Shooting Stars (10 page)

Brad starts group by having everyone tell me their names and where they’re from, gets me to give a short intro, then moves on to talk about the afternoon’s workshop.

“It looked like everyone had a great time,” he says. “Anyone learn anything in par tic u lar that they want to share?”

“I learned that my balance is as shot as it was a week ago!” Katrina pipes up.

“You might think so, but I saw you on that wire. You don’t give up, Katrina. You’re a fi ghter. You mastered it in the end.

You really tried.”

“Yeah, well. Trying doesn’t cut it at ballet school, unfortunately.”

“And how does that make you feel?” Brad leans forward.

“As over it all as I was a week ago,” Katrina says, and crosses her arms.

“Anyone else feel that way?” Brad looks around the group.

Everyone remains silent.

“Jamie?” Brad chooses to single out Hood Boy. “It was great to see you join in with the juggling activity.” Seth does his usual guffaw. “I don’t think someone 86

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throwing a ball and it bouncing off you really counts as

‘joining in.’ ”

I have to force myself not to sigh out loud. If only Seth was my target, I’d feel more than fi ne about taking shots of him for cold hard cash all day long.

Brad ignores his comment. “Seth, it was great to see you bonding with Group B. You got right in there with the acrobatics.”

“Yeah,” Seth replies, probably not smart enough or fast enough to turn this around into something nasty. And I can practically read Brad’s thoughts. Poor Seth. Attacking to get rid of his pain. Yeah, right. I’d bet my trigger fi nger Seth attacks not because of his pain, but because he’s a pain in the you know what and always was.

Oops.

I must shake my head slightly or something with this thought, because Brad’s attention turns to me now.

“Jo. You did well toward the end of the workshop.”

“Um, thanks,” I say slowly.

“But there were a few issues at the start. Did you want to talk about that?”

No, I think. But somehow I’m guessing that’s not the answer Brad is looking for here. “No issues.” I shrug slightly, reminding myself to keep this light. Light and nonspecifi c.

“You mentioned a few things about trust . . . ,” Brad says, urging me on.

“Mmmm.”

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“Where do you think those thoughts came from?”

“Um . . .”

Brad looks down at the clipboard he’s carry ing. “You mentioned before that you live in LA.”

“Yeeesss,” I agree, wary of being trapped.

“And you live with?”

I glance around the group and see that everyone is waiting for an answer. For a split second, I think about making up some whole other life, but know I’d just trip myself up at some stage or another. Anyway, it’s not like I even need to lie. They won’t be able to link me to my dad or my work, so I decide to tell a version of the truth. Truth lite, I’ll call it. “I live . . . with my dad.”

“That’s a good start.” Brad nods. “And he’s happy that you’re here?”

I pause. Unless Wendy’s told him, my dad doesn’t exactly know that I’m here. “He’s fi ne with it,” I say slowly. “He’s in Japan for the next week or so, anyway.”

“He’s in Japan?” Brad says. “For work?”

I nod, realizing I’ve already said more than enough for Brad to go with.

“Does he travel there often?”

I shrug. “A bit. But my cousin lives next door, so it’s fi ne.”

“And your mom?”

“I just have my dad,” I say quickly, not really liking where this is going and already feeling more than slightly trapped.

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“Which is fi ne,” I add. “It’s not a problem. I like it that way.

He likes it that way. Everyone’s happy.”

“That’s good.” Brad nods.

“Works for us.”

“Great!” Brad says. “So, if you could choose what your life would be like, completely change it overnight and wake up tomorrow, you’d choose the same setup? Everything the same?”

I take a deep breath. Oh, please. This is just like the trust bit again. He’s twisting my words. “As if anyone would.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well, everyone would change something about their lives, wouldn’t they?”

Brad pauses for a beat or two. “Would they?”

“Wouldn’t you?” I zing back.

“I don’t think so.”

“Then you’re a lucky man, Brad.” Man, what a liar. I can guarantee he thinks he doesn’t get paid enough.

“I am a lucky man, but back to you, Jo. How about you?

Is there something in par tic u lar you’d change?” I’ve just about had enough. If he thinks I’m going to admit to a fantasy of a mom, a dad, a brother, a dog, and a white picket fence, he has another think coming. I look serious for a second. “Probably the toaster. It’s way too deep and my waffl es always get stuck at the bottom and I have to fi sh them out with a knife. Of course, I unplug it fi rst and 89

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everything, because even though my dad works away a lot, I’m really responsible, but it’s very annoying. It’d be nice to have pristine nonstabbed toaster waffl es every morning.

That and there’s a dog across the street that barks at three a.m. that I could happily murder.”

Across the room, Ned laughs slightly, then coughs.

“Sorry.” He moves in his seat.

Brad’s attention only fl ickers away from me for a second.

That is, until a whimpering sound starts up from Seth that makes all of us turn and look at him. Suddenly, without warning, Seth stands up, his chair falling behind him. “I’m just so angry. With myself. With my parents. With my brother.

With the world.” He starts to cry and sort of choke at the same time. And then the most amazing thing happens— this weird, random snot bubble accidentally emerges from his nose.

We all stare at him, openmouthed.

Brad looks around the circle. “I think we might continue our discussion tomorrow, Group.” He stands up and moves over toward Seth, who is now blowing his nose and looking a bit embarrassed and confused at what just happened.

“Seth, why don’t you come into my offi ce and we’ll chat.” Wow. How about that. I feel bad about what happened to Seth and everything, but there’s no doubt about it— the guy has good timing.

★ ★ ★

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The rest of the day goes pretty smoothly. At dinner, there are a few questions here and there about my dad being away a lot. The people who ask aren’t even prying, they mostly want to check out how they can set up the same kind of life-style for themselves, which is pretty funny, since it’s just everyday life for me. After dinner everyone heads back to their rooms, or hangs out in the communal living room watching TV.

“Um, Jo, right?” A guy I’ve seen around the place, but who isn’t in my group, approaches the couch I’m sitting on in the living room with Katrina.

“That’s me,” I say, and glance up.

“Phone message for you.” He passes me a slip of paper.

Before I can ask him anything

else, he takes off again. I

unfold the piece of paper. “Just checking in on you,” it says.

“Always here if you need me, Wendy.”

“It’s from my cousin,” I turn and say to Katrina. “She watches out for me.”

“She lives with you?” Katrina asks.

I shake my head. “Next door. But she’s really cool. She’s a fl ight attendant and gets to meet the most amazing people.

And she cracks me up— she likes to tell people our living arrangement is all set up like Friends or Melrose Place. Just without the ugly naked guy or weird lady with the wig.”

“Sounds like fun,” Katrina says. “More fun than having two sisters, anyway. Those two would walk over my dead body just to get my hair straightener.”

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I laugh at this. “You wouldn’t trade them,” I tell her. The thing is, I barely know Katrina and I’ve already heard a lot about her sisters. The three of them are obviously pretty tight, despite living in different cities.

“Not today, anyway. Ask me again when I get back home and you might hear a different story!”

I fold the note up again. “What I don’t get is why they didn’t come and fi nd me when Wendy called? I mean, I must have been right here.”

“No phone calls.” Katrina shakes her head. “We have family phone call night and that’s it. Unless your counselor thinks a call is necessary, or what ever. It’s just that a lot of the kids here can get hassled by their families for various reasons. We’re supposed to be having “me” time, remember? To be honest, I don’t really know how you even got a message.”

“Oh, right.” I do. Wendy could charm anyone into doing anything.

“Well,” Katrina’s eyes move back to the TV, “there’s only so much Bachelorette I can take. I’m going back to the room.

What about you, Jo?”

I glance at her as she gets up and then take another quick look in Ned’s direction. He’s still watching TV, too.

“Maybe soon. You never know. Someone could beat someone else to death with that last rose. It might happen.” Katrina laughs as she starts off. “In your dreams.” During the commercial break, I continue to pat my 92

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fauxPod that’s been stowed in the front pocket of my hoodie since dinnertime. I’d managed to take a few shots of Ned eating, but so what? Hardly very exciting stuff. And sitting in front of the TV . . . wow. Big deal.

Thinking about him, my eyes move in Ned’s direction again and collide with his. Quickly, I move them away, only to fi nd them moving back again, uncontrollably, mere seconds later. He’s still looking at me. Busted, this time we both fl ash guilty smiles.

We go back to watching TV after that, but something plays on my mind as I watch— that smile of Ned’s. For an instant there, it seemed different again. That is, Ned seemed different. I wish I could put my fi nger on what ever it is that’s bugging me about him lately. It’s defi nitely something, that’s for sure.

When the show ends, Ned’s smile is still on my mind, and I fi nd my gaze sliding back toward him again.

Oops.

Our eyes collide once more.

And, this time, Ned really laughs. He gets up and comes over to sit closer to me. I try to remain calm, but I think my heartbeat may be giving me away. It’s practically louder than the TV.

“Sorry to stare,” he says.

“You weren’t staring,” I tell him.

Ned doesn’t reply, but stares at the TV instead, where some vividly colored cereal is dancing around in a kid’s 93

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bowl, while some mother type tries to convince us it’s actually healthy. Mid- vitamin- and- iron statement, he turns back, his eyes focusing in on me. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot this evening— what would you really change?” I suck in my breath a tad too noisily. Ned’s expression is serious and his gaze intent. He’s looking for a real answer here. Not a Brad answer. “I . . . ,” I start, before changing tack. “You fi rst.”

Ned bites his lip for a second, but his eyes don’t move from mine. “Almost everything about my dad,” he snorts slightly. “That’s a given.”

I get a mental picture of Matthew Hartnett. I don’t blame him.

He looks away now. “And there’s something I did in the past. A stupid mistake.” He’s silent for a moment or two, thinking, before his focus moves back to me again. “You?” I stare into his green eyes and want to give him the answer he deserves, so I tell him the truth. “I don’t think there is any one thing. There’s something I’m working toward and I’ll get there in the end. But it’ll take a while.” I’d never spoken more than a few words to the stars I shot on a daily basis until I’d met Ned. And now I wondered whether I could still do my job if I got to know them like this— as real people. I feel that tightness in my stomach repeat and refocus as I stare at a spot in the distance.

Silence.

Ned looks at the TV again, me at a worn spot on my 94

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jeans. As we sit there, just for a moment I let myself imagine what it might be like to be normal— just a normal girl (fi ne, a slightly messed- up version of a normal girl) sitting here next to Ned. A girl who wasn’t a paparazzo. A girl who could . . .

turn around and kiss him. Just like that. Completely out of the blue. Because she so desperately wanted to.

I let myself imagine this, but just for a moment.

“Can you change your stupid mistake?” I blurt out way too fast, not even thinking about the words as they exit my mouth. They’re so unexpected, they must come straight from my subconscious.

The silence that follows is almost unbearable, even with the TV droning on in the background.

He doesn’t look at me. “I can’t go back, but I’m trying in a different way. I hope it works.” He glances at me now. “I really hope so.”

What ever it is, it looks like it hurts. And in that moment, I feel awful for Ned. He seems suddenly so . . . real. Not a target, but a living, breathing human being that feels things.

What ever he’s thinking about, he’s concentrating on it so hard it’s almost tangible. It seems as if it’s hanging between us by a thread and I know that even if I could take a shot of this moment, it’s something that might not show up.