Adam didn’t look up from his phone. “Parker will hook me up.”
Parker hurried to order a drink so long and with so many stipulations I lost track somewhere between “chai” and “soy” and “nonfat” before I refocused on Adam. My boyfriend. I let out a laugh that sounded like a parrot hiccupping.
This got his attention. “Something funny?”
“This.”
“What?”
I made a motion with my arms as if to say, Everything. “This whole thing. It’s pretty funny.” He didn’t seem to think it was too funny. I let my eyes wander the café, suddenly aware of how small it was, how some of the pictures on the walls sat askew, how the trim around the doorway leading to the bathrooms needed new paint.
Adam drummed his fingers on the table. “Are we going to do this or what? I’m in makeup soon.” He motioned to the chair across from him, his eyes already back on his phone, and mumbled, “Have a seat. Don’t be nervous. I know it’s weird to finally meet someone you’ve thought about but who has no idea who you are.” This was clearly something he’d said before; it had the dry-edged tone of rehearsal.
But I wasn’t nervous. That was not what I was feeling. More nauseous. I thought about telling him where he could put his fame and his attitude; I thought about telling him I didn’t think about him. The way I didn’t think about my dentist or the guy who worked at the gas station. Not unless I was having my teeth cleaned or filling up my car. I wanted to tell him that, but I couldn’t seem to find my voice. Adam obviously thought I was just another stupid, starstruck girl. Which made sense. Girls probably acted like idiots in front of him. Probably tossed their panties at him or worse.
Well, my panties were staying on, thank you very much. “I’m not nervous. It’s more just weird than anything else. You being here. With me. This — whatever it is we’re doing.” I tried to laugh, but it sounded like a balloon popping.
Adam looked up from his phone, a smile twitching his mouth. “And what is it you think we’re doing?”
My cheeks burned. “Nothing! We’re doing nothing. We’re totally PG.” Great, now I sounded like Parker.
Adam’s eyes flashed. “I mean, I’m open to ideas.”
Behind me, Dad dropped whatever drink he’d been making. I heard the cup clatter to the counter. My tongue knotted up. Okay, fine, I was nervous. Stupid, gorgeous, stuck-up movie star. I wanted to telepathically suggest to Dad that he make Adam Jakes a nonfat-soy-chai-cyanide latte.
Parker handed Adam a white mug. Apparently, that hadn’t been what Dad had dropped. “Charming banter, you two, but we really need to talk ground rules.” His voice was smooth, low, like talking to a kitten. I nodded in what I hoped was a reassuring, confident manner. Most likely, my head bobbed like a chicken. As much as I hated to admit it, I couldn’t seem to find my confidence. Adam Jakes, jerk or not, was still a movie star, and he just seemed to take up all the space in the room.
“Let’s talk,” I managed, my chest tight.
Fifteen minutes later, Parker had done all the talking, and Adam hadn’t looked up from his phone. Not once. Finally, Dad showed them both out through the kitchen door, where the black Range Rover sat idling in our back lot. After closing the door behind them, Dad sat down next to me at the table, his face worried. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”
I hoped my face didn’t reflect his worry right back at him. “It’s a little late now, don’t you think?”
He hooked a thumb in the direction of their retreat. “I don’t like that guy.”
“Which one?”
“Both of them.”
“They certainly love themselves.” I sipped my coffee, almost cold now, and put my hand on his arm. “It’ll be fine, I promise. I’ll back out if I need to.” I glanced at the clock. We needed to start getting ready to open. I stood. “We need more mango iced tea if you want to make it.”
His gray eyes followed me. “Mom thinks she should come home.”
I brought out a stack of clean mugs for the top of the espresso machine. “She doesn’t need to do that.” I squinted at one to see if it was too chipped to use, decided it was fine, and added it to the stack. “It might be easier if she didn’t.”
He bent to pick at something in the hardwood. Smashed gum. Lovely. Using a napkin to pull it up, he said, “She’s a mama bear, for sure.”
“More like Mama Militia Coordinator.” Only that wasn’t totally fair. On the phone last night, I told Mom that I was going to pose as Adam’s girlfriend, and I’d expected a lecture on the moral vacuum that was young Hollywood, but instead she heard me out, heard my reasons, especially after what had happened with John yesterday. She’d been quiet for a second, then said, “You sure you want to do this?” I could see her, curled on the bed of the van somewhere in central California, legs bare, hand covering her non-phone ear like she always did, even when it wasn’t noisy.
I told her I knew what I was doing.
She pretended we both thought this was true.
Dad started making the mango tea. “She still gets to worry about you.”
“She’s worried about the whole world. And I mean, seriously, why should she be here babysitting me and some guy when she’s making sure farmers get the support they need?” I checked that the garbage had a fresh bag in it.
He watched me the way he sometimes looked at pictures of toddler me, of first-day-at-school me, that dreamy sadness, then said, “She can’t possibly wonder where you get it from.”
I studied Dad’s back as he went out through the front door to set the tea in the sun. It wasn’t always easy when Mom was gone. He would never admit it, but I think he sort of wished she’d pick a cause closer to home.
I plucked a slippery blue Windbreaker from the back of a chair. It belonged to Mr. Michaels, who should be rolling in in about twenty minutes, wearing another jacket just like it over his flannel shirt. He’d been leaving a jacket on one of our chairs for as long as I could remember. I hung it on the coatrack and studied Dad’s face as he came through the door. The creases were back. I asked him, “You’re sure you’re okay with all this? You can tell me if you’re not.”
He leaned forward, splaying his palms on the counter. “I think you can handle this, I do. It’s just that you’re so private. And you’re not one of those kids who cares about this stuff. Like Chloe. No offense, she’s a great kid, but she’s a nut about all that celebrity and fame stuff. And you’re not. You’re going to have a bunch of cameras in your face, a bunch of people in your business. I’m not sure you know what you’re getting into.”
I started writing out the special sandwich for the day on the board while Dad unwrapped the fresh pastries we had delivered each morning by a local bakery. “Dad, I’m not sure people ever really know what they’re getting into. And you know why I’m doing this.” I met his eyes.
Sighing, he shrugged his large shoulders, but his eyes smiled. “Are you sure you’re seventeen and not forty?”
“You claim you were there.” I breathed in the opening of the day. I loved the time when Little Eats was just about to open, everything bright and clean, the coffee-infused air, the slight glow of the refrigerated drink cases, the smell of the pastries, the early-morning light coming through the tall windows running the length of the outside patio. Dad had laid all the wheat-colored hardwood on the floors himself ten years ago, and each year they got more scuffed and worn. All the scratches from the chairs, the feet of our customers, dropped plates. Each scratch, a tiny piece of history.
Dad sighed again, bringing me back.
“What?” I capped the dry erase marker.
His eyes rested on me, sad and tired from last night. “I just wish he didn’t seem like such a jerk.”
“I know.” I flipped the sign to Open, Come In! “But it’s only a few weeks. Besides, it’ll be easier that way. Just a job.”
Dad set out the last of the pastries in the glass case by the front counter. “I hope your brother appreciates this.”
His voice told us we both knew he wouldn’t.
Morning, sky watchers. This week, we sat on the roof talking about atmosphere. The layers of protection it allows, the energy it absorbs, why all of us crave being a part of it, and it got us thinking about another sort of star. Movie stars. Celebrities. This is a hot topic in Little right now because (just in case you’ve been living under a rock and don’t know this already) we’ve got a star burning bright in our town this week. Adam Jakes. James Bond Jr. Child wonder. Sports-car-crasher. He’s here shooting a Christmas movie (in June … because Hollywood makes its own sort of sense). No matter, he’s here, creating an atmosphere. And (for better or for worse) we’re all absorbing some of his energy.
Maybe that’s why we like looking up at night. For a moment, our immediate atmosphere shifts on us and reminds us we’re all part of something wide and far.
See you tonight, under the sky.
after work, I drove to pick up some groceries so Dad didn’t end up eating Wheat Thins for dinner. Again. You’d think he’d just eat at the café, but he never seemed to make the time. Turning onto Sixth Street, I saw the light on at Stagelights. Mom’s words before she left tugged at me. Had it really been over a year? Funny how time could pass so quickly but leave you feeling like it had been decades.
Impulsively, I pulled my dust-colored Jetta into one of the slots in front of the studio, got out, and peered through the glass, my stomach buzzing with nerves. Nicky Fritz, my former teacher and the owner of Stagelights, was dancing in one of the back studios. I could see flashes of him through its open door, wearing a tank top and black shorts. Nicky didn’t seem to age, his black hair still cropped in the same short buzz, his face unlined. At forty-five, he was as lithe and muscular as when I used to stare up at him, a dazzled five-year-old.
When I could tell he’d come to a pause, I tapped on the glass. He hurried into the lobby of the studio, mopping his face with a hand towel. He unlocked the glass door and pushed it open, letting me in. “Well, well, if it isn’t our prodigal daughter.”
He let the door swing shut behind us.
“I saw the lights on.” The familiar smell stabbed me, that strange combination of lotion, sweat, leotards, and feet. It sounded gross, but it wasn’t. The perfume of my childhood. “Am I interrupting you?”
Nicky dabbed his forehead with the white towel. “Never, darling. Just surprised to see you.” He squinted at me. “You okay?”
I shrugged. “I just pulled in, didn’t really even think about it.” For years, I didn’t go more than a few days without being here and then I just stopped, like sealing off the door to another universe.
He disappeared behind the counter, emerging with a white paper shopping bag marked Carter — do not throw out! “Here, I’m not running a storage facility.”
Flushing, I took the bag. Inside, a few pairs of tights, a pair of trashed jazz shoes, and a wrap hibernated. “Thanks.” I nodded toward the studio. “You working on something?”
He shook his head. “Just trying to get some exercise. We got so crazed with Spring Showcase, but that’s done. Just trying to catch up on some workouts before summer session starts. We had fourteen in Beginning Combo this year. I don’t know how Lisa does it. They’re lunatics.”
I laughed at his expression of horror. “They’re four years old!” My body relaxed, easing into the comfort of this place, its wood ceilings, the hum of the air-conditioning, the photos of past shows lining the pale pink hallways. If I tried to count all the pictures with me in them, I’d lose track. My eyes pricked in that itchy way that meant tears, and I tried not to look at the photos.
“Right,” he said with a shiver. “Lunatics.” He came out from behind the counter and leaned against it, studying me. “You dancing at all?”
“I’m teaching at Snow Ridge, but I wouldn’t call it dancing.” I dropped my gaze, knowing he’d seen the gloss in my eyes. I knew where this line of questioning was heading.
He nodded slowly, his dark eyes hard to read. “I heard that. That’s great. Those old folks keeping you on your toes, I hope?”
I fiddled with the handles of the bag. “Oh, they’re fun.” It wouldn’t be long before he drove down Carter’s-Messing-Up-Her-Life Lane.
But surprisingly, he didn’t say anything at all. Outside, the late-afternoon sun turned the windows of the restaurant across the street into bright sheets of light. I couldn’t look at them. After a moment, Nicky began to say something, then hesitated. Finally, he said, “You want to dance a bit?”
“Now?”
“Why not? You can help me with a bit of choreography for the intermediate jazz summer session. Want to work out some kinks with me?” Without waiting for an answer, he headed toward the back studio. Soon, music permeated the space, a song Dad would have recognized but I couldn’t place, a rock ballad from the eighties. I leaned through the open door. “Actually, I have to run — I’m meeting someone.”
“Suit yourself.” He was already working out some steps, his eyes on the mirror, but I couldn’t help but notice a flicker of concern cross his face.
I’d been seeing that look a lot for the last year.
I waited on a cement bench in the green backyard of The Hotel on Main. Out on the street, a film crew broke down all sorts of equipment, their faint voices and movements echoing in the lush cloak of the garden. Tucked under the shade of a low-hanging tree, I checked my special Adam phone for the tenth time. Parker had told me to have it with me at all times just in case they needed to contact me. Tonight, Parker said they’d go public about Adam’s relationship with me, whatever that meant, but first we’d meet to get our game faces on.
Their game faces were both late.
I fiddled with the frayed hem of my cutoff Levi’s and wondered if I should have washed my hair. I pulled the end of my ponytail in front of my eyes, frowning. My hair matched my eyes almost perfectly. Mom referred to it as auburn probably because she thought boring brown (which it actually was) would hurt my feelings. Dad liked to say I was the sort of girl who made men hum “Brown Eyed Girl.” I liked to tell him that fifty-year-old men humming an ancient Van Morrison song gave me the creeps. But having matching brown eyes and hair was its own sort of invisibility cloak. I could blend into ordinary surroundings like one of those leaf butterflies I once saw at the zoo.
Which was probably why Adam Jakes just walked right past me.
Watching him, my breath caught. Even though he wore real-people clothes — a pair of skinny jeans, a faded maroon T-shirt, flip-flops, and the mirrored glasses he’d been wearing at the café — he really did seem otherworldly. He ran his hand casually through his hair (leaving it perfectly tousled, of course) and checked his iPhone. In that moment, as if he knew to position himself perfectly in a fading slant of early-evening light that cast a pale rosy glow, bronzing him, he laughed at something he read on the screen, his smile like flash lightning in a purple storm sky.
He was beautiful.
I should have washed my hair.
“Adam?”
He jerked his head toward me, his hand coming over his heart, the smile vanishing, leaving just a dark sky. “Why are you lurking in the shadows?”
Lurking? I glanced down at the smooth bench. “I was just sitting here. Weren’t we supposed to meet?”
“I didn’t see you.”
“Obviously.” I didn’t get up. “I hope your tardiness is not an indication of how you plan to treat me during our courtship.”
He tilted his head, no trace of smile at my joke. I assumed he was studying me, though I couldn’t see his eyes behind those mirrors, just flashes of green from the garden. It was a bit late in the evening to be wearing sunglasses. He didn’t respond to my comment.
We listened for a bit to the sound of a hidden fountain. Finally, he asked, “Where’s Parker?” Annoyed, he typed into his phone. Clearly, Adam Jakes wasn’t used to waiting.
I squirmed on the bench. “I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”
“He s
hould be here now, Cary.”
Cary? Was he giving me a nickname? He didn’t get to do that. “It’s Carter.”
He nodded as if that was what he’d said the first time. “Interesting name.”
I fiddled with the strap of my bag. “My mom named my brother and me after presidents she admired, who she thought made real social change.”
“What’s your brother’s name?”
“John.”
“As in Kennedy?”
“Yes.”
“Why isn’t his name Kennedy?”
“My dad thinks Kennedy sounds like a girl’s name.”
“That’s true.” He smirked. “Funny choices, though.”
“Why?”
“Well, one was shot and the other had a one-term presidency.” He stretched his arms over his head.
“That’s not a very respectful way to talk about our former presidents.” I meant it as a joke, but it came out just as flat as my earlier one. He didn’t seem to notice anyway, barely disguising a yawn. This wasn’t going well. “What can I say? Mom’s an idealist.” I stared at his mirrors. “So, are you staying here? Bonnie’s a sweetheart.”
“Who?” He’d started fiddling with his phone again.
“Bonnie, who runs this hotel.” I had the feeling I had maybe three percent of his listening capacity at the moment.
He glanced up. “What? No, I’m not here. They got Parker and me a house. Some of the crew’s here, though.” He typed furiously into his phone. “Where is he?”
As if on cue, Parker materialized into the garden out of a back door of the hotel. “Shooting go all right today?” he asked Adam, ignoring the beeping of his phone, clearly texts from Adam.
Catch a Falling Star Page 5
