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Authors: Allison Rushby

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“Cryptic?”

“Well, the guy said it was from a ‘Melissa’ and she needed any ‘life skill ideas’ you have. Urgently.”

“Oh.”

“Does that make sense to you?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Unfortunately, it makes perfect sense.”

★ ★ ★

After some good, hard thinking, I send Melissa something— an e-mail. In it, I tell her things are just getting interesting and 145

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that the shots will be ready by tomorrow. I attach the photo of the squirrel, however, telling her the scenery is beautiful.

Just to annoy her.

I did consider sending the shots. Especially since I now know there’s some kind of game being played here. What stopped me is that I’m not sure what it is, or who it’s being played on. And I want to fi nd that out fi rst before I send Melissa anything.

By seven thirty the next morning, I am down by the lake, waiting for Not- Ned. Seeing as it’s summer and all, I hadn’t thought to bring even a light sweater. But then I’d forgotten I wasn’t in California anymore and that it was getting close to fall.

Stupid Boston. Why couldn’t these people all “fi nd themselves” in a warmer place, like Hawaii? Hawaii would have been perfect.

After what feels like forever, but is probably about fi fteen minutes, I get my fi rst glimpse of Not- Ned approaching and the exact thing I’d been hoping wouldn’t happen, happens. I get this jolt straight through me and have to think about kissing Seth again. As Not- Ned gets closer, I hold my breath, not wanting to smell him. See? That’s how messed up I am. I can’t believe I just thought about smelling him. That’s weird.

When Not- Ned reaches me, he doesn’t say anything, or even acknowledge my presence, he simply grabs my arm and keeps walking, pulling me behind a large tree.

Somehow, I get the feeling there won’t be any kissing 146

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going on during this meeting. “Oh yeah, good idea,” I say, tugging my arm away and hoping my cheeks aren’t coloring, because I’m sure I’m the only person

here who was even

slightly hopeful that something other than talking was going to happen between us. “Because everyone else is going to suddenly feel like a quick paddle in a canoe right about now and we’ll be completely exposed.” He gives me a look and I cross my arms in response. “So?” Now that we’re on track, I am all about the professionalism. I am here for one thing and one thing only— the truth. And he’d better make it snappy.

In front of me, Not- Ned sighs. But it’s more of an I-don’t-know- where- to- start sigh than anything else. “Start anywhere,” I tell him. “Maybe even with your real name.”

“I guess that’s as good a place as any.” He smiles a small, reluctant smile. “Hi, I’m Jake,” he says, “Ned’s older brother.”

“Nice to meet you, Jake.” My voice drips with sarcasm.

Always nice to fi nally fi nd out the real name of someone I’ve already kissed. “Anything else you’d like to add, perchance?” He opens his mouth, then closes it again. I decide to prompt him. “Okay, so you’re the brother who lives in New York, right? You must be pretty close in age.”

“I’m eigh

teen months older,” Jake continues. “Our parents split when we were about twelve. Ned was working, of course, so he stayed with our father in LA. I chose to live with my mom and move back closer to her family in New York.”

“You could be twins.” I give him a slow once over. “Or maybe not. How long have you been covering for him?” I try 147

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to remember the last time I saw Ned Hartnett actually sing in the fl esh and can’t recall how many years it’s been. He’s made appearances— on TV, on the red carpet, and so on—

but any of those appearances could have been Jake pretending to be Ned. For all I know, those rumors about Ned weighing fi ve hundred pounds and being stuck in his house could well be true.

Jake raises an eyebrow. “We’re very alike, but not close enough. Obviously. And how long have I been covering for him? Not that long. Two years, tops. And only every now and then. I can’t believe you noticed. No one has before.” He shakes his head.

I watch him for a second or two before I respond. “I . . .

tend to notice things.”

Jake laughs slightly at this. “So you’re a bit of a Ned Hartnett fan, are you?”

I think back to the night Ned had been taken away by the ambulance and realize now that it had been my one true sighting of him—Ned Ned. The real one. But the Ned Hartnett who’d picked me up off those concrete steps had been Jake Ned. And then I feel my face get hot as I realize the truth of my secret star crush.

I’m not a bit of a Ned Hartnett fan.

I’m a bit of a Jake Hartnett fan.

It had been Jake who picked me up off the ground. And it had been Jake doing those fake faints the other night, too.

Pretty much anytime I’d taken shots of Ned Hartnett, I’d 148

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been taking shots of Jake. Except for the night of the ambulance. No wonder Jake was getting away with pretending to be Ned. As far as the public was concerned, he was Ned.

“Where’s the real Ned, then?” I ignore Jake’s embarrassing fan question.

Jake looks over the expanse of still, cold water. And at the ground. And at the sky. “Um . . .”

“Come on,” I say. “You know you’re going to have to tell me. And I don’t think you’re a very good liar, to tell the truth.

You may as well just come out with it.”

He looks back at me. “I don’t think you’re going to believe me when I tell you.”

“Try me,” I say. “You might be surprised.” There’s a pause as Jake stares at me, almost as if he’s trying to gauge whether he can trust me or not. And I don’t know whether he decides he can or can’t or simply realizes it’s pointless wondering about whether he can or can’t,

because I’m all over what he’s up to, anyway, but he does decide to keep talking. “He’s still in LA,” he says quietly. “In a psychiatric hospital. Getting treatment for a phobia.” As Jake stares at me, waiting for my reaction, I deliber-ately don’t give him one. Instead, I take the information in. I digest it. And when it gets all the way down to my gut, I fi nd that my gut doesn’t reject it but instantly believes what he’s telling me. Jake is telling me the truth here, the truth about what is really going on with his brother.

“That’s why I’m here,” Jake rushes in before I can reply.

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“I’m the decoy. In case anyone goes looking too hard for Ned, I’m him— getting some rest from stardom.” He doesn’t sound too impressed with this plan, which piques my interest, because if he doesn’t want to be here, why is he here at all?

I frown, a couple things not adding up for me at this point, but I decide to let Jake keep going with his story, and when he’s done, I’ll see how things tally at the end. But Jake seems to have stopped. “What kind of phobia?” I fi nally prompt him.

“I was afraid you might ask that,” he says.

No. Really? As if I wouldn’t.

Jake bends down and picks up a pebble. I watch as he steps forward and throws it, skimming it across the lake.

It skips fi ve times.

“Whenever you’re fi nished showing off your Boy Scouts skills . . . ,” I say as he reaches toward the ground again.

“I’m guessing you aced your impersonation badge.” He stands upright once more. “Fine. Ned has . . .” He hesitates. “It’s . . . Ned has a problem with . . .” He stalls again.

“Jake,” I butt in. “Please. Just get it over and done with. I’m starving. I’m starting to get very bored. Ned has a problem with . . .”

Jake sighs another one of his sighs. Poor guy. He’s probably never sighed so much in his life before he met me.

“Crowds,” he fi nally answers, running one hand through his hair. “Ned has a problem with crowds.”

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I laugh when Jake tells me this. I actually laugh out loud.

“You know the part where you said I wouldn’t believe you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I don’t believe you,” I say, and laugh again, maybe even louder this time. “Ned Hartnett has a crowd phobia?

Come on . . .” Now I really think this is about drugs. Or alcohol. Or both.

I take the opportunity to quiz him on the other stuff that doesn’t make sense to me. “So, what you’re telling me is you’re pretending to be Ned in a retreat so that no one guesses Ned is in a retreat. How does that make any sense whatsoever?”

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Jake’s eyes home in on me now, suddenly sharp. What-ever I’ve just said, it hurt. “Let me rephrase that for you,” he says, after staring at me for a moment. “I’m pretending to be Ned in a retreat so that no one knows Ned is in a psychiatric institution.”

“Oh,” I say, his words piercing my skin. Suddenly the whole idea makes a lot more sense.

“Despite the lip ser

vice it gets, mental illness is still

pretty socially unacceptable. Sure, it’s fi ne to have a little issue with violence or drugs or alcohol. But live a clean life and have a small problem that you need psychiatric help for and you’re labeled as mentally unstable. For life.” Jake turns away now, sounding very angry indeed. His back to me, he shrugs slightly. “I guess you can believe me or not . . .

but that’s the truth.”

I think about what Jake’s just told me and come to the conclusion that— and believe me, it pains me to think it—

the plan is a sound one. At least this way, Ned can get the help he needs without being hounded by the press. And if Ned is reaching out for treatment, there’s no way I’d want to keep him from it with my camera— though I know plenty of others who wouldn’t think twice about it.

We stand like this for a while, in silence. And I am not one of those silly blond pink princesses who carries a puppy in her purse and goes around saying “OMG,” but OMG. He really is telling me the truth, I realize, focusing on the black fabric of his jacket. As I stare at it, I remember the other day, 152

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in the canoe— when I’d reached out and touched his back. I get the overwhelming sense that I want to do that again—

touch him. But, this time, I don’t.

“Want to fi ll me in on how a world- famous singer can be scared of crowds?” I ask Jake after some time. “And how no one knows about it?”

He turns back to me. “No one knows because Ned is good at hiding it. You know enough about him to know that he doesn’t make that many appearances.” I nod at this, because it’s true. It’s all part of his allure.

“Keep going,” I say.

“And our father . . . he’s pretty protective.” You can say that again, I think. It’s also why, whenever Ned’s out in public, the crowds, not to mention the paparazzi, go absolutely wild for him. There have been times when a grainy shot of Ned would have fetched more than a clear one of Sasquatch.

“So, this crowd thing. This is new to Ned?” Jake shakes his head. “No. Old. Very old.” He pauses for a second. “And it’s all my fault . . .”

I’d laughed just moments before. Ned Hartnett, scared of crowds. But, over the next few minutes, as Jake fi lls me in on Ned’s phobia, I don’t feel like laughing again. I don’t feel like laughing at all. In fact, as he tells me what happened to get Ned to this point and how it was “all his fault,” as the expression on his face contorts as he returns to that place in time, I’m so taken aback by what he tells me that I almost 153

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feel like crying. And that is saying something for me. I don’t cry over just anything. Or for anybody. Let alone the people I shoot on a daily basis.

Jake tells me all about how, as a child, Ned had almost been crushed to death at a ball game. Jake and Ned’s father had put Jake in charge of Ned for a few minutes and had gone to speak to someone. When the ballpark’s fi re alarm had been set off, the crowd they were caught in surged and Ned was injured. “One minute he was there,” Jake says. “I had a clear line of sight and the next, I could only see parts of him. Getting pushed and shoved. It was like he was being pulled under. Drowned.”

I shake my head as I listen to Jake’s vivid retelling of the event. His expressions are so raw, it’s as if he’s almost there again, reliving the moments he’s describing to me. And as he talks, I fi nd myself really wanting to reach out and touch him. There’s a second where my hand starts to move toward his and I have to force it back. I feel my face get hot again, remembering our kiss last night. “But none of what happened is your fault,” I fi nally tell Jake. “I mean, how old were you?”

“Almost ten. Ned was eight.”

“Oh, Jake. You

were a child yourself. It’s not your fault something happened to Ned, it’s your father’s.” Ugh, that Matthew Hartnett. He really is a piece of work. And obviously always was.

“It’s not his fault. I didn’t stay where I was told. I went 154

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down a few rows to get a closer look at the game, and that’s when everything happened.”

“So you weren’t with Ned?”

“I was a couple rows away. I couldn’t get back to him.” Jake shoves his hands in his pockets and looks out at the lake.