Shooting Stars (20 page)

For a good thirty seconds or so, I hold it tightly in my hand, my fi ngernails digging into the plastic casing surrounding it, its life in the balance. I want to destroy it so 184

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badly, I really do. But I also know I’m not going to. The fauxPod might have gotten me into this mess, but it’s also the only thing that can get me out of this messy life of mine for good— and into photography school.

In the end, I do throw it. Hard. But only onto my bed. It bounces off the duvet and then falls to the fl oor. As it does, I instantly regret what I’ve done and jump into action, racing over. I fall to my knees and pick it up, cradling it, checking to see if it’s okay.

It’s fi ne. But I’m not. How pathetic am I? I couldn’t have destroyed it even if I’d wanted to; I don’t have the guts. And it’s with this realization that I start crying. I couldn’t even say what for— because I’m way too attached to a piece of tech-nology, because I’m not brave enough to give up a job I don’t truly love, because I’m stuck deceiving people I like for nothing more than money, because I have a mother I’ll never be able to know. Maybe all of those things.

After I don’t know how long, there’s a knock on the door.

“Come in,” I say with a shrug, leaning back against my bed. I don’t have the energy to keep whoever it is out.

“Jo?” a voice says quietly.

Without even turning around, I know it’s Jake. I realize then that he was the one who’d called out to me in the corridor.

“I’m down here.” I hold up one hand.

“Can I come in?”

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“Sure, why not. Join the party.” I don’t even bother to hide my fauxPod. I just don’t care anymore.

Jake comes over to stand in between the two beds, where I’m sitting on the fl oor, my knees pulled up. “You okay?” he sinks down to my level.

I can only sniff.

“Seth’s outside. I think he feels pretty bad. He wants to talk to you.”

“I think Seth’s done enough talking for one day.” Jake sits down next to me on the fl oor. “I know he’s a pain, but he’s also pretty messed up, Jo. His brother died because they swapped their usual seats in the car the day of the accident. And he’s having a hard time dealing with that.

I mean, it doesn’t excuse what he says or does, but it might help you understand why.”

I sniff again. It’s about all I’m capable of right now.

“He told me. About your mom. I’m sorry, Jo. That must be really hard for you.” Jake reaches out and touches me on the arm.

I fl inch and pull away. I don’t deserve his kindness. “She died when I was only a few months old. She took her own life, Jake. She had postpartum depression, but it was more than that— it was all sort of combined with her having been bipolar for a long time. Her parents hadn’t wanted to know, and she’d gotten treatment late and . . . ,” I sigh because it’s a long, involved, sad story. My dad’s told me about my mom’s past, but I’m sure there’s a lot he’s left out.

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“My dad thought she was doing okay after I was born and she was seeing a psychiatrist, just to make sure. But she wasn’t okay. Anyway, what you told me this morning—

about Ned— I get why you don’t want people to know he’s in a psychiatric institution. It’s not about being ashamed or anything like that. The media would just be all over him, and it would make it even harder to get the help he needs.

People don’t understand.” I don’t look at Jake. Or can’t. One or the other.

“That’s a terrible thing to have happen to you,” Jake says, after a while. “It doesn’t get much worse than that, Jo.” I shrug by way of reply. “It is what it is.” I use my dad’s line.

“Don’t say that.” Jake reaches out once more and grabs onto my forearm, making me turn toward him. “Don’t ever say that again.”

Now I do meet his eyes, which are fi lled with concern.

“Why not?”

“Because I know you don’t mean it. What happened to your mom— and to you— it can’t be brushed off in fi ve insig-nifi cant words.”

We sit in silence for a few more minutes and I let Jake hug me to his side. After a while, he asks if Seth can come in. I say yes, mainly because I’m going to have to talk to him at some point and it may as well be now.

When Jake leaves and Seth enters the room, he closes the door behind him and then kind of hovers. “Sit down, Seth, you’re making me ner vous,” I fi nally say with a sigh.

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He does what he’s told and comes over, sitting on the edge of the bed. I swivel around to look at him. For a moment or two, we simply stare at each other. “Sorry,” he says, eventually. “About before.”

I shrug. “It’s okay. We’re all messed up in our own special way.”

Seth nods. “I guess it’s like Brad says: the world would be a boring place if we were all the same.” Sounds like Brad. “And he’d be out of a job,” I say point-edly. The tension seems to loosen as both Seth and I have a good laugh at this, because it’s so true. But when the laughter dies down again, I realize Seth’s pain is so constant and underlying, I could see it even when he was laughing, supposedly enjoying himself. “You’ll be okay, Seth,” I tell him.

“You’ll be different after this, but you’ll be okay.”

“Yeah,” he says after a long pause, the fi ngers of one hand clutching at the comforter of the bed he’s sitting on.

“I’m looking forward to okay. Okay looks like a good place to be from where I am right now.”

Seth doesn’t stay for much longer, but it’s enough for us to make our peace. And it’s not like we’ll ever be best friends, but I know I’ll want to fi nd out how he fares over the next few years. I really do think he’ll be all right. He was telling the truth in Brad’s offi ce, I see that now— he didn’t want to know about my problems to win any bet. He wanted to know because it genuinely pained him to have to sit there in group and share when someone else wasn’t. Which, I hate to 188

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admit, makes a lot of sense. If I were him, I wouldn’t want to, either.

★ ★ ★

That afternoon, we have a choice of activities, and one of them is picnic blankets and reading books on the lawn.

Jake, Katrina, and I sign ourselves up, but I make them promise that there will be no talking. I’m sick of talking.

They are true to their word and we have the best afternoon rolling around on our picnic blankets, half in the shade, half in the sun. I actively make myself not think about anything that’s gone on between Jake and me (I’ve got to stop before my brain implodes), and we don’t talk unless it’s to ask to pass the snacks or to read aloud something funny.

There’s a choice of books (no magazines allowed, which is more than fi ne by me), and I try some Dickens, whom I’ve never read before. It’s actually not too bad—

pretty crazy

stuff. I could totally see him writing something about the world of the paparazzi. You know, if he wasn’t already dead and everything.

My fauxPod and fauxglasses remain in my bag, in room 20. And I barely give them a passing thought.

The funny thing is, I didn’t know I could have a great time without a camera in my hand. But honestly, it’s one of the best times I’ve had in ages.

★ ★ ★

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Brad reminds us before dinner that it’s family phone call night to night. I check the bulletin board— 7:20 p.m. is my allotted time.

At 7:18 p.m. precisely I go out to reception, grab the phone, and sign for my call. Since Katrina’s in the lounge, I take it into our bedroom and call Wendy’s number, hoping that she’ll be home. I don’t think she’s fl ying out again for another day or two, so there’s a good chance she will be.

“Hello?”

“Wendy, hi. It’s me, Jo.” I pull out the white chair tucked under the desk and sit down.

“Hey, Jo! How’s the sanctuary? Elephants giving you any trouble?”

I groan. Melissa could easily be described as a stamped-ing elephant right now. “It’s not too bad,” I tell Wendy, then think of the next phone call coming up. The one I really should make— to Melissa herself. “Yet.”

“Seriously, though, everything okay?” Wendy tries again.

“Yeah, I’m okay. Perfectly . . . safe.” I’m not going to say everything’s been working out fantastically, because it really hasn’t. But I am safe. That’s something.

Well, I’m safe for the next few minutes, anyway. “Thanks for your messages and everything. Sorry I haven’t been able to get back to you. Communication with the outside world here is kind of . . . limited.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“Oh yeah,” I say and laugh a fake laugh. “We’re all 190

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having a ball. Look, there’s not much time, but could you do me a quick favor while I’ve got you on the phone?”

“Sure.”

“Could you check out my bank account details? I want to see if any money’s been transferred into it yet. Because thinking I might have been paid is pretty much the only thing getting me through one minute to the next in here.” I could access this information myself from room 20, given a little online time, but I’m getting jumpier by the minute— and I’m sure they monitor any and all time spent on the Internet.

Anyway, even if I was paid, it’s very possible I’ll have to give the money back, but I want to check that Melissa’s at least kept her end of the bargain so far— you never know with her.

“Of course. Just hang on.”

I hear Wendy starting up her computer, then typing.

“Okay,” she says, and I spend the next couple of minutes directing her on how to get into my online bank account.

When she’s fi nally into the account itself, she starts reading things out to me. The fi rst few transactions are debits. Mostly restaurants. “Geez, Jo, you really should start eating in more often,” she tells me. “Buy some groceries here and there.”

“Yes, dear, wise cousin. Like you do.”

“Hey, I buy groceries!”

“That go bad every time you leave the country.”

“Well, at least I buy them!”

“Wendy! I don’t have very long. Can we argue about my grocery shopping habits when I get back to LA?” 191

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“Okay, sorry. Oh, hang on. Here you go. Holy cow! Yes, you got paid. Yesterday morning. What is this job, anyway?

That’s a lot of money, even for you, Little Miss Richie. I hope you really are safe there. . . .”

“I’m fi ne,” I insist, then I get Wendy to read out the exact amount, which I jot down. “And can you read me the invoice number, too?”

“Hmmm,” Wendy says. “There’s no number, but the payment seems to have originated from one ML Entertainment.”

“ML Entertainment? That can’t be right.” The payment amount is correct for what I agreed on with Melissa, but I should have an invoice number from her paper, like I always do. Not something from ML Entertainment, whoever they are.

Though the business name does ring a bell for some reason.

“And that’s all it says? No invoice number? Nothing else?”

“Nope, that’s it. Just the payment amount and ML Entertainment.”

“Weird.” I get her to run through any and all payments in and out of my account from the day before I left for Boston until now, but there’s no way around it— that money is the money Melissa agreed to pay me. So why is it coming from a company called ML Entertainment? It just doesn’t make sense.

“Okay, thanks, Wendy. I’ll check in again soon.”

“You do that. I’m off for London tomorrow, but you’ve got my cell. You know you can always get me.”

“I know. Thanks again. I mean it. See you!” I say, and hang up.

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I look at the phone in my hand for a second or two and think about calling Melissa, but my fi ngers end up dialing Mannie’s cell instead, praying I’ll get away with one extra call.

For some reason, I do. The person manning the desk must not be paying very close attention. “Hey, Mannie, it’s Jo!” I say when he picks up.

“Jo! I’m just about home. Can be with you in a few minutes. Not bailing on our chat, are you?”

“Not likely.” I shake my head. “Things are only going from bad to worse here. I just wanted to check you weren’t held up. And while you’re here, can you tell me something?

ML Entertainment. Why do I know that name?” There’s a long silence on the end of the line.

“Mannie?” I fi nally say. “Are you still there?”

“No way,” are his words when he fi nally speaks. “Big money. Ned Hartnett fainting the other night. ML Entertainment. You’re on the tail of Ned Hartnett, aren’t you?”

“What?” I say. “How’d you guess that?”

Mannie cracks up.

“What?” I say, frowning. “What’s so funny?”

“Jo, don’t you know your BFF’s middle name?”

“Huh?” I have no idea what he’s talking about.

“It’s Luke.”

“Luke? Who’s Luke?”

“No one. Like I said, it’s your BFF’s middle name. Matthew Luke Hartnett. ML Entertainment. Now do you get it?” 193

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17

“Jo? Jo? Are you there?”

“Talk soon,” I say absentmindedly, giving Mannie maybe

.2 percent of my attention. I take the phone from my ear and end the call, the other 99.8 percent trying to connect the thoughts that are zinging around in my brain, like crazy, superbouncy tiny V-balls.