Starry-Eyed

by Ted Michael

The walls in Dad’s office are lined with movie posters and headshots of all the famous people IAA represents. As I sit in that conference room in the middle of Hollywood, so close to all of the celebrities I have grown to admire, I feel farther away from stardom than I ever have before.

  “I’m sorry, he’s not available at the moment, may I take a message,” I hear Trish say from her desk outside the conference room door.

  I eye the People magazine poking out from the trash, but I decide to pick up my pencil and go back to social studies. Ugh.

  “Right now?” Trish’s voice sounds alarmed. “Well, we weren’t expecting her this afternoon. Mr. Perlstein has a very busy schedule today. Perhaps we could find another time—”

  I get up and poke my head out the conference room door to get a better listen.

  “You’re where?” Trish begins rapidly snapping her fingers, trying to get my father’s attention through his open office door.

  Dad reappears with a perplexed look on his face.

  Trish hangs up the phone. “Destiny Jean Sparrow, downstairs!”

  Dad’s eyes widen. “Downstairs where? Here?”

  Trish nods. “I’ll get the Diet Coke and the organic almonds; you meet her at the elevator,” she says, already in motion running down the hallway toward the kitchen.

  “Monica.” Dad looks to me, fixing his tie. “A very important client is on her way up. Come sit in my office; we’ll have to put her in the conference room.”

  “Her? You mean Destiny Sparrow?”

  “Yes.” Dad pops a few breath mints into his mouth.

  I can’t help myself. “‘I’ll go to the moon and back for just one of your sweet alien kisses,’” I say, quoting a line from Destiny’s latest movie.

  “Monica, not now.” Dad shakes his head. “Besides,” he whispers, “that’s a terrible movie.”

  “Speak for yourself.” I go back into the conference room to grab my book bag off the floor and algebra textbook from the table. “I thought Smooches from Saturn was brilliant. Two thumbs up!” I actually give him two thumbs up.

  Dad immediately gives me the you-know-better look.

  “Can you introduce me?” I ask. “You know how much I love her. I mean, we even look alike, it’s creepy.”

  More than once I’ve gotten stopped at the mall or while walking down Santa Monica Boulevard, and have been asked for my autograph. After awhile I stopped trying to explain that I wasn’t really Destiny Sparrow and just started signing her name.

  We’re both fifteen and born just a month apart from each other. Last year, while having my birthday dinner with Dad, our waiter mistook me for Destiny and brought a big cake to our table, candles and all, and proceeded to have the whole waitstaff sing happy birthday . . . to “Destiny.” Dad wanted to correct their mistake and send the cake back. It was chocolate with butter-cream icing, my favorite, so I told Dad to zip it and we didn’t say a word.

  “You’re more beautiful, but don’t tell Destiny I said that. See you later, back at home!” Dad says, ignoring my question, buttoning his suit jacket, and heading down the hall toward the elevators.

  INT.—IAA OFFICES, WOMEN’S BATHROOM—AFTERNOON

  I wish the part of the story where we met happened in a more glamorous setting.

  I’m standing at the sink, briefly admiring how the hand soap in the bathrooms at Dad’s office always smells really good. I’m singing the song of the summer, a little ditty by Marci Fresno.

  “‘Oh boy you look so fine, I wish I would make you mine,’” I sing to myself in the mirror. Not to sound too pretentious, but I sound pretty darn good. (I’ve been a professional shower-singer since I was old enough to shower.) “‘Walk with me, talk with me, be my teenage fantasy—’”

  “Ahem,” a voice says from the bathroom door.

  I turn, startled.

  In an instant I am in awe.

  Standing in front of me is one of the biggest stars in the world: Destiny Sparrow.

  It’s just me and her. Alone.

  She locks the bathroom door behind her. A second later, there’s a knock at the door; it’s aggressive, someone wants in.

  “Just leave me alone! Can’t a girl get a little privacy once in a while?” she says.

  Destiny is wearing a white baseball cap, ripped denim jeans, and a baggy T-shirt that’s hanging off one of her shoulders. She’s dressed so simply, and on anyone else it might look messy and tragic, but on Destiny it looks chic.

  We stare at each other.

  I’ve seen Destiny on TV and in the movies, but seeing her in person is weird. We really do look alike. Her features are fair, with deep brown eyes and dirty-blond hair. Her eyebrows are perfectly arched and manicured. Her lips are covered in soft pink gloss. Same shade as mine.

  I try to act casual, like I don’t care that I’m five feet away from a girl I was just reading about in Us Weekly. I glance back into the bathroom mirror and return to washing my hands. I can feel her eyes on me—her red, teary eyes. She’s been crying.

  “I was hoping that no one would be in here,” she says. “So much for that!”

  I turn to look at her just as she rolls her eyes.

  “Sorry for living,” I say instinctively.

  I hear a chuckle. I look up into the mirror. She walks to me and wipes underneath her eyes.

  “Hey, I’m Destiny,” she says in a softer voice than before, extending her hand to me.

  She wants to shake my hand? No way!

  “Hi.” I am practically quivering with nerves. “I’m Monica.” Our fingers touch. I’m never washing that hand again.

  “And you’re sassy!” Destiny flashes me a bright white, perfectly straight smile. I can’t help but smile back. “It’s just been one of those days. Sorry for getting all crazy.”

  “I’m sorry too,” I say, even though I’m not. “I’ve just never had anyone try to kick me out of a bathroom before. You caught me off-guard.”

  “I guess we’re both having one of those days.” Destiny lifts herself up onto the edge of the countertop, letting her feet dangle above the floor. For a second I forget that she’s famous, that she has everything I’ve ever wanted.

  “Tell me about it.” I try to find some familiar ground for a conversation. “All I want is to be in a movie and make out with Danny Roberts, but it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen, so whatever. What’s wrong with your day?”

  This is, of course, a rhetorical question. Destiny Sparrow is one of the biggest celebrities on the planet. She has a famous, gorgeous boyfriend and the number one song on the radio, is starring in a big new movie, and has people waiting on her hand and foot. Obviously, she’s having a good day.

  “Do you want a list?” she says, much to my surprise.

  “A list? Of what?”

  “Of all the things wrong with my day.” She wipes another tear from her eye while simultaneously blowing a bubble with her gum. It’s a strange move, but one that I immediately want to copy.

  “Sure,” I say almost too enthusiastically. It’s exciting enough to be stuck in a bathroom with a celebrity, but to be stuck with a celebrity going through a crisis is almost too much for me to handle.

  “Well, for starters, did you read People this morning?” Destiny punctuates her question with a question mark and a pouty face.

  “Are you kidding?” I am almost insulted. “I read it twice cover to cover this morning and once again this afternoon.”

  “So you already know that he’s cheating on me,” Destiny sobs. “Can you believe it?” She pulls a paper towel from the dispenser to wipe her nose. I have to admit I’m sort of shocked; I always thought Destiny would be a little more . . . glamorous. “With that evil witch Marci Fresno. I mean, she’s not even that pretty.”

  I was so blinded by Destiny’s Hollywood aura that I temporarily forgot she’s dating Tyler Potter. I almost feel bad about Destiny walking in on my singing a Marci Fresno song earlier. Whatever, though. I sounded fierce.

  “There are pi
ctures of them everywhere—smiling, holding hands, feeding each other sushi. It’s disgusting,” Destiny scoffs. “Come to think of it, he’s not really that cute up close.”

  She takes off her cap and runs her fingers through her hair. “They make a good couple, I guess. Dumb and ugly. Dugly!”

  “Sounds like you’re better off without him,” I say, trying to comfort her. “Besides, don’t you have a million other things going on? How do you even have time for hand-holding or sushi?”

  “The million other things I have going on . . . You mean all those other problems?”

  “But isn’t that your, um, job? And don’t you love it? Making movies and wearing expensive clothes and getting your picture taken?”

  Destiny is looking down at the ground, gently shaking her head.

  “World hunger is a problem,” I continue. “Global warming is a problem. AP Social Studies? Major problem. I wouldn’t have ever thought being famous is a problem.” I lower my voice just slightly. “For real, it’s all I’ve ever wanted!”

  “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” Destiny says with a heavy sigh. “I mean, this movie I’m about to do—”

  “Tidal Wave? The summer movie that everyone is talking about?”

  “That’s the one.” Destiny cringes. “Are you an actress?”

  I shake my head. “I wish! I just want to audition for a movie, or be on a TV show. I mean, it doesn’t look hard. But my dad says I have to study acting and join the drama club. Who has time for that?”

  “You do have a great voice,” Destiny says with a hint of a smile. “Even though you were singing that dugly girl’s song earlier.”

  We both laugh. “Yeah, sorry about that,” I say, happy for the compliment.

  “Can you act?”

  “Totally,” I reply with confidence, even though I’ve never really thought about it. I’ve just assumed everyone will love me and, like I said, it doesn’t look that hard. I’ve never really “acted” before, but . . . why couldn’t I?

  And then, it happens.

  “Well,” Destiny asks, “do you want to give it a try?”

  “What do you mean?” I am stunned at the prospect of being a real actress. “Do you think I could be an extra in Tidal Wave?”

  Destiny’s lips curl into a smirk. “I’m not talking about you being an extra.”

  Slowly, she reaches up and takes off her hat, placing it on my head. It fits perfectly. She tilts her head, examining me for a second. Then she strolls over to one of the bathroom stalls and opens the door. “In here.” She motions toward the stall.

  Truth be told, this is getting a little weird—but I think that Destiny is about to cast me as an extra in her movie. So I oblige.

  She closes the stall door behind me. I hear her walk into the stall next to mine. The next thing I know she throws a T-shirt over the divider. It’s the shirt she was wearing.

  “Here, put this on,” Destiny says, “and throw over your jeans!”

  “Huh?” I mutter, unsure exactly what is going on.

  “Do you want to be a star or not?” Destiny doesn’t even give me time to answer—not that she needs to. “Then throw over your jeans!”

  Minutes later, Destiny Sparrow and I emerge from our respective stalls, dressed just as the other was minutes ago. She gives me a good look up and down, and pulls down one shoulder of my T-shirt.

  “Always do something a little different, a little quirky. That’s sure to get you in the fashion blogs,” Destiny says, not realizing, of course, that I will never be featured on a fashion blog. “I think this is going to work for sure. They’ll never know. You really look just like me. It’s uncanny.”

  “What? Who?” I am not able to form a complete sentence.

  Destiny takes a tube of lip gloss from the small purse she’s carrying. “Here, put some of this on.”

  We stand in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at the girls before us. We look like twin sisters. Identical.

  Only I look differently than I normally do in these new clothes. A little quirky. A little hip. Like I could show up in a photograph on a fashion blog. Like Destiny Sparrow. Like a star.

  EXT.—GLOBALPIC STUDIOS—AFTERNOON

  “Destiny, look this way!” someone shouts as soon as the car door opens.

  “Over here, please, Ms. Sparrow!”

  A line of photographers waits outside the studio. A hand reaches through the door of the black sedan and into the backseat where I’m sitting. It’s Jacques, my—I mean Destiny’s—driver. He’s been driving Destiny around Hollywood for a while now, since her big break as an actor in some awful television movie about being different and special or something, but he doesn’t seem to suspect that his cargo isn’t the real thing.

  I grab his hand, step onto the sidewalk and, in an instant, I’m the only thing anyone is looking at.

  The photographers keep shouting. I let go of Jacques’s hand, which I instantly place on my hip—it makes you look nice and thin, and I’ve seen it a million times in magazines—and smile the most dazzling smile I can muster. I switch hands and make a pouty face, turning my attention to the photographers on the other side of the car.

  “What’s going on with you and Tyler?” someone shouts. “Is it over?”

  I didn’t know I’d be taking questions! I have to think fast.

  “No comment,” shouts a voice from down the sidewalk.

  High-heeled boots, ponytail, bright blue nail polish, clipboard—it’s Stacy, Destiny’s assistant.

  Stacy whisks me past the photographers, avoiding the questions and the flashes. She moves fast. I have no time to think; she seems to be doing the thinking for me.

  INT.—GLOBALPIC STUDIOS, DRESSING ROOM—AFTERNOON

  When we finally slow down, we’re inside the studio and coming to the end of a long hallway. At the end of it is a door. MS. SPARROW it says in bold block letters in the center of a gold star.

  My dressing room.

  Stacy opens the door, and turns to bolt back down the hallway. “I’ll be back for you in a little while, Destiny. The new scene and your music are on your vanity.”

  “Huh?” I ask. Back in the bathroom, Destiny had mentioned that we could trade places for the afternoon. I was going to work instead of her, and she was going to take some “well needed time off.”

  I only sort of realized that going to work for Destiny meant filming a movie. I may have fooled Destiny’s driver and her assistant, but would I fool the director? And all of her costars? What if I got caught . . . what would happen to me? Would they send me to jail?

  Or even worse: Call my father?

  I look around. Destiny’s dressing room is beautiful; a large white, cushy, sofa is pushed against a crisp pink wall. Above it hangs a large headshot of Destiny. On the other side of the room, the wall is lined with mirrors surrounded by bright white lights.

  I walk over to it. Makeup of every sort is laid out on the counter beneath the mirrors, along with hairbrushes, curling irons, and a blow-dryer. Tucked underneath the makeup counter is a wood-framed chair with a fabric back—on the chair is MS. SPARROW. In one corner of the counter sits a tray of fruit and a big bowl M&M’s, only they’re all green. That is what is means to be a real star.

  I’m here. I’m finally here. Everything I’ve ever wanted is at my fingertips.

  I reach into the bowl to grab a handful of M&M’s. Something jabs me in the side, gently.

  I let out a little yelp, and my hand sends the bowl crashing to the floor. I feel tiny chocolate pieces hit my toes.

  “What the . . .?” I turn to see who is speaking.

  On the outside I simply smile what I’m sure is the goofiest smile ever. My inner monologue, though, goes something like this:

  OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG (breathe) OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG

  It’s Tad Preston.

  Tad is Destiny’s costar in Tidal Wave, and another in a long list of hunky guys I may or may not have photos of on my bedroom wall. He’s tall, almost six feet,
with crystal blue eyes, shaggy dirty-blond hair that falls just below his shoulders, and the most perfectly clear, tanned skin I’ve ever seen. The kind of flawless complexion that no cream or chemical could ever help a normal human to achieve. He’s wearing a white T-shirt that shows exactly why he has one of those “best beach bodies” that Dad threatened to quiz me on earlier. He’s standing so close I can smell his freshly brushed, minty breath.

  “Whoa, Sparrow, chill out. I didn’t realize you were so skittish!” He bends down and scoops up a handful of runaway M&M’s.

  “Sorry.” I try to regain my composure. “I didn’t realize the door was open.” I take a quick peek at myself in the mirror while Tad is picking candy off the floor. Not bad. But will he notice that I’m not really Destiny?

  “I caught your segment on Inside Hollywood last night,” Tad says, dropping handfuls of now dirty candy back into the bowl. “Thanks for saying such nice things about me.”

  Tad smiles, big. I didn’t watch Inside Hollywood last night. Is he being sarcastic? Had Destiny said some terrible things about Tad? Or is Tad being serious and they actually like each other?

  I quickly run down the facts of the situation in my head: big smile, gentle tickle/poke, so handsome, dreamy really. . . .

  “Of course!” I decide to go with the they-actually-do-like-each-other option. “You’re the best!” I give Tad a light punch in his very firm chest.

  Awkward.

  “Ow,” Tad pretends that my little smack hurt him. He runs a hand through his hair, sweeping it off his forehead. “Do you want me to help you run lyrics for a bit?”

  “How was your night?” I’m much more interested in the celebrity part of my life as Destiny than I am the work part. “Did you hit the town? Go to any hot clubs?”

  As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wince. Hit the town? Does anyone even say that anymore? I am going to give myself away if I don’t watch my language and sound more like Destiny.

  “Nope,” Tad replies simply. “I knew we had a big day today, so I was just going over lines and stuff. Nothing crazy.”

  This was almost too much for me to comprehend. Tad is famous, gorgeous, and rich. He can get into any restaurant or party he wants. Surely he has a long list of girls knocking on his door. I imagine him not being able to keep all of his dates straight! He’s too amazing to be stuck at home on a perfectly good night for having fun.