The Mistaken Masterpiece (14 page)

Cam looks puzzled. “You’ve had her since he left?”

“Yeah, why?”

“It’s just strange. I’m staying at the St. Regis Hotel, and whenever I get a break from shooting, I drag Will out and do some exploring in the park. I’m not supposed to skateboard, in case I break my neck or something. I could swear I saw Tillie with somebody else—at least I don’t
think
it was you—Monday or Tuesday of this week. It was by the ball fields up above Ninety-sixth Street. And I’m sure she was calling Tillie’s name.”

“That probably
was
me. Tillie and I were up there by the Conservatory Garden with my mom. It’s her favorite place. Mom’s, that is. Although Tillie seemed to enjoy it, too. Funny we didn’t see you.”

At that moment, Nate Etan bursts through the Perkatory door, stopping just inside so everyone has plenty of opportunity to admire him. Or at least that’s the way it looks to us.

“Jeez, what an entrance,” Leigh Ann gushes.

“Hey! There they are! My favorite girls. And my favorite co-star! Hey, buddy!
Comment allez-vous?
Sorry I’m late—I had a meeting with my publicist and totally lost track of the time. She’s trying to get me on all
the talk shows next week—you know how it is. Busy, busy, busy.” He looks around the room. “So, where’s my girl? Where’s my Tillie?”

“I’ll go get her,” Margaret says, clearly annoyed at him. So much for celebrity worship on her part. Maybe it’d be different if he was a musician; I’ve seen her blush just running her fingers over her idol’s violin.

I sneak a peek at Cam, who seems to share Margaret’s (and Raf’s, now that I think about it) feelings about Nate Etan.

I make all the introductions around the table, and Nate is very charming, shaking hands with Andrew, Raf, and Sean. I have kind of a weird moment when he and Raf meet, and I cringe when Nate calls him Ralph.

“It’s
Raf,
” Raf and I say together, but it’s already too late. In Nate’s mind, I can tell, the good-looking kid with the great hair is going to be Ralph forever.

He seems to have forgotten completely why we were meeting at Perk—the Blazers’ gig—until he realizes that Becca, Leigh Ann, and I are all still wearing our faux blazers. “Oh, yeah, your band. The Jackets, right? I
totally
forgot. Did I miss it?”

“The
Blazers,
” Becca corrects. “And yeah. We only know a few songs, so, you know—”

But once again, Nate’s attention-span-challenged brain has already moved on; he spots Margaret coming back with Tillie.

“There she is! Hey, Tillie girl!” he shouts.

Tillie, however, wants nothing to do with him. She ducks under the table between Raf and me and puts her head on my lap.

“Tillie,” I say. “Come on, girl. It’s okay.” She presses her head harder against me.

“Maybe she’s nervous because of all the people,” Leigh Ann says.

“This is crazy,” Nate says. “Tillie! It’s me.”

With Ralph’s—oops,
Raf’s
—help, I coax her out from under the table so Nate can at least get a good look at her and pet her. She sits there stiffly and lets him do it, but she never takes her eyes off me.

“I’m really sorry,” I say. “I swear I’m not doing anything special to make her like me more.”

“Well, at least I know she’s being well cared for,” Nate says, forcing a smile. “Which is good news … because, I, um, have to go back to London, and I’m going to be there a little longer than I thought. So, what do you think, Sophie? Can you hang in there a few more days? I was paying you forty a day, right? Let’s make it fifty, okay?”

“Uh, actually it already was. Um, sure,” I say, avoiding eye contact with Margaret. “She’s no trouble.”

Margaret’s eyes grow wide and she practically chokes as she stops herself from screaming at me. (I know I’m going to hear all about it later.)

“Are you okay, Margaret?” Raf asks.

“I’m fine. Just a little … surprised.”

• • •

Raf’s mom, sadly, is still not budging on Raf’s eight-thirty curfew, so he and Sean need to be out the door by eight in order to catch a crosstown bus. Before he goes, I get exactly two minutes alone with him on the sidewalk outside. I’m still new to this world of dealing with boys as, well,
boys
, but something is definitely different. He’s distracted, and doesn’t want to make eye contact with me.

“All right—what’s going on?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Nothing.”

“You really can’t stay longer?”

“No. My mom … well, you know.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“Yeah, well, I’m sure you’ll still have fun without me.”

“Raf, you’re not seriously jealous, are you? Of Nate? Or Cam?”

“N—nooo.”

But he can’t look at me.

“Raf! Come on! This is me—Sophie! Those guys are just … I don’t even know what to call them. In a few days they’ll be gone forever. You—and me—that’s different. Really.”

I throw my arms around his neck and pull him toward me, giving him every opportunity to kiss me.

But he doesn’t do it.

The door to Perkatory opens, and as Sean starts up the steps, Raf gently pushes me away.

“I’ve got to get going,” he mumbles.

I watch as he and Sean shuffle off into the darkness.
I wait for him to turn around and wave like he always does, but this time he doesn’t. And suddenly I feel sick to my stomach and have to sit down for a few moments.

I try to console myself by telling myself I didn’t do anything wrong and that Raf is just overreacting. Yes, Nate is gorgeous.
Really
gorgeous. And rich. And famous. But … wait, I do have a point to make here … oh, right! Raf and I have history. We’re real, and Nate is just make-believe. Beautiful, but make-believe. Have I mentioned how good he looks?

But no matter what I do, I can’t seem to get rid of the lump in my throat. A few minutes earlier, I was actually happy that Raf seemed jealous, but now I’m just a mess of conflicting emotions. This whole boy thing really is going to be tough, isn’t it? I’m not quite thirteen yet, and I’m already thoroughly confused.

I sit on the stoop outside Perkatory for a few more minutes, collecting myself before going back in. Nate starts to say his good-byes a few minutes later. He glances nervously at his watch, refers vaguely to another “important” meeting downtown, and then buttons his coat.

“Um, Nate,” Cam interrupts, “I thought you wanted to meet with me. You made it sound like it was really important, so I canceled dinner with my grandparents tonight. I hardly ever get to see them.” He looks like he’s going to cry.

“Sorry, dude,” Nate says. “I really gotta go. I’ll send you an email. Ciao.”

Exit Nate Etan, stage left
.

Enter reeeaaallly awkward silence, stage right
.

Leigh Ann, with her super-cheerful nature, is just the one to break it. “So, you’re staying at the St. Regis. We’ve actually been there—to the King Cole Bar. It’s kind of famous.”

“And they make a mean pina kidlada,” I add. “You know, if you’re into pineapple juice.”

Cam finally cracks a smile. “I’ll have to check it out. Gee, do you think this whole situation could be any
more
embarrassing? Seriously, it’s just fantastic. In a few hours, some stupid blogger will be telling the world all about how Nate Etan totally blew me off at some East Side coffee shop.”

“Well, nobody’s going to hear it from us,” Margaret says. “We wouldn’t do something like that.” Her eyes twinkle mischievously as she adds: “No matter how rude you were to us the first time we met.”

Cam’s mouth drops open. “That was
you
, that morning in the catering tent—when I was on the phone. Oh my God. The way I acted, I wouldn’t blame you if you did send pictures to one of those stalker websites. I am so sorry. You have to believe me when I tell you I was having a really bad day.”

I must not be doing a very good job at hiding what I’m thinking, because he smiles and shrugs. “What, you think because I’m a movie star I don’t have bad days?”

“Well, except for that part about you being a movie
star, that’s
exactly
what I think,” I say. Margaret, Becca, and Leigh Ann nod enthusiastically in agreement.

“I see,” he says. “Listen, I’m starving. How about we go out for pizza and I’ll tell you the whole sad story? And I want to hear about this whole red blazer thing. You guys must know a good place around here. Of course, it won’t be as good as the pizza in Chicago, where I grew up, but I’ll survive. C’mon, I’m buying.”

“Whoa,” Becca says, not budging from her chair. “Nobody’s going anywhere. Did you just disrespect New York pizza? In front of four New Yorkers?”

Cam, who is already on his feet, freezes when he sees us all still sitting there with arms crossed. “Boy, they aren’t kidding about that whole New York attitude thing, are they? Okay, let’s try this again. You know, I hear that New York pizza is the
greatest
pizza in the world, and I am just
dying
to try some.”

Becca stares him down. “That’s better. What do you think, guys? Trantonno’s?”

“Perfect,” Margaret and I say in unison.

“Chicago-style pizza,” Becca says, smirking. “As if.”

We’re on our way out the door when Aldo, the manager at Perkatory, shouts, “Sophie! Don’t leave. I almost forgot—someone left something for you. Didn’t see who it was.”

The cardboard box he sets on the counter is smaller than the one that held the mysterious and still-unexplained
brass bowl. Printed across the top, under my name, are the warnings “This side up! Do not turn over!”

“
Another
strange package?” I say. “When did you find it?”

Aldo scratches his scraggly goatee and hands me a knife to cut the tape. “Right before you went onstage. But, to tell the truth, it could have been sitting there for a while before I noticed it.”

I fold back the top of the box and remove an ordinary clay pot—the terra-cotta kind—full of dirt. That’s right, dirt. There’s nothing growing in it—no orchid, no bamboo plant, not even a weed. Dirt.

I sigh loudly. “What
is
this? Why would someone send me a pot full of dirt?”

“Maybe something is going to grow out of it,” Margaret says.

Which is not the most unreasonable thing I’ve ever heard.

“Is there a card? Instructions?” asks Leigh Ann, peeking into the box.

“Nope. Nada. Just like the bowl. Do you think I should water it?”

“I wouldn’t,” Becca says. “It might be something poisonous. Or one of those giant Venus flytraps. You fall asleep one night, and when you wake up, that thing is having
you
for breakfast.”

“Wow.
Somebody
has a vivid imagination,” says
Cam, who moves in to get a closer look. “And
you
have a secret admirer. How romantic.”

“Real romantic,” Becca scoffs. “A cruddy old bowl and a box of dirt. Woo-hoo. Can we eat now?”

As usual, Becca has a point, but I can’t help thinking that there’s more to my strange gifts than meets the eye. Is it possible that Raf has something to do with all this? As I trudge along the sidewalk behind everyone (except Cam’s bodyguard/tutor, who follows a few steps behind me), I find myself wishing it was Raf’s hand I was holding rather than Tillie’s leash.

I don’t know if we fully convert him or not, but Cam certainly seems to enjoy the pizza at Trantonno’s; he eats half a pie all by himself. And he makes up for his behavior on the movie set by picking up the check. Yesssssss!

The funny thing is, when he first walked in the door at Perkatory, all I could think about was how much I didn’t like him. I mean, he showed all the signs of being the worst kind of stereotype: a conceited, sort-of-talented Hollywood brat. But by the time we all say good night and go our separate ways, I feel kind of sorry for him—even though he’s heading for a room at one of the nicest hotels in the city! Sure, he has money and a really cool job, but at the end of the day, he seems like a lonely kid. He doesn’t really go to school, and he doesn’t have any close friends because he’s always moving around. When we told him about the adventures of the Red Blazer Girls Detective Agency, he seemed positively jealous of
us
. As I’m walking home with Margaret and Leigh Ann, who’s sleeping over at my apartment, I realize that I wouldn’t trade my friendships for anything Hollywood could offer.

Leigh Ann and I stay up way too late talking (actually, I do most of the talking, about the situation with Raf and Nate—if what’s going on can even be called “a situation”) and watching a DVD about a girl who dreams of dancing in a ballet company in New York. We pay dearly for it in the morning when Tillie, who sleeps late for a change, wakes us at six o’clock by pulling the covers off the bed and licking our faces. Very subtle, Tillie.

Leigh Ann’s own dance class doesn’t start until nine, so I talk her into a nice long walk in the park with the devil dog.

“I’m going to let her off the leash,” I say. “I think I can trust her. And she needs to
run
.”

And boy, does she ever run.

Suddenly she is no more than a black blur, going in three directions at once. Chasing squirrels. Stalking birds. Playing with the other dogs. It is exactly what she needs, and watching her makes me smile so much that I forget how annoyed I am that she woke me up at six on a Saturday morning—a Saturday morning that I didn’t have to get up for swim practice, to be precise.