Secrets of My Hollywood Life: There’s No Place Like Home (21 page)

“Yes, I need a ticket to Boston for today,” I say clearly, and try not to side-eye Liz and Austin.

“I have a flight leaving in an hour. The ticket costs six hundred and eighty-four dollars.”

Um… do you think she’d settle for one hundred and ten instead?

“Kate, what are you doing?” Liz shakes my arm, which is sweaty, thanks to the double sweaters. “You don’t have that kind of
money!”

“You just said I had the money to buy Jimmy Choos,” I counter.

“You don’t own Jimmy Choos.” She sounds puzzled. “Are you talking about liking mine?” She looks down and poses. “They are
pretty snazzy, aren’t they?”

But she just said… I am so confused!

“Miss? Do you want the ticket?” The attendant is starting to get impatient.

Liz slaps down her American Express card. “She wants the ticket. She wants three tickets.”

The attendant goes to take the card, and I swipe it from her.

“No,” I say and hold the Amex above my head. “You are not buying my ticket! And you guys aren’t coming with me. I have to
do this alone.”

Liz’s shoulders drop. “But why? Why can’t we come?”

“Because you don’t really want to, you just think it’s the right thing to do.”

“I do want to.” Liz stares at me earnestly, and for a moment I feel like all the sounds of the airport have been sucked out.
“I want to make things right between us, Kaitlin. We’re best friends, or at least we were before all this Hollywood stuff
came between us. I can be a good friend if you let me.”

“Let her pay,” Austin urges. “Aren’t you the one who is always saying how important it is for friends to help each other?”

“You know you need help,” Liz says confidently. “You’re just stubborn! I know you don’t have the money to buy that ticket.
Or the money to get around town. Let’s face it.” She grins mischievously. “Like it or not, you need my plastic.”

I just realized who this Liz reminds me of: Sky. My Sky. And my Sky, as grating as she can be, is usually right.

“What do you say, Kaitlin?” Austin encourages me.

The four of us (the fourth being the attendant) are momentarily distracted by yelling and an annoying clicking sound that
has taken over the departures area. Alexis and her entourage are heading toward the security area. The paparazzi are hot on
her trail, which seems to annoy her to no end. That’s probably because she has bed head and is wearing a velour tracksuit.
Hee hee. It’s tough to hide from the paparazzi, even if you do have a disguise. Most stars don’t even bother with one. The
paparazzi will figure out it’s you anyway.

HOLLYWOOD SECRET NUMBER FIFTEEN: It’s not easy to evade the paparazzi when you’re white-hot. And white-hot is what the paparazzi
want. If your name is Robert or Kristen and you’ve been in a little film called
Eclipse
, then good luck. I can’t help you. My best advice would be to act annoying and hire a P.U.H. (personal umbrella holder).
A P.U.H. can keep the paparazzi from getting a clear shot. The other choices you have are tougher: You need to act boring.
Be in a long-term marriage, move to Texas, stay away from scandal. Or drop out of the public eye completely. If not, you’re
fair game, and quite frankly, what are you whining about? You’ve got money, fame, and the world at your feet. Get over yourself.

Hmm. Where did that come from? That sounds like something Nadine would say to me when I border on bratty celebrity territory.
And she’s right. Right now, I’d kill to have the paparazzi trailing me.

“I do need you,” I admit to Liz. I try not to let my mouth twitch into a smile. Two heads are better than one, and if I’m
being honest with myself, I don’t want to do this alone. I’m scared. If I make it to Boston and I don’t find Nadine, or I
do find Nadine and she won’t help me, then what do I do?

I don’t even want to think about that.

I look at Austin. “Are you coming too?” Part of me wants him to. I always want him there. Even though he’s not who I want
him to be. Just being near an Austin of any kind is intoxicating. It could also be distracting.

Austin shakes his head. “I can’t miss class. I want to get those grades up. Try to get into a better school. Maybe even one
in Boston?” He winks at me. “I think you two have this covered. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I’ll see you when
you get back.” He touches my shoulder. “Good luck, Kaitlin.” He disappears into the busy airport crowd while Liz pays for
our tickets.

I hear the attendant asking for my photo ID and whether we have any bags to check, but I’m not paying attention. I drop my
red bag and zip through the crowd on one crutch, calling Austin’s name. When he turns around, I plow right into him. I wrap
my arms around his neck, lean up on my good toes, and kiss him before he can even react, sending all our crutches clattering
to the floor.

“For good luck,” I say.

And to kiss him one last time, in case the next time never comes.

“Good luck,” he says softly. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

“Me too.” I unwind myself, feeling sort of sheepish as I lean over to pick up his crutches for him, and then back away slowly,
afraid to turn around and for him to be gone. Who knows who I’ll be seeing next time—my Austin, or this one, or no Austin.

I’m starting to get a headache.

“Kaitlin!” Liz is yelling and jumping up and down at the counter. The attendant looks peeved. “We need your ID. NOW!”

I hobble over and don’t look back.

Even if I want to.

I was too tired to look at my watch to see what time we landed at Logan International Airport in Boston. All I know is it
was late. Too late to check into a nice hotel like a Westin. We stayed at the airport motel, paid cash, and shut our phones
off because they were ringing nonstop. Liz said she was extremely achy from flying coach, but she thought if she bought two
first-class tickets her dad might have flown to Boston and escorted her home personally. I hit the pillow so hard I could
have gotten a concussion, and before I knew it, the sun was up, Liz was pulling on a North Face jacket and me a Gap parka,
and we were walking to the T to take the ride to Cambridge. Harvard is smack in the middle of beautiful, brick-lined streets
and historic buildings, and Nadine is hopefully there too.

We just needed to find someone who would tell us for sure.

We spent two hours at the Harvard registrar’s office trying to convince them to tell us whether Nadine was registered there,
but even with my best acting skills, I couldn’t get the girl behind the counter to open up. (Apparently it’s against the rules
to give nonstudents information about actual students.) Liz tried to pay a student to find out for us, but he said it was
unethical. Do all these Harvard types have to be future politicians?

Finally Liz was able to bribe a cute guy in a navy peacoat and a striped beanie cap to check Nadine’s registration. “There’s
no one by the name of Nadine Holbrook registered at Harvard—past or present,” he told us, covering his mouth with his coat
to fight the cold.

“Did you check undergrad?” I questioned, wiggling to get warm. It had to be twenty degrees here, and I could see my breath
as I talked. The sky was gray and sort of gloomy, which was just how I was starting to feel. “What about part-time? Future
registrants? She has to be here! I know she is!”

“Thank you,” Liz said and dragged me away before I could cause a scene. The last thing we needed was the cops wondering why
two eighteen-year-old high school girls were this far from home alone the week before Christmas.

“How do you know your friend Nadine goes to Harvard?” Liz asks me a short time later as we sip mocha lattes in Peet’s Coffee
& Tea in Harvard Square. I remembered Nadine telling me about liking this place when she came to Boston to check out the campus.

At least the real Nadine came here. But what if I’m wrong about this Nadine? What if she’s not in Boston? What if she’s still
in Chicago, or her family moved? What if she doesn’t exist at all? My mind is spinning, my hands are cold from being outside
for so long, and my heart is beating out of my chest.

If Nadine doesn’t exist, what does that say about my other life? Does that mean it doesn’t exist either? How could I have
made all that stuff up?

Celebs lie all the time, I know, but no one makes up a lie this big. This is a Madonna-level lie. You’ve heard of a Madonna-level
lie, right? HOLLYWOOD SECRET NUMBER SIXTEEN: Stars lie. It’s a plain and simple fact. We do. Just like you. And there are
many reasons for it, especially if you’re Madonna. She told the press she was not getting married to Guy Ritchie. Then she
hopped on a plane to go marry him (not that the marriage lasted, but still). A secret wedding you can kind of understand.
Getting drunk—or worse—and appearing on a talk show, and then totally denying it like so many stars I know have done? Not
really understandable. Own up to your mistakes, I say. But stars won’t. Many think they’re the victims in this tabloid-loving
world. They feel like they give their all to their careers and that some part of their life should still be private. I’m all
for it, I just don’t know if it’s possible.

“Kates?” Liz butts into my thoughts. “Did you hear what I said? When was the last time you talked to Nadine? Are you sure
she’s still in Cambridge?”

“I heard you.” I’m feeling too blue to actually make conversation or give her an answer. I couldn’t have made my whole fabulous
Hollywood life up.

Could I?

“What if she went home for Christmas break?” Liz blows a chunk of whipped cream off the top of her confection. “It is just
a week away.”

Bah! Humbug!

“Yes,” I snap, and Liz looks taken back. “Sorry. I’m just frustrated. Nadine has to be here!” How do I explain how I know
this? “Back when she, um, lived in L.A. she always talked about going here and how she was going to enroll right away.”

“Are you sure she had the money for tuition?” Liz frowns. “Harvard looks pretty expensive, even to me.”

I stare out the window and watch the people walk by with bags and wrapped packages that are probably meant for the holidays.
I haven’t even thought of Christmas till today. Is it almost Christmas at home too? What if I miss it? What if no one misses
me?

What if… what if I never get back?

“KATES.” Liz’s voice is louder now. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself, ” she scolds. “You’re going to find Nadine. I don’t
know why she’s so important, but I know you’re going to find her. You can’t give up now.”

I feel sort of teary, and Liz is making me more so. “Thanks. That sounded very best friend–ish.”

Liz smiles triumphantly. “I knew it did. Just like it was best friend–ish when I lent you my favorite Marc Jacobs dress a
few weeks ago for the
Family Affair
DVD party without even wearing it first, remember? What friend would let you do that, huh?”

Family Affair
DVD party? How does she know about that? That final season party happened in my world, not here. And come to think of it,
I did wear Liz’s dress.

“How do you know about the
FA
DVD party?”

Liz looks up from her drink. “What’s
FA
?”

“You just said—” I stop when Liz looks confused.

“I said you have to keep thinking of places Nadine could be,” Liz reiterates. “We came all the way here, and we’re going to
find her.” This is just like my Liz to be this stubborn. “Now think of the other things she told you about Harvard.”

“Well…” I take a long sip of my drink. “She’s wanted to go since she was twelve. She said that Boston was one of the epicenters
of politics, so she’d be in the right place for her future work.” I smile. “She wore the Harvard sweatshirt she got for her
fifteenth birthday so much it fell apart. Her parents didn’t have the money to pay for all her tuition, which is why she got
a job to help cover the costs.” I don’t say that job was working for me. “Nadine wanted to make the money on her own and stop
their fighting. She said her mom would rather be poor than let Nadine pay for college, but her dad argued they
would
be poor if they took out a second mortgage to do it.”

“Sounds like something my mom would say.” Liz taps her long, purple nails on the table. “She said she’d rather be poor than
live in an empty mansion that Dad was never home to enjoy anyway.” Liz says it bravely, but I know the divorce is a sore subject.
Her mom lives in Maine now, and Liz hardly ever sees her. Liz’s expression changes. “Hey. Do you think Nadine’s parents got
divorced?”

I shake my head. “They’re happily married.”

“When was the last time you talked to Nadine? Maybe they got divorced right before she came to Harvard.” Liz is jumping out
of her seat now.

“I guess they could have.” I stir the drink around and around, watching the whipped cream melt and fade away. “But that doesn’t
change things. She’d still be here, and she’s not. There is no Nadine Holbrook at Harvard.”

“That’s right.” Liz is practically gloating now and I don’t get why. “There wouldn’t be a Nadine Holbrook here because she’s
not Nadine Holbrook anymore.”

I stop stirring. “I don’t get it.”

“When my parents got divorced, my mom hated my dad so much that she changed her name legally back to Rosenfeld,” Liz says
animatedly. “I kept Mendes because I’m closer with my dad, but who would Nadine have sided with if her parents’ split got
nasty?”

I give her a look. “This is a stretch, Liz.”

“
Think
, Kates,” Liz pushes. “If they went through a messy divorce, whose name would Nadine have kept? What was her mom’s maiden
name? Do you know?”

I actually do know. Nadine uses it to check me in to hotels because the name is so funny, no one would ever suspect it was
me staying there. “It’s Funkhouse.” I giggle at the thought of it. “She would have been Nadine Funkhouse.”

“You’re looking for Nadine Funkhouse?” the guy behind the counter interrupts. He’s cleaning the countertops with a scary-looking
rag. “She comes in at three.”

Liz and I look at each other in shock. I feel shivers go up my spine.

“I should be on
CSI
.” Liz is beaming. “I have good instincts.”

I look at the clock on the wall. It’s a quarter to three.

Oh. My. God.

I’m going to throw up. Could it really be her? Now she’s Nadine Funkhouse? But why? How? Okay, concentrate.

“Are you friends of hers?” the guy asks as he continues to scrub down the countertop with that grimy cloth.

“Cousins,” I say, and I give Liz a look to keep quiet. “Long-lost cousins. My mom said she worked here.” I grab my crutches
and walk toward the counter with Liz right behind me. “I just want to make sure we have the right Nadine Funkhouse. Longish
red hair, petite, fiery temper, loves to preach to people?”

He laughs. “That’s Funky Funkhouse. But her hair isn’t long. It’s super short. I keep teasing her that she looks like a guy.
She says she can’t afford to grow it long and use all those styling products. She has to save her coffee money for rent.”

Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod! It’s Nadine!

“Okay, now you really have to tell me why we’re here.” Liz has her hands on her hips, and from her expression I know she’s
not going to take “I can’t” for an answer.

My Liz is in there. Somewhere.

“I’ll explain everything,” I say, even though I’m not sure I mean it. “Later.”

“She should be here any second if you two want to wait for her,” the guy adds.

I think I might pass out now. What am I going to say? How am I going to convince her to help me if she doesn’t recognize me?
Liz reaches for my elbow to steady me and leads me to a nearby table. “Are you all right? Why are you so nervous?”

But I don’t hear anything else. I hear the tiny bell above the Peet’s Coffee door ping and the door open. Almost in slow motion,
for me at least, in walks Nadine.

“Gary, get the latte machine whirring because I need a double shot of espresso in my no-fat, no-foam latte,” she tells the
guy behind the counter. “I’ve got a splitting headache.”

It’s my Nadine, all right. Aside from the hair, it looks just like her. She’s wearing a black long-sleeve tee and worn-in
jeans, and she is carrying a Peet’s Coffee apron that she ties with one hand while she removes a dingy green puffer coat with
the other. She sees me and grins. For a split second I think she’s going to walk over and hug me. Instead she makes her way
to Gary.

Nadine has no clue who I am.

She was my last hope, and she looked at me like I was a stranger. Nadine is never going to help a total stranger find her
way back to another plane/dimension, or wake up from a coma. I know Nadine—she’d never believe any of those things.

Would she?

Gary nods to us as he refills a coffee grinder. “Your cousins have been waiting for you, Funky Funkhouse.”

“My what?” Nadine looks us up and down skeptically. “I don’t have cousins.”

“How could you not have cousins?” Liz asks, without skipping a beat. Liz whispers to me, “Why did we say we were cousins again?
Why didn’t you just say who you were?”

This is getting dicey.

“My parents are only children,” Nadine tells Liz and puts her apron on over her head. “No cousins. So who are you? Are you
selling Girl Scout Cookies? Candy bars to raise money for your school? Either way, I can’t help you. The only fund I give
to is the Nadine Funkhouse fund for Harvard tuition.” Gary chuckles, and they turn their attention to two customers who just
walked in.

“Why doesn’t she recognize you?” Liz asks me.

“It’s been a long time.” I stall for time. “She was always, um, bad with faces.”

I wonder if I can get Liz out of here and talk to Nadine alone. I look at Liz again. She’s so curious she’ll never leave.

“We don’t want money.” I hobble back to Nadine’s side of the counter. “We just want to talk to you for a few minutes. We’re
doing a high school paper on coffee shops and working through grad school, and someone recommended interviewing you. Right,
Liz?”

“Sure, whatever she said,” Liz agrees and sits down at our table again to take another swig of her drink.

Nadine looks at me. What was I thinking? Nadine is not going to believe that. Nadine is skeptical about everything. She questions
authority, is type A, and says what’s on her mind. She’ll never listen to us.

“I go on break at four,” Nadine says as she works a latte into a frothy foam.

“Fine, we’ll wait,” I say cheerily, and take a seat next to Liz, who is staring at me expectantly. “Please don’t ask me to
explain all this right now.”

For some reason, Liz doesn’t. Instead she fills the time chatting about benign stuff like Christmas gifts, holiday movies,
and her latest celeb crush (Taylor Lautner—which means she’s got the same crush as the rest of the world). I tune her out
and think of Nadine. What can I say to make her believe me? If she’s here, then I must have a chance to make this happen.
Right?

At four on the dot—Nadine is always punctual— Nadine slides into the chair across from me. She tosses a bag on the table. “Cookies. I thought you guys might be hungry. Gary says
you’ve been sitting here for hours.” She takes a sip of coffee. “I only have fifteen minutes, so fire away.”

“Kates? Want to start?” Liz prods and rests her chin on her elbows as if to say, “This is going to be good.”

I don’t know how to do this any other way. “Obviously we’re not your cousins,” I say. “But we do know each other. My mom and
your mom go way back. You used to babysit for me when you lived in Chicago.”