Shooting Stars (6 page)

I give her Wendy’s number.

“Everything okay with the brief?”

Melissa had e-mailed it to me. The brief, aka my job description, was straightforward: take as many pictures of Ned as I can get. Anything and everything. Ned in group. Ned sitting by himself. Ned and his new troubled friends. Shoot what ever there is to shoot and let them deal with the legal side of things. I felt slightly sick just thinking about it. “I still don’t really understand what he’s doing at this place,” I say.

“Oh, you know. Getting ‘a little rest.’ All the stars need a little rest now and again from their oh- so- hectic party- going lives, don’t they?” Melissa jokes. “And you know what Ned Hartnett is like. It’s probably something about the pressure of his new album coming out. That he’s overworked himself and it’s all been too much. Blah- blah- blah. He’s such a feeler.

A sensitive soul. It’s why people love him so much.” You’ve got to hand it to Melissa— she really cares. I can’t say I’d want to get on her bad side. “Okay,” I say. My mouth is really dry, and I can only manage the one word.

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“Fantastic. The money will be in your account within forty- eight hours. I’ll see you on the other side, then,” Melissa replies, and then the line goes dead.

For a split second I almost think she means hell. And, considering the job I’ve just taken on, she may well be right.

★ ★ ★

“Josephine Taylor?” A guy in jeans and a checked shirt holds up a sign with my name on it, which I’m surprised I can still read considering how little sleep I’ve had.

“That’s me,” I say, kind of shocked that Melissa used my real name. But then I realize it doesn’t really matter. No one here is going to know my dad is Mike Taylor, King of the Paparazzi. He’s hardly on their radar. And if he’s not, I’m certainly not. Sure, I’ve had a bit of media attention as the elusive, teenage Zo Jo, but I’m hardly going to be introducing myself with my nickname here, am I? And that’s one bonus to going undercover most of the time— no one’s ever sure what the real you looks like.

“Great! It’s just you I’m picking up from this fl ight, so let’s go. Can I take your luggage? Or your backpack?”

“No, it’s fi ne.” Instinctively, I grab onto my bags. I have a lot of expensive equipment in there. I’d been worried it would be confi scated, but Melissa had assured me it wasn’t the kind of place where they need to check your belong-ings. The only thing they were worried about was cell phones, 48

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and they had some kind of interference system to keep them from working. At least this made me feel a bit better about the drugs and alcohol thing— she must have been telling the truth about that if there was no frisking of bags going on.

“Okay then, if you say so. I’m Brad, by the way. I’m one of the group leaders.”

“Mmmm.”

“You’re not sure about coming to stay with us, are you, Josephine?”

No, Brad, I am not. I am not sure about coming to stay with you at all, I want to tell him. The truth is, I’ve already located every exit in the vicinity and am wondering which is the shortest route out of here. Instead, I shoot him a smile.

“I’m sure it will be lovely. And, please, it’s just Jo.”

“That’s the spirit, Jo!” He nods. “You’ll have a great time.

Really reconnect with yourself. You’ll see.” I wish. Somehow I’m guessing the only thing I’ll be connecting with is my evil side . . .

★ ★ ★

It takes around a half hour drive in the minivan to get to the retreat. Brad and I spend most of the time in silence. I’m glad he simply points out landmarks, rather than quizzing me on why I’m headed to the loony bin.

I gulp when the large black electronic gates click shut behind the minivan and we start down the long driveway that 49

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must lead to the retreat itself. Or I’m hoping it does. Either we’re headed for the retreat, or I’ve just joined a cult.

“Ner vous?” Brad turns to look at me, sitting in the pas-senger seat.

I shake my head. “Not really,” I lie, before confessing the truth. “A little.”

Brad chuckles. “It’s totally normal to feel ner vous. But don’t worry. You’ll be right at home in no time.” I seriously doubt that. “I hope so,” I reply, looking out the window. At least the retreat has one thing going for it— it’s gorgeous. All lush and green with lots of rolling lawns and a thick, dark patch of woods off to one side.

“Here we are.” Brad pulls up in front of a large, low modern-looking building, all glass and slate. “I’ll just grab your bag and we’ll fi nd your room. I bet you’re itching to meet your roommate.”

I pause. “I have a roommate?” That’s not going to make things easy workwise.

Brad nods. “I think you’re with Katrina in room twenty.

She’s a great girl. I’m sure you’ll get along.” I guess we’ll have to. I try not to roll my eyes as Brad heads around the back of the van. Thanks again, Melissa.

I jump out and follow Brad and my bag inside the sliding glass doors of the main building. We pause for a second in the foyer, and I am instantly hit with the smell of cafeteria meets institution—mass-produced food and disinfectant.

And it’s quiet inside. Too quiet. All I can hear is the ducted 50

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air- conditioning breathing overhead, like a watchful dragon.

I move my head from side to side. No one is in sight.

“It’s Group A’s meeting time,” Brad picks up on what I’m thinking. “It’s usually a lot noisier than this. Believe me, a lot noisier.”

Good, I think to myself. Because it’s going to have to be a whole lot noisier with a whole lot more people around for me to get away with what Melissa is asking me to pull off. “When does group fi nish?” I ask Brad. “What should I do until then?” Yuck. This is all feeling suspiciously like the fi rst day at a new school.

Brad checks his watch. “There’s only a few more minutes left, then it’ll be time for lunch, which is in the cafeteria down the hall.” He points to his right. “So there’s just time for you to unpack a few things if you’d like.”

“Okay.”

“Let’s fi nd your room. This way . . .” He starts off again, and I follow a few steps behind him. This time we head down a long and silent hallway, passing room numbers 1 through 19 before fi nally stopping in front of 20.

“Well, here we are,” Brad opens the door with a fl ourish.

I peer inside. Two desks. Two beds. Two bedside tables.

Everything new and in a coordinating color— white. One of the beds, obviously taken, has a few things strewn on top, as does the bedside table next to it. “I like the color scheme,” I tell Brad. “Early institution?”

Brad laughs. “You’re a dry one, aren’t you?” 51

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Yes, I think. But the less about me, the better. “The room’s nice. Thanks,” I fi nally reply. I know I need to at least try to get along with people here.

“I’ll leave you to it, then. You’ll hear some music, which will signal the end of group. The dining room is right where I showed you before, but plenty of the kids will come down to their rooms fi rst, so just grab someone if you’re not sure.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll see you soon.” Brad nods and then turns and is gone.

I immediately crack open my bag and unpack my work gear while no one’s around, then quickly unpack my clothes as well, squeezing them in next to the clothes that are already hanging in the sliding- door closet. Everything in there is very girly— not in a frilly pink way, but just very . . . feminine, I suppose. Supple fabrics, muted colors. In comparison, my cargos and jeans and even my jackets and skirts make it look like I’m a member of some kind of street gang. And they’re my girly clothes. Hopefully this Katrina will be the kind of girl who likes to swap outfi ts. Then I’d totally have the girly thing covered.

I stow my toiletries in the bathroom. Katrina has a vast array of lotions and potions also, but I make room for my two- in- one shampoo and conditioner, hair gunk, face wash, lip gloss and SPF 80 tinted moisturizer (papping in the middle of summer on the grimy streets of LA can be brutal on the skin).

Returning to the bedroom, I quickly muse on the setup 52

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I’ve found myself in. Melissa has made sure my laptop won’t be confi scated and will work okay (I’ll need to download shots onto it) by telling the counselors I like to write in my journal on a computer. I’m not sure how I’m going to get Melissa’s shots to her, because I won’t have Internet access, but she’s told me she’ll be working on it, what ever that means.

As far as I’m concerned, that’s her problem. Hopefully she won’t fi nd a way.

I’ve just found a good hiding spot for my fauxPod and am fi nishing double- checking the password protection on my laptop when some kind of music starts up. It sounds like it’s coming over a built- in sound system and like it’s meant to be soothing. And this must mean it’s time for lunch, because almost immediately, I start to hear footsteps outside room 20’s door. Just like I’d gulped at those gates clicking shut behind me just fi fteen minutes ago, I gulp again now. This is it. No more traveling and unpacking. Now I have to go out there and get started. I glance at where I’ve stowed my fauxPod and decide not to take it with me right now. I need to concentrate on scoping out the lay of the land fi rst. After all, Ned may not even be here yet for all I know.

Okay, so . . . deep breath. I shut my laptop, stand up, smooth my cargo pants and T-shirt and head for the door.

Eyes closed, I wrench it open, step out into the corridor and . . .

Bam!

I run straight into something. Or someone.

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Someone’s chest, to be more exact.

I open my eyes with a jolt and look up and then up again until I meet a pair of familiar green ones staring into my own.

“Sorry,” Ned Hartnett says. “Didn’t see you there.” So, it’s not just something, or someone, after all.

“Oh,” is all I can get out of my mouth as I stare at him, transfi xed. Not by Ned himself, but by the light. Because as we stand there, in the gloomy corridor, a cloud must pass by and, suddenly, light enters the building and showers down upon Ned. I realize he’s standing under a skylight. The effect is magical. Almost like he has a halo.

It’s something else.

And the weird thing is, in that moment, I forget all about those other shots Melissa wants. If I had my real camera with me right now, I’d give up that sixty thousand dollars for one chance to take a portrait of Ned under that skylight.

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5

“Lunch,” I say, still standing in the corridor and staring into Ned’s eyes. Obviously, I’ve forgotten how to form complete sentences.

“You’re new, right?” Ned takes a small step back, giving himself some personal space.

I nod, very happy to see that he doesn’t seem to remember me at all.

“That’s your room?” Ned nods at the door behind me.

I nod again. “Twenty,” I say.

“So you’re rooming with . . . ?”

I pause for a second, my brain desperately searching for her name. “Um, Katrina. I think.” Wow. Four words. Does that count as a record? Wait, does “um” count as a word?

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“Oh, great. She’s really nice. I was talking to her a minute ago— she’s already gone to lunch. You headed that way?” With great conversational skill, I nod again, my eyes still fi xed on Ned. Gorgeous, gorgeous Ned.

“Come on then, I’ll show you where the cafeteria is.” He starts up the hallway, half turning after a few steps. “I’m, um, Ned, by the way.”

“I know,” I say, trying to remember how to walk and also trying to squelch the urge to blurt out something totally lame like, “I love your music!” What is wrong with me?

“Sorry?”

Wait, I didn’t just say that out loud, did I? No, it’s okay, he’s asking about my name. “Um, Jo,” I say. “My name’s Jo.” I give him a lame half wave and an undoubtedly goofy grin.

“Nice to meet you, Jo.

We’ve gotta hurry up already,

before all the bacon bits go. There’s always a shortage on bacon bits at the salad bar.”

★ ★ ★

“So, where you from, Jo?” Ned asks me as we keep walking.

That is, he walks and I have to half jog along the corridor in order to keep up with his long legs.

“Um, LA,” I say, after pausing for a microsecond to consider lying. But I’d thought about it on the plane— the fewer lies the better. I expect Ned to then say that he lives in LA, too, but he doesn’t, which is funny because I could tell him 56

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his address if I wanted to. Which he probably wouldn’t think was very funny at all.

“LA, right,” is all he says by way of reply. “The cafeteria’s just down here.” He rounds a corner to the left, and we’re faced with some large glass double doors, one of which Ned pushes open.

As we enter, I scan the large room, taking in the long salad bar placed before a huge wall of glass that showcases the rolling hills outside. There are round tables scattered through-out the room, some reasonably full, others with only a couple people sitting at them.