by L. Philips
“Dude!” he repeats. “Enough practicing. Let’s go to Colin’s. Everyone’s saying the party is freaking nuts.”
“How did you get in here?”
Victor shrugs. “Picked the lock. By the way, you guys need a security system. Your lock sucks.” He falls onto my bed, narrowly missing my priceless (well, priceless to me since it was my dad’s) acoustic guitar. “You know if Colin’s having a party, the whole JV cheerleading squad will be there.”
I open my mouth to retort something about how Victor has no chance with a cheerleader, but then I remember who I was just thinking about and keep my mouth shut. I glance at my guitar. Yes, I need to practice, but also, watching Victor fail spectacularly at seducing cheerleaders is a can’t-miss kind of situation.
I grin. “Let me put on some shoes.”
Fifteen minutes later, we enter Colin Mercer’s house and quickly see that Victor’s prediction was right: there are cheerleaders as far as the eye can see. And a handful of guys who are eye candy for me as well.
We’re greeted by a raucous round of hellos, which I nod at and Victor acknowledges by doing a totally embarrassing celebratory dance. Our friends only cheer more.
We’re handed cups of cheap beer and we circulate. Our friend Marco is DJing, and the music flips from a pop song to a heavy, downtempo rap beat. The rhythm thrums along with my blood, and I find my body moving to it as I walk through the crowd. As Victor pauses to joke with some football players, Chance Baldwin catches my eye.
Chance is unfortunately very, very straight, but eye candy is eye candy. Chance is blond and buff, with the kind of body that makes a V into his (tragically loose) jeans. And damn, is he wholesome. Put an apple pie in one hand and a football in the other, and he’s the American dream.
And he doesn’t hold a single candle to Cameron.
I take a long swallow of beer. What is wrong with me? I spend a few moments with a guy, just listening to music, and now I can’t even focus on Chance Baldwin’s pecs.
There are giggles behind me, and I turn around to see Fallyn Chester and Anna Greene, the resident school gossips, with their phones up, ready to take a picture. But instead of their usual duck-lip pose, they’re looking at me. Well, kind of at me. The phone, I notice, is pointed lower than my face.
I clear my throat. “Well, this is inappropriate.”
“Relax, Grisheimer. It’s just of your shoes.”
I look down and see that I’m wearing the ones with the Jacket Zippers logo on them. “These aren’t even good ones, ladies. If you want to see good shoes, I’ll wear my Prince ones next time. Two words: purple suede.”
They are decidedly unimpressed, tapping away at their phones. Then my own back pocket vibrates, and I take my phone out. The message on my screen shows a tweet from @FallynInLove with a picture of my shoes and the caption, “Found your brother’s CinderFELLA! Meet @SixStringNate, @CounTess!”
And that’s when I realize her tweet is in reply to something. My stomach drops to my toes, and I tap through my screen. I have just enough time to see another, grainier picture of my shoes and read Tess Pierce’s request to find the owner before my phone almost literally blows up. I fumble it. It’s vibrating and ringing and beeping as all my social media accounts send up alarms at the same time.
I stare dumbly at my phone, so overwhelmed that I can’t even fathom what’s happening, let alone decide what to do. Finally, I pull myself together enough to silence it, and that’s when I hear what my phone has been blocking out.
My friends have made a circle around me. Some of them are taking pictures of me, or my shoes. Some of them are talking and shouting—to each other, to me, at me, trying to get my attention. A few are even squealing and jumping up and down, celebrating a small brush with fame. A steady murmur of my name mixed with Cameron’s rises up like a dissonant chorus, and before I put my hands over my ears and scream, Victor grabs my arm and pulls me out of Colin’s house.
“Let’s move. Before you have a panic attack.”
We dash down the street toward the Tank. I can barely feel my legs.
“Victor. What the hell is happening?”
Victor is panting and wheezes his response. “I believe a celebrity is hunting for you.”
I slam into the Tank full tilt and yank open the door, scrambling in with a hustle I haven’t used since my second-grade tee-ball coach yelled at me about running like a girl.
“Hunting? Good word choice,” I say. “I feel like Bambi right now.”
Victor throws the car into drive, and we race out of Colin’s neighborhood and toward ours. The houses get smaller and more run-down as we drive, but I also get calmer. Or at least my airway doesn’t feel so constricted anymore.
My butt is vibrating violently as alerts, texts, and calls keep coming in. I pull it out of my pocket and look at the messages on the screen, a brief summary of the entire internet’s reaction to Tess’s post. There have to be about several thousand people claiming to be my best friend right now on Twitter. I don’t have several thousand friends. I don’t even have a thousand friends. I may not actually know a thousand people total.
Panic rises in my gut, and my mouth suddenly tastes like bile. Maybe it’s not just panic. Maybe it’s my lunch too.
“Victor,” I say. My voice is not much louder than a whisper.
“Yeah, man?”
“What do I do?”
Victor looks over at me, incredulous. “What do you mean, ‘What do I do?’ You gotta tweet her back.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Are you?”
I let my head flop back against the seat. “And if I tweet her back, then what? Her brother finds me, and we go out and he realizes I’m a nobody, and he doesn’t even take me on a second date. And not only do I get to be a loser, I get to be a loser with TMZ on my tail.”
“Speaking of . . .” I look over, and Victor’s eyes are on his phone, not the road.
“Vic!”
“I know!” He tosses his phone at me, which has a browser opened. I am, indeed, on TMZ. Or at least my shoes are. But my name is also there in print.
I put my hands over my mouth. “Oh my god.”
Victor laughs. Then he just keeps on laughing.
“This is not funny.”
“It so is. One day, my friend, you will see the humor in it.”
“Why? Explain it to me now, because I’d love to feel anything other than sheer panic.”
Victor levels with me. “Because Cameron Pierce has no idea that the one person he just made famous is probably the one person on earth who wouldn’t want him, his money, or his fame. Also, it’s hilarious because you are the last person I would picture in a real-life fairy tale. You have absolutely no patience for daydreams or romance. Not unless it fits into one of your songs.”
I scowl at him. “I like romance.”
Victor merely shakes his head. “No, you don’t. You like structure, and stability, and a good dose of all things practical.”
“I’m a musician,” I say as an argument.
“A great one. But when’s the last time you wrote a song from actual experience?”
I don’t answer that. I’m too busy fuming. And too busy wondering if Victor’s possibly right.
“I don’t want this.”
Victor nods. “I know. He’s everything you detest. But he saw something in you that he liked enough to risk broadcasting it to the world. Maybe after the big chance he took on you, you could give him one back?”
I look back at my screen. “I don’t know. I just don’t know. He’s a Pierce, Victor.”
“Okay,” Victor says. “Want my advice?”
“Didn’t you already give it to me?”
Victor ignores my question. “Practice when you get home. Write a song. And if you find your thoughts drifting to a certain gorgeous mill
ionaire, maybe reply to Tess and tell her where she, or Cameron, can find you.”
“Maybe,” I say, and I am honestly considering it. I’m also honestly considering deleting every social media account I have, burning my shoes, and moving to Mexico, where I can be off the grid the rest of my life.
But as Victor rounds the corner to my house, I have to wonder if all of that would be an exercise in futility. There are cars parked on the front lawn that I’ve never seen before, and people standing with big, professional-looking cameras pointed down the street and at the ready.
“Looks like maybe I don’t have to tell Tess where she can find me.”
“No, I’d say someone did that for you,” Victor breathes. He’s slowed the Tank to a halt and is surveying my block with a concentration he usually reserves for his schemes. “Maybe we go to my place for a while?”
“Please.”
Victor pulls a U-turn so quick that I find my face smooshed up against the passenger-side window. Which is exactly the image of me TMZ posts next.
Chapter Five
Cameron
I’m in Tess’s bedroom, both of us staring in shock as our phones alternate with a nonstop syncopated rhythm of texts and alerts.
She shakes her head. “Cam, I swear. I had no idea it would be like this. I know I have pretty loyal fans, but this . . .”
Our phones continue to practically vibrate out of our hands.
“What do I do?”
Tess blinks. “You could wait for him to come to you, I guess.”
“Right,” I say. “The good ol’ ‘I had my sister’s gigantic fan base track you down so now I’m going to sit back and creepily await your call’ move.”
“Well, what’s creepier?” Tess asks. “You waiting for him to make a move, or showing up at his house, found by thousands of strangers online?”
I sigh. “God, this is a cluster.”
“I’m sorry,” Tess repeats. “I thought they’d reply back or message me with his name. Putting his address and phone number out there is like a whole new level of stupid.”
“They’re not stupid, they’re just desperate for your attention. Or mine.” I pick up my phone and make a call to Paradise’s offices. I can’t do much to make up for this massive invasion of Nate’s privacy, but I can do something. “Hello, Parker? Can you get me security?” I’m patched through immediately. There’s no god-awful hold music for a Pierce. The head of our security team, Jonathan, answers the phone.
“Hey, Jon, I don’t know if you’ve seen, but—”
“Seen the massive shit show all over TMZ? Yeah. Need me to send someone to the boy’s house?”
I close my eyes, resigned. “Please. Maybe a few someones.”
“Can do, Mr. Pierce.”
“Thanks. Oh, and can you—”
“We’re wiping all we can off the internet, but these things travel fast, sir. Hopefully we can get most of it.”
“Just concentrate on his personal info right now. Nate’s. Don’t worry about me.”
“We can do that, sir.”
I hang up and meet Tess’s eyes. She looks guilty and regretful and concerned.
“Cam, I think no matter how you get in touch, maybe the first thing you need to say is sorry.” I narrow my eyes at her, and if she were a dog, she’d be tucking tail and whimpering. “Okay, me too.” She lifts up her phone, muttering, “I really was just trying to help.”
“I know.” I squeeze her shoulder gently.
“I guess the upside is that this is kind of a test. If he can’t handle this, he couldn’t handle dating you anyway.” Tess, finally, gives me a little smile. It’s a pitying smile, but I’ll take it. “Some people just aren’t cut out for this.”
She rests her head on my shoulder, and I close my eyes. My heart is beating way too fast. I hate that Nate is probably somewhere out there being chased down by rabid paparazzi. I hate that he’s probably regretting ever agreeing to dance with me. I hate that this is all my fault, and I hate that the chicken I ate for dinner would like to come back up right now.
I close my eyes and try to breathe. Maybe Tess is right. Maybe some people just aren’t cut out for this.
Nate
“I’m not cut out for this,” I say as I pace a trench into the carpet of Victor’s living room. “There are people with cameras outside my house.”
“Paparazzi.”
“What?” I stop pacing to glare at Victor.
“The people with cameras. You might as well learn the correct terminology if you’re going to date a celebrity.” Victor is smug. “Plus, I mean, this is L.A. Everybody knows that word.”
“I know the word. I just . . .” I resume pacing. “That’s just absurd. Why on earth would paparazzi be at my house? I’m a nobody.” I can almost feel Victor raise an eyebrow at me, so I add to my statement, “And I don’t want them there.”
Just then the double doors that lead into Victor’s kitchen (the doors that are blessedly keeping Victor’s large family out of my business) burst open. His two little sisters, Angela and Maria, who are twelve and eleven, respectively, look at me and giggle.
“Hey, Nate,” Angela says, ever the braver one of the two, being the eldest. “Did you kiss him? Did he say you were a better kisser than Harry?”
The girls dissolve into nervous giggles again, and I feel a blush working its way into my cheeks regardless of how ridiculous it all is. “There was no kissing,” I tell them, and feel just as disappointed as they look, although a part of me is glad because there’s no possible way I’d be a better kisser than Harry Garrett.
“Mama!” Victor yells out. “Come on, this is kinda important here!”
Mrs. Amati rushes in, scowling. “Girls. It was bedtime a half hour ago. Go. Now.” She shoos them out the door, and I can hear her muttering something about badly behaved “ragazze” on her way out. I resume my pacing.
“Are you gonna tweet Tess back?” Victor whispers.
“No, Victor. I need to get home. Then I need to disappear.”
At that, Victor steps in front of me, halting my nervous path. “You’re serious, aren’t you? You really don’t want this?”
“I don’t want it. The attention, the craziness, the reputation, any of it.”
“Not even Cameron?”
That, I’m ashamed to say, gives me pause. If Cameron had been anyone, anyone on earth besides a member of the Pierce family, I would have been on my way to Vegas with him so that we could tie the knot in a cheesy chapel of love. Or, less dramatically, out on a date, eating food at a decent restaurant. Hell, if he’d been any other celebrity, I could have handled it.
I can’t handle a Pierce. Even if he’s drop-dead gorgeous and into me enough to cause a Hollywood frenzy.
“Not even Cameron,” I tell Vic, but my chest hurts when I say it.
Vic puts his arms around me and pulls me into a crushing hug. “Okay, I’ll come up with something. But first, I’ll get some of your things from your house.”
He lets me go and reaches for his keys.
“Hey, Vic? Could you get my guitar? The acoustic.”
“Which one? The new one?”
Bless Victor for knowing me well enough to know I have two acoustic guitars, and that one of them is only a year old.
I shake my head. “The old one. Dad’s. I really need to play it tonight.” Then, at the sudden realization, it feels like everything inside me collapses. “Vic, what if they find out who I am? That I’m Mick Grisheimer’s son?”
Clearly, Victor hadn’t considered that either, because his olive skin turns sickly pale. “They won’t. But if they do . . . I don’t know. Cross it when we come to it. Right, bro?”
I chuckle because Victor is not the type of guy to use “bro,” unless he’s making fun of guys who use the word “bro” or trying to make me laugh. He succeeded.
He looks at me all warm and supportive. “Just so you know, I think you might regret running from this. Risks aside, you may not have a chance like this again.”
“I don’t care that Cameron’s famous and rich.”
“I’m not talking about that, Nate. Not at all,” he says, and then he’s gone.
* * *
***
Victor is gone for an hour, during which time I do nothing but stress-eat as Mrs. Amati sets out a spread worthy of Thanksgiving. She is probably where I developed my habit, considering her fix for any ailment is more food. Vic’s sisters are in bed, mercifully, but his brother Gianni can’t help but give me a good-natured ribbing when he passes through the kitchen, then a pat on the back for hooking up with a celebrity. I don’t bother correcting him, and instead eat another sandwich as Mrs. Amati looks on proudly.
For the moment, the outside world is quiet. I can’t bear to check my phone, and I certainly won’t turn on the TV. God knows they have helicopters circling by now. Isn’t that what they do? Or maybe that was just the police in Goodfellas.
Then the door to the garage opens, and Victor steps through. He’s carrying my guitar in its old gig bag as well as a duffel bag. He looks at all the food in front of me, then the empty spots on my plate, and assesses the situation. Apparently it’s dire, because Victor pulls out two of his dad’s beers from the fridge. He pops off the caps and slides one to me, and I take it gratefully. Mrs. Amati begins to protest, but the desperate look we give her has her closing her mouth and putting her hands up in surrender.
“If you need anything, I’ll be right upstairs,” Mrs. Amati says. “Nate, stay as long as you like. Gabriel’s room is all yours.”
“Thank you,” I tell her, truly grateful. There have been so many times I’ve been grateful for her, for Victor, for his big, boisterous, welcoming family. She flashes a wide smile at both of us before leaving us in privacy.
As soon as she’s out of earshot, Victor explodes. “Dude, you are not going to believe this! While I was there getting your stuff, this sleek black car pulls up and these guys step out that look like the Men in Black. I shit you not, it was like watching Tommy Lee Jones and Will Smith work. They go up to the paps and say a few words. There’s a lot of nodding, a lot of gesturing; some of them shake hands or something. Then the MIBs point to the cars on the road and don’t stop pointing until the paps get in them and drive away. It was like they were telling a bad dog to get in its training crate.”
