend back home.

I laughed. “I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.”

“No. No way. It's too crazy. You wouldn't tease me with this, would you?”

I sniffed as if I was deeply offended she would question my sincerity, but Wynn only giggled.

“I swear on all that I hold sacred that this is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,” I told her.

Wynn rocked back in her chair. “Okay, that's just bizarre. It's like you moved to the moon.”

“Seriously. That's pretty much what it feels like.”

“Still . . . Los Angeles . . . ,” said Wynn with a wistful sigh. She and I both knew that if anyone belonged out here, it was Wynn. She was the one with encyclopedic knowledge of every single celebrity right down to their babies' oddball names and astrological signs. Even the parts of her room I could see behind her on the screen were a shrine to glitz and glamour. Gray-bordering-on-silver walls and a (faux) crystal chandelier dangling over her bed. The bedspread had ruffled edges and was shimmering silver too, except for the few remaining garnet beads from an afternoon of BeDazzling eight years ago that went terribly wrong (in our defense, we think the BeDazzler had a defect that probably had nothing to do with us not reading the instructions before beginning).

The only relief from the silver was the chunk of wall behind her bed covered in framed posters of old-time movies:
Some Like It Hot
,
Casablanca
,
Citizen Kane
. Vintage glam all the way. Only a select few people knew that on the inside of her closet door, she had one other, far more current poster. That one was a life-size cutout of one Graham Cabot, child sitcom star turned movie actor, current teen heartthrob, and the object of Wynn's unfaltering adoration (along with the majority of the world's female population between the ages of six and twenty-six). Sure, Wynn's crush was about as teenybopper as they come, but it was all part of her charm, as my mom liked to say.

Without even needing the video feed, I could perfectly picture the shelves circling the top perimeter of the room that Wynn's dad built to house her out-of-control snow globe collection. I also didn't need the camera to show me the empty spot that, until last week, held her
very first one: Clara and her Nutcracker Prince ice-skating around on a small circle of mirrored paper. On my side of the country, I gave the scene a shake and watched a thin layer of flaky snow settle over Clara's ivory nightgown.

Wynn noticed. “Hey, my snow globe made it in one piece.”

“Yup.”

“Did you find a good spot for it yet? Turn your laptop around so I can see what your room looks like.”

“Pretty standard,” I said, complying. I held the laptop over my head and turned in a slow circle. The angle didn't matter much, as the view was mostly the same, 360 degrees. White walls, white drafting table in the corner with a black swivel stool tucked under it, and a black bedspread with a cityscape of buildings marching across it in chalky-white outlines.

“Jeez, Ans, it looks like a carbon copy of your old room. Need me to send you some links to decorating blogs?”

“Yeah, well, I'm still going for the clean, modern look.”

“But you're in the land of movie stars and magic. Have fun with it! Set up a lava lamp and buy a puppy that will fit in your purse. Actually, you should probably buy a new purse first.”

“Oh yeah, I can just see that now. How very ‘me.' Besides, this move isn't exactly all about fun.”

“Well, you're there now. You might as well embrace it.”

I snorted. “I'm trying. Hey, but I did sign up for an event next week at SCI-Arc.”

“SCI-Arc? Is that a new nightclub?”

“Southern California Institute of Architecture,” I told her. “They have this really cool lecture series and there's one next week where all the graduate students present their theses. Plus, there's an exhibit on—”

I stopped speaking when Wynn put her head in her hands and pretended to snore. When she heard my silence, she looked up and smiled. “Are you done yet? Forget columns and arches and . . . okay, I don't actually know any other architecture terms, but forget them all and get your scrawny ass down to Laguna Beach so you can send me videos of hot surfers doing their thing.”

“I know, but—”

Wynn plowed on. “Better yet, take some surfing lessons of your own. Once you get a tan, you could totally pass for a surfer babe with that beachy-wavy thing your hair does. You know I've known you forever and ever and I have no choice but to love you exactly as you are, but really, Ans, you're gonna have to stop acting like my grandmother if you want to make new friends out there. And you
better
appreciate how bitter it makes me to coach you on finding my replacement.”

As if I could replace Wynn. It didn't even warrant a comment. Instead I answered, “Sorry if I can't make myself get all worked up over the latest kiwi-seed diet or a seven-hundred-dollar cell phone case.”

“Wasted. That place is totally wasted on you,” Wynn said with a grin. Then her expression turned more somber. “Seriously, though, what do you think this means? Your mom getting fired so fast? Think you'll pack up and move back?” Her voice went up a little at the end,
like she couldn't quite hide the glimmer of hope.

“I really don't know. I doubt it, though. With things the way they are with Dad, I think she'd rather have more than just a country between them, and so would I.”

Wynn gave me a look of sympathy that made me bite down hard on my lip to keep tears from spilling over. Then she said, “I saw him the other day, ya know. He looked terrible. He was at Mac's buying mulch and when he saw me it seemed like he wanted to cry. I'm not sure if you want to hear this but, um, he told me to tell you how much he loves you.”

“You're right, I don't want to hear it.”

Wynn dropped her eyes to her desk and quickly changed the subject. “Well, I give your mom credit. Imagine living somewhere your whole life where you were the total bomb and giving it all up for a chance at a brand-new life.”

The living somewhere my whole life part I could definitely relate to. Being “the bomb”? Not so much.

I answered Wynn. “Yeah, well, her bravado's gone missing. You should see her now. She's been on a tear ever since she recovered from her mini-meltdown. Three guesses what she's doing now?”

“Uh-oh. Does it involve an apron with our kindergarten handprints on it?”

“Yup.”

“Oatmeal raisin or chocolate chip?”

“Oatmeal raisin. Joe's on his way over and they're his favorite. She called him freaking out on our drive back down from the Hollywood
Hills.”

“Hollywood Hills . . . ,” Wynn breathed in awe. “Whatever you do, you have to figure out a way to stay there through Thanksgiving. My plane ticket's nonrefundable.”

“Ha! That's like a
lifetime
from now.”

Wynn looked over her shoulder. I couldn't see who was standing in her doorway but I assumed it was her little brother from the face Wynn made. Confirmation came when Wynn said, “Tell her I'll set the table in five minutes. What? Just tell her, Toe Cheese!” She tossed something balled up in the direction of the door, then returned her attention to me. “Sorry, gotta go. Hang in there, okay? Text me tomorrow and let me know what's happening.”

I nodded, waved good-bye, and clicked end on the session. Despite all we'd talked about after, the part of the conversation that lingered was Wynn's comment about my dad, and I sat for a moment, trying to push my feelings to a far corner of my head. I was usually pretty good at that. I needed to get my emotions under control before I saw Mom or we'd just loop right back into the way things had been at home before the move. Before the move, but
after
we found out what my dad had been up to. Even though things weren't exactly going according to plan out here, I knew how much Mom needed this fresh start, and I didn't want to be the one dragging her back into all the drama.

The timer buzzed in the kitchen and brought me out of my fog. I took a few steadying breaths before venturing out to see how many racks of cookies were cooling, which was sure to give me some indication of Mom's mood.

It was worse than I'd thought. There must have been four dozen cookies, maybe more, spread out on every surface of the tiny kitchen and spilling over onto the table in the living room. I was just yelling for Mom about the buzzer when there was a knock and a head poked around the front door and into our apartment.

“Ya know, this isn't Shelbyville, ladies. You might want to get in the habit of locking your front door.”

The disembodied head waited patiently until I offered, “Come on in, Joe.”

Then the rest of film producer extraordinaire (to hear him tell it, anyway) Joe Ribinowitz strode into the room. His eyes lit up when he spied the bounty of Mom's afternoon bakefest. He paused to inhale the smell of warm oatmeal and vanilla. I slid the next batch out of the oven and switched off the buzzer.

“Your assistant said this was a safe neighborhood,” I accused.

“Well, of course it is. By Hollywood standards. But this complex is mostly people in the industry and you have no idea what desperate people starved for a role—and probably even regular starved from dieting for that role—are capable of. There are some kooks out here looking to land their shot at fame. And never, ever underestimate those stage moms. The things they'll do to get Junior a speaking line . . .” Joe gave a whole-body shudder that culminated with him subtly snatching a cookie off the cooling rack on the counter. “Where's your mom?”

“Not sure,” I was answering, just as Mom appeared in the doorway to her bedroom at the far end of the hall.

“Hey, did you get the cookies out? Oh, Joe! Thank God. Finally a friendly face. How on earth did I let y'all talk me into this move?”

I had to admit, when Joe first started hanging around Grandma Madge's salon last winter as he recruited extra stylists for his production and, a few weeks later, landed at our kitchen table, I was pretty sure he was putting the moves on my mother right under Dad's nose. If anyone in pinprick, dusty Shelbyville was going to catch the eye of a visiting film crew, it would be Mom, with her glossy honey-butter hair and her chirpy “Hey, y'all”s. People told her all the time that she was the very definition of a Southern belle, and she had the Miss Georgia Peach sash to prove it.

My mom's sweet as a peach too—she'd probably never even see the seduction coming. But it hadn't been like that at all. Joe was every bit as friendly with Dad and he'd been a really good friend to Mom when everything went down. He was the one who made the move out here happen.

Oh, and plus Joe was gay. Kinda missed that important detail.

So now I'd finally begun to take him at his word; he was in it for the oatmeal raisin.

He answered Mom. “I'll tell you how the hell you let yourself get talked into it. Because I didn't get where I am in this godforsaken industry without learning how to get any
one
to do any
thing
.” Joe polished off a second cookie and reached for a third. “Plus, you're far too talented for a town so small it doesn't even have a Starbucks. Who knew places like that still even existed? Criminal. You belong in the big time. The city of angels will open her gates for you two celestial
beings.” Joe ended with a typically dramatic flourish that would usually have Mom in giggles.

Instead she snorted ruefully. “I don't know about that. I can't even stay employed for an entire hour.”

“Well, what did I tell you about those A-listers?”

“You said stars are just shinier versions of regular people.”

“I did?” asked Joe. “Huh. I think I must have meant douchier versions, not shinier.”

My mom shook her head, a small smile fighting to break free. Joe saw it too and went in for the kill. “Anyway, you, my sweet, are on to bigger and better. I had my assistant's assistant make some calls and, as they say in the biz, everything's coming up roses.”

“Really?” Mom asked as she drizzled cream into Joe's coffee. I scooted my chair in and propped my elbows on the table.

“Well. It's not ideal. For me, at least. I'm gonna have to dive back into my freezer supply of oatmeal raisin. Though these batches will hold me over for a bit. I can have them, right?” he asked.

Mom waved her hand over them, eager to move past talk of cookies. “They're yours. Now, back to the job, please.”

“By any chance do you ladies have passports?”

My mom and I exchanged a puzzled look. “No. Neither of us had ever left Georgia before last week, much less the country.”

“Okay, no worries. We can get a rush job on a couple in two, three days tops. First stop is New York anyway, and you should be there through . . . wait, today's Tuesday, so Wednesday, Thursday . . .” He ticked days off on his hand until my mother and I both screamed
“Joe!” at the same time.

Joe looked startled. “What?”

“Are you fixin' to tell us what the job is?” my mom asked with exaggerated patience.

“Oh, right. Sorry. Guess I should have led with that.”

He leaned in and smiled.

“Do you two happen to know who Graham Cabot is?”

Dear Wynn,

Like the Statue of Liberty on the front of this postcard? That's about how close Mom and I got to it from the Staten Island Ferry yesterday! This city is amazing. I haven't slept at all since we've been here. Keep an eye out for a package. One genuine NYC snow globe on its way. Miss you!

Love to Shelbyville,

Me

P.S. Tomorrow Mom and I start our new jobs with Graham Cabot . . .

I slapped the stamp onto the corner of the postcard and set the alarm on my phone for 2:07 p.m. on Saturday afternoon. Shelbyville's only mailman, Michael, timed his route to the minute and I knew
exactly
what time my postcard would flutter through the slot in Wynn's kitchen door. I wanted to see if I could hear her scream eight
states away. I was betting on yes.

It had been hard enough for me to keep it secret for the past few days.

Graham Cabot.

When Joe spilled the news that he found Mom (and, by extension, me) a gig replacing Graham's hair and makeup artist for the press tour of his new movie,
Triton
, I nearly snorted cookie crumbs out my nose.

We were talking Graham Cabot, keeper of an entire generation of young girls' hearts. Not mine, of course. But still.

I mean, to be honest, I've never really been one for the whole unrequited crush thing. I'm fairly certain I was the only girl in Miss McConnell's fourth-grade class not carting my crustless PB&J around in a Zac Efron lunch box (Wynn had three different ones, so she could alternate designs depending on her mood).

The idea that any of my friends tucked away in single-stoplight Shelbyville would even encounter, much less seduce and happily-ever-after with any of
High School Musical
's East High Wildcats was too preposterous to even consider. So why waste all that energy on . . . yearning. I mean, really, what was the point?

The funny thing was that, when I first broke the news to Wynn about our move out west, she was totally convinced I was going to step off the plane and into the waiting arms of a swoon-worthy movie star. Even after I reminded her we'd be driving.

“You know what I mean,” she'd insisted.

Only I hadn't. I knew Mom was going to work in showbiz but I didn't really think it would be a big part of
my
life. I was mostly
hoping to survive transferring schools before my senior year. Now at least I knew I'd have a killer topic for my “What I did on my summer vacation” essay.

Apparently a lot of people in Hollywood owed Joe favors and he'd worked me in on the gig too, as Mom's assistant. When I protested I didn't know the first thing about hair (other than how to shampoo it and sweep it off the floor of a salon) and knew even less about makeup, he'd promised it was just a glorified title. He'd further insisted every studio-funded promotional tour was chock full of people who didn't actually
need
to be there. (“If stars can bring their Scientology gurus on the road with them, you'd better believe the studio will fund your trip. Plus, they owe me,” Joe had laughed.)

Our job with Graham was slated to be six weeks of travel that included stints in New York (
Triton
US press junket), London and Paris (
Triton
promotional appearances), Barcelona (
Triton
opens film festival), and Venice (where else would you hold a premiere for a movie that revolved around water?). Which, for me, translated to: Chrysler Building/Empire State, Big Ben/St. Paul's Cathedral, the pyramid at the Louvre, every Gaudí building ever built, and Palladio's Church of the Redeemer. Architectural tour of a lifetime. I couldn't wait and I really didn't care whose nose I'd have to powder to go!

So far it had not disappointed.

Even the place where the studio put us up in New York had me mega geeking out. The Carlton Hotel, designed by famous architect David Rockwell at the pinnacle of the art deco era, was literally in the shadow of the Empire State Building. Granted, our room on the
fourth floor had an unremarkable view of the office building on the other side of Madison Avenue, but the view from Graham Cabot's suite on the twelfth floor, where Mom and I were setting up a makeup bonanza, was an entirely different story (no pun intended).

Perfectly framed in the center of the bedroom's arched window was the Empire State Building in all her gleaming glory. If it was possible to be smitten with a hunk of metal, I was totally there.

“Hey, are you going to earn your keep on this trip or what? Quit it with the googly eyes and grab me that bottle of hair gel, would you please?” Mom's voice cut through my reverie.

Turning my back on the postcard view, I squeezed through the pocket doors separating the bedroom from the living space and trudged over to the glass dining room table that Mom had commandeered as her workspace. Yes, dining room table. In a hotel room.

“Just give me a hand here,” Mom said. “This is the first chance I've had to unpack this stuff and I want to make sure it all got here in one piece, so I can get it organized and at least mostly packed back up before Graham arrives. I'm sure he wouldn't appreciate us taking over all his space.”

I glanced around a room that would likely echo several times over. “Um, I think he could probably find somewhere to squeeze in.”

“Not the point. After the whole incident with Billy Glick, the last thing I want to do is start off on the wrong foot. I want to be as professional as possible.”

“Prick,” I mumbled.

“Excuse me, young lady?”

“Oh, I was just saying Billy ‘Prick,' not Billy Glick. It's my new pet name for him.”

Mom gave an appreciative smile as she stacked eye shadows into a small tower, then dove back into her bag. “Oh hells bells!” she exclaimed, with her arm elbow deep.

“What's wrong?”

“One of the foundation jars cracked and the whole bottom of this bag and all the makeup brushes in it are covered in beige goop. Shit!”

“Mom, relax. We're in New York City. We've seen more Duane Reade drugstores than yellow taxicabs.”

“Yes, but these are professional makeup brushes. I won't be able to find anything like them at a corner pharmacy.”

Oh. Just another reason why there were likely about eleventy billion people on the planet more qualified to be an assistant makeup artist than someone like me.

Only in Hollywood can you get paid a salary and sent on a European adventure to NOT work. That said, I wanted to help my mom just because she was my mom and I hated seeing her stressed like this. God knows she's had enough of that already this year.

“Okay, okay. But all those runway models have to shop for beauty supplies somewhere, don't they?” I asked.

Mom took a deep breath and exhaled. “You're right. I'm just so nervous I can't think straight. I'm going to call the front desk.”

A few minutes later she had a pad of paper covered in scribbles. “Okay, the concierge gave me a bunch of addresses for supply stores and there's one that's in the Garment District, not all that far from
here. Graham's schedule doesn't show his plane landing for another three hours, so we have some time. Damn, but one of us should stay here and get this stuff in order. Do you mind?”

I didn't mind, though I wondered how Mom was going to handle the big city on her own. Our drive out west was the only time either of us had ever had a need for our phones' GPS, and we hadn't exactly mastered the NYC subway during our sightseeing ventures. But at the moment she was all hectic energy and didn't seem concerned about it. She bustled around the room, grabbing at bags and peeking inside for damage.

“I really have to figure out some other carry-on options so I don't have to check this stuff next time.”

I shrugged. “Aren't we flying to London with Graham's whole group? I'm guessing maybe a private plane doesn't have overhead compartment limitations.”

Mom straightened up and swiped a piece of hair out of her eyes. She looked at me for a second and then burst into laughter. It was nice to see the shadows in her eyes receding.

“Oh, my sweet girl. How did this get to be our life?”

I grinned in return and listened carefully to her instructions, then pushed her out the door with promises that I would call housekeeping for Windex and get everything else arranged into a lovely display for the one and only Graham Cabot.

After forty minutes or so, I had all the tubes and jars sorted and the items I thought we'd need neatly stacked on the mirrored sidebar. I'd managed to track down glass cleaner, and the table and sidebar
twinkled in the sunlight. I'd even walked the dirty paper towels to the trash bin outside of the elevator so they wouldn't mar the cans in the room.

When I returned, I ventured back into the bedroom to stare transfixed again at William Lamb's masterpiece. Seriously. How does someone design a building as amazing as the Empire State Building? If I peered closely, I could make out ant-size people movements at the top, where the observation tower was. I remembered thinking the same about the size of the people
below
when I'd been up there myself the day before.

After a few minutes, the sightseeing of the day before started to catch up with my legs. I parked my butt, somewhat guiltily, on the very edge of the bed. The room had the muffled hush of a funeral parlor. Which was weird, because our room eight floors below was full of the sounds of the city outside. Maybe Fortress of Silence was on the amenities list up here. Wouldn't surprise me.

It really was
especially
quiet, which gave me the courage I needed to scoot back a little farther onto the bed. And then convinced me that no harm could come from me lying down on the far edge of the bed. I placed my feet above the folded duvet at the base so as to not leave any evidence of my indiscretion and to give myself a fighting chance of springing up when I heard Mom's key card. After a few minutes I stretched out a teensy bit more and nudged my head onto the pillow. How was it that even the pillows were so much better up here? Ours were deluxe, but these were goose-feathery amazing.

I lay on the bed, squinting at indistinct movements on the
observation deck and trying to figure out how someone could pull such an elegant design out of their head. When I felt my eyes closing, I gave in, figuring Mom couldn't really get that pissed. Everything in the living room looked perfect and with one quick snap of the duvet and a fluff of the pillows no one would even know I was ever here. . . .

“You have GOT to be kidding me! AGAIN?”

I jerked upright and peered through sleep-heavy lids at five strangers standing over me. The voice was one I'd grown accustomed to hearing coming from Wynn's television set at every one of our sleepovers.

Graham Cabot.

“Let me through. I'll handle this.” A man roughly the size of a Transformer and missing any hint of a neck pushed past Graham with a speed that was alarming for such a beefy physique.

He plucked me from the bed and deposited me on my feet, exerting as much effort as if I were one of the downy pillows and not actual-girl-sized. I was too disoriented to speak. I blinked a few times in utter confusion while my brain slowly computed that this was not a dream.

It was, in fact, a nightmare.

Graham squared his shoulders and looked at me—well, really more like
through
me—like I was a mosquito on his camping trip. I'd had the chance to study, really study, the golden flecks in his hazel eyes every time I'd sprawled across Wynn's bed and stared up at her ceiling (back in the day, Wynn hadn't been so shy about her crush, and a younger life-size Graham had had a far more prominent spot
than the current one on the back of her closet door), but in the airbrushed version they didn't flash with anger the way they did now. I mean, sure, they were fairly delicious either way, but I was a little too freaked out to take
too
much notice of that. Or the fact that neither of Wynn's life-size posters were exactly accurate. Actual life-size Graham was way taller. And pissed. Clearly, clearly pissed.

He practically spit his words out. “Look, I can't even begin to tell you how messed up this is. Where do you get off breaking into my room? What did you think exactly? That I'd walk in and find you on my bed and decide, ‘Well, sure! I mean she's already here, so . . . Why not have my way with her, make her my girlfriend, marry her even! Hey, I know, let's start a family.' Is that how the scenario played out in your mind? Because let me tell you, the only one you might be starting a family with is the guard in juvie, which is where you're headed.
If
they don't decide you're better served in a mental hospital.”

He turned his attention to his entourage, specifically the beefy bodyguard. “Roddy, can you call the front desk?”

The other three adults were busy looking everywhere but in my direction, as Roddy grunted, “I'm on it” and reached across Graham for the phone.

That was enough to snap me fully awake. “Wait, I can explain . . . ,” I murmured. Granted, I should have shouted this, but c'mon, this was me we were talking about.

Graham snorted. “Look, I don't want to know how you bribed the guy behind the front desk or flashed him your ass or whatever you had to do to get the key to this room. I'm not interested in the strawberries
and champagne on its way up here or the bubbles you brought for a bath. Don't you realize you're the third girl this year, in as many cities, to pull this exact same stunt?”

He paused and gave my bedhead ponytail, ratty jeans, and gray Kansas State School of Architecture T-shirt a disdainful once-over. “I'll give you credit, at least you don't look the part.”

Oddly, this was the thing that finally ticked me off. It was totally out of character for me to not be tripping over my apologies right then and I definitely started out feeling guilty about getting caught in his bed, but
c'mon
! It was an innocent mistake. I certainly hadn't had some grand seduction scene planned out.