Shooting Stars (13 page)

Everything is fresh and crisp and I’m reminded we’re a world away from the smog and the hard gray sidewalks of LA.

I give Ned a moment or two and it works. He fi nally runs one hand through his hair and exhales. “Seth’s right. I am a psycho. He was holding a pen and I just . . . lost it. A pen!” I watch him closely. “But why? What’s up with the pen thing?” As if I don’t know.

Ned looks down at me now, as if remembering that I’m even here. He stares for a second, seemingly trying to work something out. If he can trust me, maybe. “I . . . ,” he pauses, looking straight into my eyes. “I thought he was taking pictures.”

“With a pen?” I say slowly.

“It was the way he was holding it up,” Ned glances inside to where Seth had been sitting. “I thought it was a camera disguised as a pen. I hear there are some paparazzi out there who use things like that. Devices. Pens, fake iPhones. Stuff like that.”

I can hear blood in my ears. “But iPhones have cameras in them . . . ,” I say in an attempt to play dumb.

“No, I mean tricked out with a more sophisticated camera.”

“Oh.” I think over what Ned’s saying, then pause for a second. “Weird.” And what’s defi nitely weird is that I’m standing before Ned Hartnett hearing all about the evil paparazzi. And even weirder, that while this is happening, pretty much all I can think about is how gorgeous he is.

116

212-47604_ch01_1P.indd 116

212-47604_ch01_1P.indd 116

5/5/11 4:25 PM

5/5/11 4:25 PM

“It is weird. Believe it or not, there are thirteen- year- old paparazzi out there.”

“Oh,” I say again, paying more attention now. It would be interesting to fi ll him in on how it really is, how the thirteen-year- olds who hang around are pretty much snot- nosed brats who fancy themselves the younger stars’ best friends because they took a shot of them once. “Thirteen, huh?” I add, trying to sound like I’m slightly shocked. “What kind of parents must they have?” Probably ones like mine.

Ned exhales as he squints to see through the glass to the retreat’s main building. “Look, Jo, I don’t want to be rude or anything, but I might head back in. I’m not exactly the best company right now.”

“Um, sure.” I nod. “Of course. Have a good night. Get some rest.”

“Yeah, you too.” Ned turns and heads inside.

I watch him go, practically seeing him in stills as he walks away. Snap, snap, snap. Unfortunately for Melissa, not one of those stills is real.

★ ★ ★

Surprisingly enough, I sleep okay for someone who’s being paid thousands of dollars per day and is not doing her job.

Seriously, sometimes I wonder about my conscience. Then again, if my personality is as close a match to my dad’s as he thinks it is, maybe I never even had one in the fi rst place.

I trudge out to breakfast and shovel in a bowl of cereal, 117

212-47604_ch01_1P.indd 117

212-47604_ch01_1P.indd 117

5/5/11 4:25 PM

5/5/11 4:25 PM

my eyes half- closed, my body unwilling, hardly believing I’m up at 8:00 a.m. I’ve been working all summer vacation and haven’t gotten out of bed before 10:00 a.m. at home. Then again, I haven’t crawled into bed until about 2:00 a.m., either.

As I eat, Katrina sits down at my table, along with a few others from our group. Thankfully, it seems that pretty much nobody is one of those sick, cheery morning people, and so we eat mainly in silence.

“Good morning, everyone!” Brad bounces over and I chalk one up for the sick, cheery morning people. “Ready for a little jog?”

“No,” someone answers.

“Oh, you know you all love it. Katrina? You’re usually interested in getting some exercise.”

“Sure,” she says. “Count me in.”

Katrina is too nice for her own good.

“Jo . . . ,” Brad starts.

I glance up sharply, suddenly awake. I jog only to get absolutely prime shots. I do not jog for fun. No one jogs for fun. But before I can say anything, Brad continues.

“Now that you’re all settled in, it’s time for our fi rst individual session this morning. I’ll see you in ten minutes in my offi ce. Everyone else, I’ll wave as you jog past.” Once Brad leaves, I glance around the faces at the table.

I have never wanted to go jogging so badly in my life.

118

212-47604_ch01_1P.indd 118

212-47604_ch01_1P.indd 118

5/5/11 4:25 PM

5/5/11 4:25 PM

10

“Come on in,” Brad says when I knock hesitantly on his door, hoping and praying and wishing that in the twelve minutes that have just passed, he’s magically forgotten our appointment and has run off somewhere to spread his morning cheer.

Sadly, it doesn’t look like it.

“Um, thanks,” I say, entering his offi ce.

“Take a seat.” He motions to a comfy-

looking chair

opposite him and, I’m sorry to say, not on the other side of a desk, or anything like that. This, I can see, is going to be a

“getting inside my head” half hour.

“No need to look so worried.” Brad laughs slightly. “This is all very informal.”

Yeah, right. I’ve gotten to know Brad a little since I’ve 119

212-47604_ch01_1P.indd 119

212-47604_ch01_1P.indd 119

5/5/11 4:25 PM

5/5/11 4:25 PM

been here, and while he might seem “informal,” he’s also very, very sneaky. I haven’t forgotten the “What would you change?” incident.

Brad spends a few minutes asking me about how I’m settling in and so on and then, just as I’m letting my guard down slightly, he moves in for the kill. “I thought we could chat about the fi rst workshop you did. The circus skills workshop.” Oh, great. And I’d been hoping we were past that.

“You did so well—”

“Let’s cut to the chase,” I say. “You want to talk about the trust thing. Again.”

Brad laughs. “I like your directness, Jo.”

“It saves a lot of time,” I reply, then realize I’m not trying to save time here, I’m trying to kill it, and I really should have let him waffl e until he was due somewhere else. Still, maybe it’s better to get it over and done with. “It’s like I said.

I just think it’s dumb to put people in a situation and tell them to trust each other. Not that I want to argue about it again,” I add quickly.

Brad nods slowly. “I see your point. And, yes, these sorts of activities can be a tad artifi cial, I do agree . . .” I wait for the “but.”

“But . . . ,” Brad starts again. I knew it. “They can also highlight some of our character traits. You’re very in de pendent, aren’t you, Jo?”

I shrug. “I guess. I have to be, don’t I?” Brad’s more than aware that my mother is out of the picture (I wonder what 120

212-47604_ch01_1P.indd 120

212-47604_ch01_1P.indd 120

5/5/11 4:25 PM

5/5/11 4:25 PM

he’d make out of that paparazzo pun if he knew the real deal about me) and my father is currently fl ying back and forth between two countries a couple times a month. And how glad am I now that I decided to go with the truth? I would have been better off pretending to be the child of Melissa— vicious newspaper editor by day and celebrity bloodsucker by night.

“You’re right, of course. You do need to be in de pen dent in a situation like yours. But what I want to talk about is how you feel about that.”

I shrug again. “What’s the point? It is what it is,” I use my dad’s line. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter how I feel about it, because it’s just the way things are. Nothing’s going to change.”

Brad pauses for a second and we stare at each other intently. Finally, he speaks. “But that’s the thing, Jo. You see, it does matter. Because it matters to me how you feel about it.

And that changes everything.”

★ ★ ★

As I shut Brad’s offi ce door behind me, I shake my head slightly. You’ve got to give it to the man— he is a master.

Within the space of the past twenty minutes, he’d managed to get me to acknowledge that it did matter how I felt about my existence. That maybe it was okay to come out and say I got a bum deal. He’d weaseled the basics of my mom’s story out of me (that she’d dumped me on my dad on day three of my life and run off). And then he’d somehow gotten 121

212-47604_ch01_1P.indd 121

212-47604_ch01_1P.indd 121

5/5/11 4:25 PM

5/5/11 4:25 PM

me to admit that my dad didn’t provide the best means of bringing up a kid— how he went through an endless array of babysitters and nannies and then, when I was old enough, started traveling overseas every couple of weeks, leaving only my cousin to watch out for me. “It is what it is” might have worked from my dad’s point of view, but it didn’t necessarily work from mine. And Brad wasn’t looking for me to feel sorry for myself, or to cry and rant and wail and ask my dad to come home, but just to say, “Hey, I deserve better than what I was served up.”

And the weird thing is, as I walk away from Brad’s offi ce, I actually feel kind of good for being able to think this.

Because I know I did and still do deserve better. And, like I’d told Ned the other night, that’s what I’m working toward—

carving out my own life. I remember my dad’s words now, about me not wanting to get out after I’ve been paid the big bucks for this job.

Well, he’s wrong. Flat out wrong.

If there’s one thing I’d gotten out of Brad’s and my little chat, it was a reminder that I’m getting older and wiser. And, as I get older and wiser, I gain control. I control my life and I control what I do.

And what I’m going to do is get through this Melissa business. I’m going to get through it and get out on the other side— where I’ll have a completely different life.

All I have to do now is take the shots Melissa needs, which will set me straight on the path I want: to school.

122

212-47604_ch01_1P.indd 122

212-47604_ch01_1P.indd 122

5/5/11 4:25 PM

5/5/11 4:25 PM

So get on with it then, I tell myself as I start back toward my room with a steely resolve. Get on with it and get out of here.

★ ★ ★

After everyone’s back from their jog and showered, we have two choices for the rest of the morning—

pottery class or

nature walk. Ned chooses pottery, so I do, too. I then sprint to room 20 to grab my fauxPod. While I’m there, I spot my fauxglasses as well and decide to bring them— you never know, we might end up outside for a minute or two. Then I meet back up with the rest of the group as they make their way to the art center.

As it turns out, the art center is in a separate building behind the main block, attached to it by an elevated bridge.

In job mode, I scope out the area as we make our way inside.

Unfortunately for me, the whole place is sort of elevated. I think it might be some kind of architectural design meant to bring in light, because the entire art center is practically made of glass. It’s beautiful, but it immediately puts being outside and shooting through a window out of the question. So, from inside the room it is.

Brad hands us over to the art coordinator, Ellen, who leads us into the room we’ll be using for today’s class. The fi rst thing I notice is that the large windows provide good light and plenty of it. I also register that there’s a choice of eight pottery wheels. I wait until Ned chooses and then take 123

212-47604_ch01_1P.indd 123

212-47604_ch01_1P.indd 123

5/5/11 4:25 PM

5/5/11 4:25 PM

the one that will give me the best view of him and what he’s doing. There are good prospects for some shots here. Some decent shots this morning, combined with the circus skills shots, will keep Melissa off my back for at least twenty- four hours for sure.

I can do this, I tell myself, touching my fauxPod in my pocket, just to make sure it’s still there. It is. How I’m going to get away with using it, I have no idea, but I’m going to have to somehow. My fauxglasses I hang off the neck of my T-shirt. I guess if I get desperate I can use them. Since the room is pretty sunny, the shots would be okay.

Over the next half hour or so, Ellen gives us a quick tuto-rial on how to throw the clay down, center it, open it, pull up the walls, and then trim the base. After this, she gives us all a portion of clay and we’re supposed to get down to business.

The thing about pottery, I quickly fi nd, is that it is a whole lot harder than it looks. When Ellen does it, it all seems very simple. Soothing, even.

It’s not. The clay is rougher than I’d expected and the whole pro cess is dirtier, too. I still have no idea how I’m going to get my fauxPod out of my pocket and take shots of Ned without smearing clay all over the lens. I glance down at my fauxglasses and shrug to myself. I’ll look like an idiot, but that’s happened before. With dirty fi ngers, I pick them off my T-shirt, fl ick them open, and put them on. Seemingly adjust-ing them, I press the silver stud on the right hand side and take a shot of Ned. Then another.

124

212-47604_ch01_1P.indd 124

212-47604_ch01_1P.indd 124

5/5/11 4:25 PM

5/5/11 4:25 PM

“Looking very rock star, Jo,” Katrina says from her seat right beside me, making me glance over.

“It’s a little sunny in here,” I say just as a cloud moves across the sky and the room darkens slightly. “Or it was.”

“Okay,” Katrina replies. But when I look around the room again, I realize it’s not just Katrina who thinks my indoor shades are a little odd. With a sigh, I take them off and stick them back on my T-shirt. It’ll have to be the fauxPod. Again.

I pay attention to my pottery for a while until Katrina gives me an idea. Her fi rst piece doesn’t go well and Ellen ends up giving her more clay. Katrina dumps the fi rst piece on a large sheet of paper that’s sitting on the fl oor beside her, and it’s as I watch the clay hit the fl oor that the idea comes to me. As fast as I can, I wreck mine too by making a well in it that’s far too deep and ask if I can try again as well.

And then, when no one’s looking and everyone’s assum-ing I’m busy with that second piece of clay, I get out my fauxPod, dump it in the well of the fi rst piece of clay, and make the best makeshift fake pottery camera the world’s probably ever seen.