Catch a Falling Star Page 9

  I thought about what it was I would ask him given the chance, given an opening like the one he’d just handed me. My brain whirled with questions: the drugs, the redhead, the Lakers game breakup, but I found myself asking, “Where are your parents?” I knew he was seventeen and that Parker acted as a sort of guardian, but it seemed strange that his parents weren’t around at all.

  He sat back, surprised. “Oh, well, they’re in Hawaii right now. With my younger sister. At least, I think they are.”

  “You don’t know for sure?”

  “We’re not … super close.” There was that look again, the one from the tabloid pictures, like a stage light dimming to black.

  “Were you once?”

  He thought about it for a minute. “Yeah.” A distant rumble sounded. Extra Pickles stood, his tail wagging, his ears alert. Adam looked to the sky. “What was that?”

  Something shifted in the air. “Thunder.” Above us, a swell of purple cloud covered the sun.

  In minutes, the sky opened up, rain pocking the lake, a wind coming up, carrying the fresh scent of wet air, dampened earth. We hurried under the cover of a leafy maple, watching the patchwork of purple cloud cover blue sky, hearing the trees shiver in this unexpected shower. The light dimmed but seemed to sharpen in the rinsed air, like someone had just outlined a watercolor in black ink.

  “Where did that come from?” Adam shook water from his hair and wiped droplets from his sunglasses with his damp shirt.

  “We get these sometimes.” Even as I said it, the rain stopped, the cloud moved on, the sun hit the world, sparking a million glittering shards of light.

  “That” — Adam shook his head, his face washed with surprise — “was beautiful.” Even wet, his hair stayed perfect.

  I watched him take in the sky, the trees, the pond, its surface smooth again, the ducks tracking ripples through its middle. “It’s a beautiful place,” I told him.

  “I love the sky after a rain.” I reached for another jelly bean from the candy bag Chloe’d brought to the roof, lying back and letting the spilled-glitter night wash over me.

  “Where’s Romeo?” Alien Drake poked me in the side. “He too good to hang with us?”

  I waved him away, grimacing at the buttered popcorn bean I’d just eaten. I stuffed a few more in my mouth. “Don’t call him that. And, no, he’s just working. He has a job, you know.”

  “At ten o’clock at night?”

  I shrugged. Technically, I was off duty right now, but I knew enough to know he had said he was working. “Actors have weird schedules.”

  “Yeah,” Alien Drake said. “All those yacht parties must keep him real busy.”

  Chloe chewed a handful of jelly beans. “Seriously, though, when do we get to meet him?”

  “You did meet him.” I shielded my eyes against a flash of headlights coming down the street.

  Chloe groaned. “Ugh, don’t remind me. I’d like the chance to redeem myself, thank you very much.”

  Alien Drake shook his mop of hair. “That, I would have paid to see.”

  She threw a jelly bean at him. “Shut up.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t hear her,” I said, giggling.

  Chloe stuck a jelly-bean-blue tongue out at me.

  Alien Drake pretended to grab at it. “Nice. Does that also come in neon green?”

  “I was surprised, is all,” she pouted, picking out a licorice bean and tossing it over the side of the house.

  “I would have eaten that,” Alien Drake told her, staring after it.

  “I know.” She smiled widely at him.

  Down the street, the car that had passed parked in front of our house. I sat up, watching a dark figure slip from the passenger seat and quietly shut the door. The driver waited as the shadow made its way up our walk and into our house.

  John.

  Chloe and Alien Drake noticed, too. “What’s he doing?” Chloe asked, her voice low.

  I shook my head, the mood spoiled. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good.

  Our basement always smelled like laundry detergent and rain. From the steps, I could barely make out John’s shadowy form moving along one of the back walls. I pulled the string for the overhead bulb.

  He jumped. “Carter!”

  “What are you doing?” I watched as he picked through a pile of boxes and mounds of black plastic garbage sacks. I wondered if one of those bags held the remains of my dance career, if Mom hadn’t actually donated them like I’d asked her to. As I watched him heave aside a wooden dollhouse that I used to love and hadn’t thought about in years, a twinge moved through me at the thought of my dance stuff still down here, abandoned. Basements could be sad things, a subterranean limbo.

  From behind the boxes of Halloween decorations, he unearthed a guitar case, dusty and plaited with cobwebs. “Here it is.”

  “Your guitar?” He hadn’t played his guitar in years. Mom had hidden it, actually, so that he wouldn’t try to sell it. Which was probably what he was doing here. “Why?”

  He brushed at the case, frowning, the light of the swinging bulb barely reaching his face. “Because I thought no one was home, so I wouldn’t be hit with a customs inspection. I’m allowed to get my guitar, okay?”

  “I know.” I watched as he unzipped the case, pulling the slick wood guitar from its tomb. “You going to start playing again?” I could try to be hopeful, could try to imagine him moving forward, this guitar a sign he was finding bits of that old self to patch back together.

  “Yeah, I think so.” His voice held the hollow echo of a lie.

  Maybe I could just hand him a few of the pieces, just to get started. “Remember when we took that trip to Santa Cruz and you played on the beach next to the fire? I think about that sometimes.”

  He stuffed the guitar back into the case, zipping it up. As he passed me on the stairs, he mumbled, “You’re a sweet kid,” and then I could hear the front door and the hum of the car moving away down the street. Lately, my view of John was always of him leaving.

  the next morning, the doorbell rang.

  I finished filling Extra Pickles’s food bowl with his favorite kibble, then, wiping my hands on my jean cutoffs, answered the front door.

  Parker stood there with a woman. She had slick dark hair, olive skin, was barely five feet tall, and seemed covered in circles — huge white sunglasses, bracelet-sized gold hoops in her ears, bangled wrists, and a tunic dress covered in multicolored spheres. Even her heels had a bubble print.

  “Hi!” Circles said brightly.

  Parker pushed his glasses to the top of his head. “Can we come in, love?”

  I stood back from the door, letting them both into the entry. “I’m sorry, did we have a meeting?” I closed the door.

  Parker gave the house a quick glance, then motioned to the woman. “This is Jewel.”

  “Not short for Julia,” she clarified, spelling it for me. She plucked off her sunglasses, perching them stylishly in her dark hair.

  I blinked. “Okay.” Her circles were making me slightly dizzy.

  Parker put a hand on Jewel’s shoulder. “Jewel’s going to help you put some outfits together, teach you some basic makeup stuff, just sort of ensure you’re prepared.”

  “Prepared?” I glanced at the bright orange duffel bag Jewel carried that was big enough to fit a person. Or a dead body.

  Parker checked his phone. “Brilliant. I’ll let you ladies take it from here.”

  Jewel patted his hand that was still on her shoulder. “Terrific, Parky — thanks.”

  Parky?

  He let himself out.

  Jewel dropped the orange duffel on the tile in the entry. “Okay, so we’re going for small-town girl next door, which you clearly have down.” Pursing her lips, she let her eyes scan my cutoffs, my tank top, and my face and ponytailed head. “We just need to polish. File off the edges.” She reached out and fingered the end of my ponytail. “Get rid of your split ends, that sort of thing.” She rubbed her hands tog
ether, her nails white-tipped. “Where’s your room?”

  I held up my hands, feeling as though I needed to defend myself. “I’m really fine. I’m not much of a makeup girl, and I don’t really own that many clothes.”

  Jewel picked up the duffel. “Honey, you’re now in major magazines, dissected online. People can be brutal. Let’s just spruce you up a bit. We’re not talking mega-makeover.” There was that full-body eye scan again. “Just punch you up a bit, a more defined version of you, that’s all. Nothing fancy. Besides, we have Adam’s image to consider.” Her subtext was clear. And you’d hurt that image with that split-ended head of yours.

  We headed upstairs.

  After two hours, my room looked like the dressing room of an understaffed bargain store. Every inch of space had been taken over with various outfits Jewel would hang up or drape (yes) or toss in a heap (don’t wear — ever). “Oooooh, this is cute,” she had exclaimed, yanking out a short-sleeved peasant blouse I’d worn in a dance my sophomore year, or saying things like, “Um, don’t wear this,” about an olive canvas skirt I’d always kind of liked. “You’re not a Girl Scout.” Every shirt, skirt, pair of pants or shorts, tank top, bra, underwear, and pajama had been yeaed or nayed. Mostly nayed.

  “Some great pieces,” she kept mumbling, her circles spinning. “The key is pairing them with each other. Like this,” she said, holding up a tight black T-shirt, “with this.” She held up a flowing paisley jersey skirt. “But not with jeans. Boooooring.” She hooked the skirt to the shirt and looped the shirt hanger over my bedpost.

  My math final had been easier than this.

  “Now, makeup.” She unzipped her duffel and brought out a tackle box. “The key is to apply fresh, glowing makeup, so you brighten without looking painted. It’s summer and it’s hot, so nothing complicated.” Dozens of tubes, vials, brushes, and creams emerged, spilling onto the hardwood floor. She unfolded a portable table and set everything onto it.

  This wasn’t complicated?

  Fifteen minutes later, she held up a mirror. “You have great skin,” she told me, capping a gloss and leaning back to admire her work.

  “Thank you,” I breathed. I had to admit, I looked positively dewy. “How did you, um, get my cheeks to do that?”

  She handed me a tube. “Apply right at the end. So easy and the results are amazing.” She proceeded to set out new tubes of the various things she’d applied and the paper she’d filled out along the way to show me how to do it myself. I would never be able to do this myself, but I might get close.

  “If you two plan to go to a club or something, just call me. I’ll show you how to manage the look for nighttime.” She folded up the table, tucking it back in the duffel.

  A club? “We don’t really have clubs in Little.”

  She paused, frowning. “Well, for whatever nighttime spots you have. And, here.” She handed me a business card. “We scheduled your hair for eleven this morning because we know Adam has the signing at two. Just call Parker and he’ll send a car.”

  I took the card, thanking her again. She packed everything up and heaved the duffel over her shoulder. It probably weighed more than she did. She stepped back, studying me. “You’re adorable. It’s about time he picked a cutie like you.”

  Blushing, I held the mirror back up, my dewy face staring back.

  “Carter?” Adam squinted at me. Huddled with me at a table in the back of Little Eats, he frowned. “You look a bit shaky.”

  Shaky didn’t come close.

  Adam gave me a sympathetic smile.

  About an hour ago, we had stopped in for an iced coffee after an afternoon of signing autographs outside Mountain Books and, somehow, the café had suddenly flooded with people. At first, Adam kept signing autographs at a back table while I made us iced coffees, but soon the crush of Adam admirers became too much for Dad. He’d turned the lights off and helped Mik wave everyone out, closing the café early. It had taken twenty minutes to clear out the last starry-eyed fan, and my ears pulsed with the sound of Adam’s admirers. Seriously, twelve-year-old girls could let out sounds that were just not human. Now, Mik stood guard at the door, his arms two tree trunks crossed across his chest, but I could still see them out there, milling around like sharks.

  I blinked at Adam. “How many autographs did you sign? Like, a thousand?” I ran my finger over the sweating glass of my empty iced coffee. Adam’s was still full, the ice melted. He hadn’t had a minute to take a sip.

  “Maybe a couple of hundred.” He had a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. He told me he’d been up since four a.m. for shooting, but I couldn’t tell. “That wasn’t too bad.” He glanced at his sweaty, watery drink. “Could I get you to make me a fresh one of these?” He disappeared toward the bathroom.

  “Please,” I muttered, rolling my eyes, but grabbed his drink and crossed behind the counter. I made a double shot of espresso, dumped in some nonfat milk, and topped it with ice, giving it a quick stir with a butter knife. I had it on the table before he returned from the bathroom, looking damp, like he’d splashed water on his face.

  He sat, taking a long drink. “So good, thanks.”

  I slipped into the seat across from him. He’d written his name hundreds of times. Written in ink. On napkins. On head shots. In little books people had in their bags. “What do you think people do with them?” I asked him.

  He took another long drink, finishing most of it. “I think it depends on the person. Some people collect them. I think others just end up losing them, tossing them. I think it’s more the whole ability to say, ‘Look what I got. Look where I was.’” He chewed a piece of ice, staring out the window at the low branch of the maple in the side yard, its green leaves shivery with an unfelt breeze. “Maybe it makes people feel like they’ve recorded something in their life, a memory or something.”

  I wiped at the ring of water his glass had left on the blond table surface. I did notice that tendency in people even in smaller things — an invite to a party, the good news of a friend, an inside joke at work. All these ways of time-stamping our inclusion in the world, our need to say, I was there. I was part of something bigger than me. “Does it get old?”

  He brushed at a stray lock of hair, pushing it out of his eyes and back onto the tousled top of his head. “Sometimes I wish I could just go to the grocery store and pick up a snack or something.” He grimaced. “Of course, people hate that. Poor movie star wants a normal life, blah blah blah.” He gave a wave of his hand. “People don’t get it.”

  I shook my head. “Those people didn’t just see you get mauled by that pack of screaming girls.”

  “True.” He laughed, a low, sweet laugh I hadn’t heard before.

  The sound of it made me smile. “Besides, sometimes living in a small town, you just want to go to the grocery store without running into someone who knows you, who wants to talk to you. I mean, they’re not clamoring for my autograph, but they’re still connecting. Connecting takes energy. And it’s nothing against that specific person. Sometimes, you just don’t want to connect all the time. Or at least I don’t.” I followed Adam’s gaze where it had returned to outside, noticing a couple of photographers, one kneeling under the tree, his lens angled our direction. “Oh, give me a break.” I pulled the shade.

  Adam caught me lightly by the wrist. “Hey, I meant to ask you, did Parker make sure Jewel found you today?”

  “Can’t you tell?” I teased, taking a step back, giving him a better view of my ensemble, the black T-shirt and jersey skirt from Jewel’s workshop this morning. I’d even gotten a thumbs-up from Chloe earlier when I’d texted her a picture after my hair appointment.

  His eyes moved over me, his face brightening. “You look fantastic. She does good work.”

  Was that compliment for me or Jewel? “Thanks.” I tucked my newly glossed and trimmed hair behind my ears, pretty sure any dew that remained on my face after the afternoon we’d had was sweat.

  The bell on the door jingled. Mik let Alien
Drake and Chloe into the café, waving off a few brave girls attempting to talk their way inside, a tiny flock of bright birds, each in a different version of the same short-shorts-and-halter-top ensemble.

  Chloe spotted me and widened her eyes. “I don’t act like that, do I?” she asked, hooking a thumb in the direction of the girls wiggling like puppies out front.

  Alien Drake slipped an arm around her. “Well —”

  “Of course not,” I assured her. “Hey.” I smiled in Drake’s direction. “Come meet Adam. Adam, this is Drake.”

  Alien Drake sauntered over, his face round and smiling, a black backpack slung over his shoulder. “Loved you in that teen Bond knockoff.”

  Adam stood and gave Drake a friendly nod. “Five bucks if you can remember my character’s name.”

  Alien Drake’s grin widened. “Sorry, just being polite.”

  Adam laughed. “Don’t worry, I can’t remember my character’s name, either.” He parked himself back in the chair.

  “Erik Simon!” Chloe piped up, lacing her small fingers through Alien Drake’s. She flipped her hair and smiled sheepishly at them. “What can I say? I’m a fan.”

  “Aw, thanks, Chloe.” Adam grinned at her.

  She flushed to her ears, dipping her head, eyes averted.

  Alien Drake noticed, frowning, and he shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. “Is it cool if we grab sandwiches here?” he asked me. Then he tilted his head, his eyes scrutinizing me. “Did you cut your hair?”

  “Carter got a makeover,” Chloe gushed. “Doesn’t she look amazing?”

  Alien Drake’s eyes flicked over me. “I liked your hair before.”

  “Don’t listen to him. He has boy vision. It looks great,” Chloe said to me.

  I flashed her a weak smile as I crossed to the cold case. “So, sandwiches, right? We probably have some premades left.” Erasing Today’s Special Sandwich on the whiteboard, I wrote:

  I grabbed three pesto chicken sandwiches wrapped in white paper and a couple bags of chips from the basket next to the case. “I’ll hold these for later if you want,” I told Alien Drake.