At the thought of food, my stomach growled, and I remembered I needed to eat before I got sick. I walked a few blocks to a street vendor and ordered a bottle of juice and a whole lot of spiced lamb. I sat down on a nearby bench to eat it and scroll through my pictures. This was my chance to get some respect from Andy finally.
When I got home, Zion lay on the sofa watching a game show, half asleep. I shoved him over so I could start writing.
“Listen to this.” I hit Play on the recording, and L.L.’s voice sprang to life.
Zion hit the mute on the remote. “Who is that?”
“L.L. Stylez. I got him to talk about his retirement.”
Zion’s mouth became an O. “Ho-ly shit. Start it over.”
I played it all the way back. “I have pictures, too. You think Andy’s gonna shit or what?”
“If he doesn’t try to steal it. That’s gonna print on the front page of our whole website.” He stuck out his foot and hooked the coffee table leg so he could drag it over without getting up. Once it was close enough, he grabbed my laptop. “You better get this in tonight. If L.L.’s talking to you, he might be talking in general.”
“Good point.”
I folded my feet under me on the sofa and shoved a pillow behind the small of my back. When I opened the laptop and fired up an empty document, the cursor flashed at me, taunting. I’d never been much of a writer.
“Transcribe the interview,” suggested Zion. “Nobody cares what you say around his quotes. His words will take up eighty percent of the article.”
“Right.”
I typed a temporary headline: “Legendary hip hop artist L.L. Stylez opens up about recent retirement.” Andy would clean it up anyway. I chose a picture from the group that showed L.L. in all his glory, sweeping down the sidewalk. Zion was right. The only thing I needed to write was a little contextualization. “Last week, L.L. Stylez announced his retirement from the music industry with little explanation. Speculation has run hot over the past week, but L.L. has offered no further insight into his decision. Until Monday night.”
The rest wrote itself. I uploaded the article with all the pictures to the work server. Then I opened my email client to let Andy know to look for it.
“Hey, I got an email from Eden.”
Zion had disappeared into the bathroom. Instead of yelling louder, I opened the email.
Jo,
Thank you so much for the pictures. They turned out even better than I expected. If you go to my website, you can see what my webmaster did with them. I still look like a folk singer from the sixties, but that’s on me, not you. I liked the pics you took with me and Micah best, but I couldn’t use those for the site. Feel free to keep those for yourself. I’ve emailed one of them to this digital picture frame my mom keeps on her mantel. Micah likes to send over pictures of himself making faces, so she was happy to have something nice of us for a change.
I feel bad that you wouldn’t take my money for your time. At least let me know what I owe you for the twenty pictures we ended up using.
Eden
I had no idea how much a picture was worth in non-word currency. And even if she could probably pay my rent without missing the cash, I couldn’t bring myself to name a price. And not because of any my-pictures-are-priceless nonsense. I literally didn’t have the first clue what they might be worth.
I wrote back:
Eden,
Since you’re letting me keep so many pictures, I can’t in good conscience ask you to pay for the few you kept. Consider them my gift in return for the chance to do some honest work for a change. :)
Thanks for the offer though and for giving me such a great opportunity.
Jo
Zion came out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. He had no modesty at all, but he at least covered his dangerous bits for my benefit. His chest and arms were rock hard. I used to think about trying to trick him into hooking up with me, but he’d never once batted an eye at any woman.
At least until Saturday night. But then he was more starstruck than anything else.
“Did you say something?” He plopped down beside me. His hair dripped on me, smelling of oranges and ginger.
“You’re using my shampoo, again.”
“You’re using my sofa.”
“Touché.”
“Did you get your article done?”
“Yup. And I got a nice email from Eden.”
“Oh, yeah?” He jumped up to grab some boxers in his room and then shamelessly sat on the sofa half-naked to watch TV.
I threw my comforter over him. “Have mercy on a poor girl.”
We companionably fast-forwarded through his favorite DVRed entertainment shows, him hoping to find out which celebrities might be coming to New York, me hoping to figure out how to do my job. About fifteen minutes into Access Hollywood, my phone buzzed, and I discovered a response from Eden.
Could I at least take you out to lunch on Wednesday? If you pick a place near where you work, I could come meet you. You’d be doing me another favor actually. Until Adam gets back home, I don’t know what to do with myself. If I don’t get some real company, I might start remodeling the kitchen or something insane.
There was no possible way Eden Sinclair had nothing to do with her time. I knew she’d only couched it that way to make me more inclined to accept her invitation without feeling weird about it. But I did feel weird about it.
I hit Reply.
That sounds fun. Do you know where the NY Daily Feed is located? There’s a Bon Appetit sandwich place right around the corner from where I work. Do you know the one?
That restaurant would be on the cheap side, but still pretty good. As soon as I hit Send, I hit my forehead. Eden wouldn’t want to meet in a cheap sandwich shop. She probably had her own chef, preparing micro cuisine for her. Whatever micro cuisine might be.
I lifted my head from my phone screen. “I’m going to have lunch with Eden later this week.”
Zion pushed me. “No way!”
I pushed him back. “Way!”
The corner of his mouth turned up. “You’re gonna be best buddies. See if you can find out when she’s getting married.”
“You’re as bad as Andy. I’m not going to exploit this friendship.”
He shrugged. “Then find out when she’s going to see Adrianna again, and get her to invite me along.”
“What is it with you? It’s like you’ve got a crush.”
His eyes grew wide. “I know! I’m starting to wonder if I’m bi after all.”
“I think you’re just infatuated. She’s pretty impressive.” I leaned over and kissed his cheek. “But you’d have beautiful babies.”
I scanned Eden’s email once more. “That’s odd. She uses the same excuse as Andy did for us to meet.”
“Whatdya mean?”
“Andy said that I should befriend Eden while Adam’s away. And then get dirt on her.”
“You’re not planning to, are you?”
“No, I wasn’t. But now Eden’s saying that she’s bored while Adam’s away. It’s weird. You don’t think she’s trying to befriend me for some reverse espionage?”
“To get dirt on Andy? Who would even care?”
“No, I mean, maybe there’s more to her apparent friendship than meets the eye. She’s got a vendetta against Andy. How could she use a friendship with one of his employees?”
Zion shrugged. “To feed him bullshit stories?”
I chewed on my thumbnail. “You don’t think she’d use me that way, do you?”
“I dunno. Does she think you’d use her that way?”
That was a great question. How could either of us trust the nature of this tentative friendship?
Chapter 12
Look at this interview my daughter published. Josie Wilder!
I woke up to the notification ding that followed my mom’s weird reposting of the article on Facebook. Zion had correctly predicted it would show on the front page of our website
even if it was only a teaser with a link to the entertainment section. He’d incorrectly predicted that Andy would take credit. But when I saw the headline, I wished he had.
“Creatively Bankrupt L.L. Stylez Lashes Out at Music Industry.”
The picture centered below the headline showed L.L. at his worst. The burst feature on the camera will capture every change in expression. Some flatter the subject, while others . . . not so much. The one printed in the paper caught L.L. with an expression that could be described as entitled. His frown, combined with a curl of the nose like he’d smelled something rotten, gave the impression he merely condescended to share the sidewalk with the handler who, unfortunately, appeared harried to L.L.’s left.
Had I misjudged the entire situation, or had Andy found a way to pull a story out of thin air?
I scrolled through my photos, wishing I’d taken video. When L.L. had talked to me, his face had looked beatific. But distracted on the street, under the fire of a paparazzo, he came off frustrated. Still, there were pictures Andy could have used to put L.L. in a better light, and he’d chosen not to. And my name stared out at me in black-and-white.
Here was my moment in the sun—a front page headline. Not just for an opportune picture, but with news. Something relevant for a day. And I felt a cold finger down my spine. This article was ugly and unfair. But I knew Andy’s version would generate more clicks and bring in more ad revenue.
As Zion and I rode the train in to work together, I asked him, “What should I do about this?”
He leveled a shut-up-with-your-first-world-problems stink eye at me. “You got on the front page! That’s awesome.”
But I felt like I needed to tell Andy I wasn’t comfortable with his changes. On the other hand, he already saw me as weak. So I went into the office and suffered through the “Huzzah!” from my coworkers as I walked through the door. I pantomimed a modestly proud response, waving and ducking my head until I got to my desk.
Andy’s mood was uncharacteristically upbeat. He didn’t criticize me at all and even complimented me on the solid interview. I bit my tongue and swallowed down my discomfort with his sketchy tactics. But for the first time in days, he didn’t ask me anything about Eden or Micah. I hadn’t told him Zion and I would be seeing Micah at his show later that night. I didn’t question the silence or poke the sleeping bear.
After about an hour, my Twitter stalking paid off, and I got a tip that Chris Hemsworth was walking around Greenwich Village, heading toward Washington Square Park.
In order to avoid raising suspicion, I slunk out of the office and then high-tailed it uptown to the park, where a crowd had gathered. I grabbed my camera and ran over.
A mega-famous celebrity is like a spontaneous energy source. Magnetic. The initial mob that formed around Chris generated more interest from passersby, and so by the time I reached the edge of the park, I couldn’t even see through the mob. The buzz itself attracted more people, and ladies holding shopping bags whispered, “Who do you think it is?” And they waited for a turn to meet a celebrity, whoever it was. It didn’t matter to them.
A girl broke free of the expanding ball of humans with a piece of paper clutched in her hand. “It’s Chris Hemsworth! Oh, my God!”
At her words, the frenzy redoubled.
I looked around for something to climb on. I couldn’t snap a picture of him from where I stood, and if I jammed in there, I wouldn’t get a good angle. A line of benches ran along the path, but even standing on these, heads obscured my shot. I put my hand on a nearby tree and dared to stand on the back of the bench, praying it was securely bolted down. The view was clear enough to identify Chris, and I managed to capture the insanity of the scene.
If I could give him a word of advice, I’d have suggested he find himself a decent disguise—something other than Thor.
Once I had collected my prize, and Chris had dragged his swarm of human beings farther away, I threw my backpack onto a bench near some chess tables. I turned on the hot spot and uploaded my pictures. Andy couldn’t possibly complain I didn’t get a comment today. As if I could have combated the fray.
It wasn’t much, but that little score bought me at least an hour to myself. The sun felt nice, and I leaned back on the bench and closed my eyes, listening to the sounds in the park. Before long, my curiosity won out, and I had to see the things I was hearing.
At the chess tables, an elderly man with his cane leaning against the table looked on as a college-aged kid studied the board in deep concentration. I couldn’t tell who held the lead, nor did I care. I grabbed my personal camera and rested my foot on the bench to better prop my elbow up on my knee as I focused in. I snapped pictures until the players glanced up at me, eyes deglazing momentarily as their brains tried to force them to take in the world outside their own heads. The pull of the table proved too great, and they forgot about me and continued to play.
A young girl crossed in front of me, chasing after a Pomeranian she held on a leash. Her hair was pulled up in tight pigtails. The tiny dog dragged her along in its excitement, sniffing at everything it came across. Behind her, a disinterested woman stared into her phone, saying without conviction, “Slow down, Sadie.”
My own phone buzzed. I laid my camera aside and checked my notifications. I had a new direct message, and it was from Micah. I scrunched down onto the bench and huddled over my phone to cut the glare so I could read it.
Heard you’re having lunch with my sister. I hope you won’t call her washed-up in your newspaper. :P
I wanted to respond and tell him I hadn’t written that headline about L.L. Stylez, but he still hadn’t followed me back. The significance of his quip registered a moment later—he’d read my article. Maybe he had a habit of checking the tabloids for any stories about himself. He clearly hovered over Twitter. I had a dim hope he’d only read it because I wrote it. Crazy.
Frustrated, I tweeted at him on his feed. Hey, do you like talking to yourself? Follow me back.
Then I thought that felt too pushy and nearly deleted it. But I couldn’t think of any better way to clue him in, so I left it.
While I waited for a response that never came, I scanned Twitter for hints of any other celebrities out and about. When I’d applied for this job, I had an inkling I’d have to chase down stories but wasn’t at all prepared for the cutthroat nature of the business. And at first, Andy had praised my photography skills while training me in his art of war. Little by little, the praise evaporated, replaced by an irritation that worried me. I couldn’t afford to lose this job.
Leery about returning to the office with nothing more than my word that I’d spotted a Hemsworth in the wild, I decided to head uptown to the theater district. Stalking exit doors at the matinees was an act of desperation, but sometimes a big name celebrity would step out to greet the fans. I hated to poison the well with my presence, but I worked in a parasitic industry. And I had a selfish motivation—I adored Broadway.
On my way, I happened upon a mesmerized flock of young Buddhists huddled near the TKTS booth, gazing up at Times Square in every direction. When I raised my personal camera, I heard my father’s voice in my ear. “Illa, Anushka. Don’t take the obvious shot.” I peered through the viewfinder, framing the composition that would make him say, “Nalla. Good.”
This shot would be my little secret—a side benefit of my day job.
The theater stalking paid off when stage queen Miriam Blackwell, still painted in her costume makeup, emerged from the fire exit into the side alley and greeted fans. I shot pictures from several feet away, and she stopped for a moment and posed for me.
Encouraged by her indulgence, I flipped my camera to video and approached her. “Ms. Blackwell. I’m a reporter for the Daily Feed and a huge fan. Candy was the first musical I ever saw, and I caught this show again last month. You were amazing as always.” She thanked me, and I went on. “Is it true that you’re stepping down from the show at the end of the season?”
She nodded, considering,
and said in that famously smoky voice, “I originated this role, you know. I played Candy when this show began in 1992 and again in 2001. It’s been an honor to come back to reprise the role, but to be honest, my dear, I’m getting too old for the rigors of theater. It will be good for someone younger to take over again. I’ve grown spoiled and lazy.” She laughed unselfconsciously. She’d never been one to mince words, and I thanked my stars I’d come up here today. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not going anywhere. I plan to keep making movies until I shrivel up and die. But I shall part ways with the theater.” She winked. “For now.”
I’d been a fan of Miriam Blackwell since the first time my dad brought me to New York and took me to three different musicals. He’d let me pick one show, while he and my mom chose the other two. I was nine and didn’t have any interest in seeing a musical at all. I chose Candy thinking it might actually be about chocolate. My parents were equally shocked by the bawdy review, but I never forgot the spectacle and eagerly went to the next two shows of our visit.
I assumed Andy would be excited about an interview with someone of Miriam’s stature and hurried to a corner café to upload the photos and video. I didn’t want to take any chances that I’d somehow lose them. I plugged my headphones into the camera to play the audio and transcribed it into my phone email app, wishing I’d lugged my laptop uptown.
When I returned to the office, I expected to be greeted with fanfare equal to the morning, but instead, Andy stormed out of his office. “What the hell is this? Nobody cares about some crone of a theater actress. If this is the kind of garbage you call content, maybe you should walk downstairs to the Arts and Leisure department and apply for a job there.”
“I thought this was entertainment news, Andy. Theater is entertainment.” My voice wavered. Sometimes out of nowhere and at the most inopportune moments, I sounded like I was on the brink of an emotional breakdown, even though I was completely in control. Zion said it was because I bottled everything up, but I figured it was nothing more than fatigue. Whichever, I certainly didn’t want Andy to think he got under my skin. He’d either single me out to torment or find a way to fire me.
A Crazy Kind of Love Page 11
