by Kasie West
“I don’t have my phone on me, but I’ll follow you back when I get to the trailer.”
“Thank you!”
We rounded the church building to the back side, where craft services was set up, and I saw Grant’s agent picking at the food on the table. Aaron let out a sigh.
“What?” I asked.
“Peter is so annoying, always hanging around and making demands.”
“What kind of demands?” I asked.
As if he realized he had said more than he should’ve, he shook his head and said, “No, it’s not a big deal. Things most agents ask for.”
I wondered if my agent had made any demands for me aside from all the things my dad had wanted added into the contract, like extra breaks and no working after 10:00 p.m.
We made it all the way to the food table, where Peter looked up with our arrival. He nodded at Aaron, then gave me the once-over like he didn’t realize who I was without the zombie makeup on. I just smiled.
“I’ll be right back,” Aaron said, then walked over to a metal box on wheels. He opened a hatch at the front of it but then looked around, probably realizing he had nothing to put the ice in. He held up his finger to me and then ran off.
Feeling a bit awkward standing there next to Grant’s agent in silence, I began surveying the food table. And even though I wasn’t hungry, I picked up a yogurt cup and took a spoonful.
“Do you have a publicist?” Peter asked me. Of course he knew who I was.
“Um . . .” I actually wasn’t sure. My agent may have mentioned one before.
“You need a publicist,” he said. “To work on your image.” He grabbed a chocolate-drizzled strawberry off the table, and then he and his tan legs and flip-flops walked away.
Aaron came back a few minutes later holding a gallon-size ziplock bag full of ice that I hadn’t heard him get. “You okay?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“What’s this for, then?” He shook the bag.
I took it from him. “My knees are sore. Benches are hard.” I pointed over my shoulder. “I better get to homework. Thanks for your help.”
Back in my trailer, ice on my knees, I worked on my homework for a while before I became distracted with a thought. I tapped my pencil over and over again on the paper. My phone sat beside me on the couch. Why had Peter asked me about a publicist? Was there more than the original horrible picture and caption that I had seen the other day? I picked up my phone and googled my name. I held my breath as my phone worked. Nothing new came up, and the original post I had seen had fizzled out, not turning into anything viral. I let out my breath in relief and sent a text to my dad: Do I have a publicist?
He responded back almost immediately: No. Too expensive for how little money you make.
That was probably true. But I sent off an email to my agent anyway. Do I need a publicist?
No matter how much I stared at my inbox, she didn’t answer back. I’d survive without a publicist for now. I’d done it up to this point.
Eleven
“This is all you got done last night?” Dad said when I walked into the kitchen the next morning. I had tried to sleep in, but my body was used to waking up early now.
“What?” I asked, rubbing at my eyes, then searching the pantry for something to eat. I pulled a granola bar from the box and unwrapped it.
“Your schoolwork. You answered like two problems.”
“Oh, right. I’ll finish—that’s why I brought it home. I have the next two days off,” I said through granola.
He set my work on the table. “Yes, you will finish. Right now. And then you will take this to the school today and turn it into your mentor teacher. It’s about time you met her.”
“Dad, this is my first day off since we started.”
“If you did your work when you were supposed to, you could actually have a day off. But you don’t. So have a seat. It shouldn’t take you very long.”
I groaned. Why were we always having the same argument over and over? “Dad, do you hear that?”
He went still and listened for a moment. “Hear what?”
“The sound of your blades whirling above me as you hover.”
“Are you saying I’m one of those helicopter parents?”
“So you do hear it?”
“It is my job to make sure you don’t get behind in school. So get to work.”
“Fine.” I sat down hard in the chair, biting back the ouch. Maybe it was because I was mad, or maybe it was because I really wanted to leave the house, but I finished the rest of my independent study homework faster than any I had before. Half the answers were probably wrong, but that wasn’t the point. The point was I was free from my prison guard.
School had been in session for over four weeks. But I, personally, hadn’t been on a high school campus since before summer break. And I had never been on this high school campus. It felt different than my old school. Bigger, for one. But in some ways it felt exactly the same.
I stopped in the middle of the walkway and took a deep breath. High school. I couldn’t decide if I missed it.
One day I’d walk around a place like this and people would recognize me. That thought made me smile. Today wasn’t that day. The late bell had just rung, so there were only a few students walking the halls, but nobody gave me a second glance. I wondered if even Donavan would recognize me today without my zombie makeup on. I’d washed my hair the night before too, something I hadn’t done in a while per instructions and I couldn’t help pulling on the silky ends.
I’d parked in a visitor spot and was now trying to find the office. Shouldn’t it be clearly marked? There were four buildings surrounding me, each multiple stories, none with the words This is the office on them.
“Excuse me,” I said, quickening my pace and catching up to a long-haired guy walking in front of me. “Can you tell me where the office is?”
He started to point when he caught my eye. “Do I know you?”
“No.” Was it possible he’d seen the negative posts online?
“I’ve seen you somewhere before,” he said.
“Probably here. Office?”
He snapped his finger, and his eyes lit up. “Zits.”
Oh. I was almost relieved. When people did recognize me it was for one reason and one reason only—the zit-cream commercial I’d done. Why had my agent let me do that commercial? It was decent money, but it was always on. Even still, two years later, I could turn on the television and that commercial would be playing.
“Yes. You caught me.”
“Don’t worry, I’d say half this campus has been in embarrassing commercials.”
“Half?”
“Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but sometimes it feels like half the people here are aspiring actors.”
“Oh.” I wanted to say I wasn’t aspiring. I was in an actual movie. With Grant James. But I had a feeling he wouldn’t believe me. “Office?” I tried once more.
“Right.” He pointed. “Follow this path between these two buildings. It will be on your left.”
“Thank you.” I took the path he indicated down a flower-lined walkway and past a big hand-painted Homecoming Dance sign and found the office. When I stepped inside, a blast of cold air hit me in the face. It felt nice after the heat from outside. I walked up to the counter.
“Hi, I guess I need a visitor’s pass. I’m here to see Mrs. Case. She’s my mentor teacher for independent study.” My dad had told me this was her free hour, and I hoped he was right, because I didn’t want to disrupt her teaching.
A girl sat behind the counter. A white sticker on her shirt read: My name is with Taylor written in green beneath it. She looked like a student. “Sign in there, take a badge from the basket. Mrs. Case is in the C building, room 303.”
I signed my name on the sign-in sheet and took a badge. “Which one is the C building?”
“The big one on the right.”
“On the right of what?” Every building was big. “Can I get
a guide?”
“A guide?”
“Someone to show me around?” We did that with new students at my school back home. I’d given at least a dozen people a tour of the campus, which usually started with an extensive list of where to find the best food.
“Do you need to see the whole campus?” Taylor asked. “Or just the one teacher?”
I only needed to see the one teacher, but apparently this wasn’t a good enough excuse for Taylor, so I put on my best persuasive smile and said, “This might be my future school. Can I request a tour guide? I actually know a student who goes here who would probably do it.”
“Why not,” she said, obviously bored with me. She picked up the headset of a corded phone on the counter. “What’s the student’s name?”
“Donavan.” I had given myself a mission: bring a little fun into his life. I imagined school was where he was most serious, if I could loosen him up here, I’d consider myself a miracle worker.
“Donavan . . .” Taylor trailed off, waiting for me to fill in the blank.
I pursed my lips. “I don’t know his last name. Is there more than one Donavan?”
“I personally know three Donavans.”
I stared at her for a long moment, trying to decide if she was kidding. If she was, it didn’t show. Maybe she was an aspiring actress, the star in a million embarrassing commercials. “Really?” I finally asked.
She hung up the phone. “Donavan Lake, Donovan O’Neil, and Donavan Ritter.”
“Wow. You really do. I’m not sure which one of those he is. I wouldn’t be opposed to an all-the-Donavans tour. I can assess which one should be used again for future tours.” When she didn’t laugh I said, “No?”
“Does he play football?”
I couldn’t imagine my tutor playing football. He seemed too . . . cynical for that, but I had no idea. “I don’t know.”
“Does he have a younger sister? Or play the guitar?”
“Maybe?” He was listening to rock music in the car, so that was possible. “He’s a tutor.”
She shook her head as if that detail didn’t help. “Does he write?”
“Does he?” I asked, surprised.
She continued to stare at me blankly.
“He has dark hair and is about this tall.” I held my hand up and then moved it higher and then lower again when I realized I wasn’t exactly sure how tall he was.
“So when you said you knew him . . .” She trailed off.
“Yes, apparently I don’t. Where did you say Mrs. Case’s room was again?” I asked, giving up.
She gave me directions, and I left the building. “I can’t believe there are three Donavans who go here,” I mumbled to myself. How big was this school?
Mrs. Case was writing on a whiteboard when I walked into her very empty classroom. She was a tall, athletic woman, and I wondered if she coached the volleyball team here. I almost asked her but decided that was rude. Heightist . . . or something. Did tall people get asked if they played sports all the time? Tall people didn’t have to play sports.
“Hi,” I said instead. “I’m Lacey Barnes.” I presented her with my finished packet.
“Lacey, we finally meet. Come in, come in. Have a seat.” She pointed to the chair on the opposite side of her desk, then she sat down across from me. She started flipping through my packet. “How have you been faring? Too hard? Too easy?”
“Just right,” I said.
“Does that mean too easy? You answered that very quickly.”
“No. In fact the math has challenged me quite a bit.”
“Challenging is good.” She shut the packet and placed both hands on top of it. “Well, I’m not going to grade this right here, but I’ll email you. You have been getting my emails, yes?”
“Yes.”
“There’s a little button called ‘reply’ that you push, and then you can write back. I know it’s probably an outdated media for you kids, but I have faith that you can learn.”
I smiled. “Sorry. I’m really busy. I’ll work on that though. I could just deliver you my packets that way too—by email.”
“I know. I told your father that, but he said this was part of your compromise.”
“Of course he did.” One I hadn’t realized we’d made.
“I was wondering if you’d actually ever make it in here. I’ve seen a lot of your delivery boy.”
“Yes, Donavan. He . . . plays guitar.” I took a guess because that was the only one I could imagine him doing.
“He does?” she asked.
Maybe I was wrong. “And writes?”
“Yes, he does,” she said this time. “For the school paper.”
Again, I was surprised. But then I remembered how quickly he’d pulled out that improv the other day. He obviously had some creativity in there somewhere.
She pointed to the corner of her desk where a folded paper sat.
“The school still has an actual paper?” I was thinking she was referring to an online issue.
“We do, in fact, as archaic as that seems to most. I think it’s because about thirty years ago, we got our own small printing press. It’s still in our journalism department, humming along happily. We’re too proud to let print die now.”
“I still like holding words in my hands.” I craned my neck and tried to find Donavan’s name on the front page. I couldn’t make out much at this angle.
She nodded. “Me too.”
“Do you have an extra school paper lying around?”
“Oh! Yes, they’ll have extra ones in the journalism building. I would give you mine, but apparently I’m quoted in here somewhere. I haven’t read it yet. Plus, you can check out the printing press while you’re over there.”
I’d never seen one before. I tried to take advantage of opportunities where I got to see or experience new things. I never knew when I’d need knowledge like that for a character. “For sure.”
“It’s two buildings down, room 114.”
I stood. “It was great to meet you. I think I’m all caught up for now.”
“You are caught up until tomorrow, when you will have a whole new packet to start.”
I wondered if my dad knew that. Who was I kidding? Of course he did. “Right. Thank you.”
“If I had known you were coming, I would’ve had the next one ready for you.”
“Sorry, I thought my dad told you I was coming. Donavan will bring it for me.”
She nodded, slid my packet into her top drawer, and walked me out of the room.
I headed toward the building she’d said housed the journalism department. Room 114. That would be on the first floor. It would be easy to just walk by and look inside, see the printing press, maybe pick up a newspaper. What were the odds that Donavan had journalism this period? The odds were low.
When I got to the room and peered through the window, I couldn’t see this machine or the newspapers. I saw only rows of desks and computers and students typing away as if they couldn’t keep up on all the news happening at that very moment. I backed up to look at the number beside the door: 114. So where did they keep the press? In some back room? Had Mrs. Case been joking about the school owning one?
I moved to leave when I saw a big bulletin board that filled an entire wall inside the classroom. Pinned to it were newspaper clippings. I wouldn’t disrupt anyone if I walked inside to look closer, see what kind of articles this school put out. Okay, fine, I didn’t care about the articles so much as I was curious about what Donavan wrote. Finding out he was a writer was surprising, and I wondered if his writing would give any insight into his personality. If I was to succeed in loosening him up, this could help. I opened the door.
I was wrong. I disrupted pretty much everyone. They all looked my way, their fingers pausing for a moment on the keys to watch me skirt around the outside of the classroom. Now I needed to act like I was there for some official reason. I stopped in front of the teacher and flashed my visitor badge. “Hi, sorry to interrupt. I’m new he
re and just on a tour of the campus.”
“And you’re interested in journalism? You write?”
I gave him my best sincere, studious look. “Of course.” Now maybe he could point out where the printing press was hiding and let me look for Donavan in the sea of newspaper clippings.
“Donavan,” the teacher said, as if reading my mind.
I opened my mouth to respond when a deep voice to my right said, “Yes?”
“Why don’t you show this young lady the department?”
I swallowed hard and followed the teacher’s gaze to a side office that I hadn’t seen from the door. Donavan sat at a desk, flipping through some printed-out pages.
“She’s a writer,” the teacher continued.
I could tell Donavan didn’t recognize me yet. He was kind of far away and . . . I wasn’t a zombie. I wasn’t one to get embarrassed easily, but I could feel that my cheeks were pink. Why was I blushing?
“That’s okay,” I quietly said to the teacher and took one step back. “I see that he’s busy.”
Donavan had put the pages on the desk and stood. I suddenly understood the flight instinct he’d had the other night. But I couldn’t run. What if he recognized me? Instead, I channeled all my acting abilities and willed my face to normal.
“Hey there, Choir Boy,” I said when he was in front of me.
Twelve
“Lacey?” His eyes danced over my face.
“Hey, I finished the packet, so I dropped it off to Mrs. Case.”
“Oh. Great. That will save me a trip.”
“Yes, exactly.”
The journalism teacher stood. He was shorter than he’d looked sitting down. “Sounds like you two know each other. Can you show her the department, Donavan? She’s a writer.”
“Sure.”
I hoped he’d show me some of his work, but he walked toward the hall door, preventing me from studying the board.
When we were out in the hall and the door shut behind us, he said, “You’re not a writer.”
“Maybe I am. Maybe I’m an aspiring journalist.”
“Are you?”
“No. But I’d make a good investigative reporter. For example, today I found out at least three Donavans go to your school. Three! How is that possible?”
