by Jen Malone
“Get out,” he spit.
“But, but . . . ,” she protested, while Billy stood and planted his feet, pointing his newly manicured finger in the direction of the door. My mother turned to the owner, who had reappeared from the kitchen. She looked from Mr. Glick to Mom, pursed her lips nervously, and turned her hands out in a helpless gesture.
Mom grabbed me by the arm and stormed past the owner and into the kitchen. She snatched her purse off the counter and dropped the face cream back inside. “Screw this! Annie, get your stuff.”
I glanced from the owner, who had followed us, to the America’s Next Top Model waitress dispensing drinks from a cocktail shaker into martini glasses. This could not be happening. We could not afford to lose this job.
I opened my mouth to plead with the owner, to tell her how Mom had left the only job she’d had since high school and the only town either of us had known since birth. How we’d moved all the way across the country. How I’d had to change schools going into my senior year. Mom could NOT get fired for something so stupid. The dude had had bird crap on his face minutes earlier. Where did he think that came from? Poop fairies?
But once again, I couldn’t say anything. I just stood there with my mouth opening and closing while Mom fished the keys to our Kia out of her purse and rattled them at me. “Annie. Come on!”
I sighed and untied my half apron, dropping it on the counter. We were halfway across the marble floor when someone called after us.
A woman clicked toward us on towering heels. “Hold up, ladies. Look. I’m Billy’s assistant. He’s under a lot of stress awaiting news on the sale of his yacht. You understand. We wouldn’t want this, er, incident to reach the tabloids. Here, I hope this makes up for things.”
She smiled at me as Mom reached for the paper in her hand. Mom took a brief look and then passed it to me. It was an eight-by-ten glossy Billy Glick headshot, signed, “Keep on keepin’ on. Luv, Billy.”
Sigh.
Welcome to LA.
CHAPTER TWO
“No way. You’re making this up. Please tell me you’re making this up.” Wynn’s familiar freckled face—already sunburned and peeling in June—stretched across my computer screen as she leaned in closer to her webcam. After five days of hassling the building manager, our wifi connection was finally working and I wasted no time in Skyping my best friend back home.
I laughed. “I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried.”
“No. No way. It’s too crazy. You wouldn’t tease me with this, would you?”
I sniffed as if I was deeply offended she would question my sincerity, but Wynn only giggled.
“I swear on all that I hold sacred that this is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,” I told her.
Wynn rocked back in her chair. “Okay, that’s just bizarre. It’s like you moved to the moon.”
“Seriously. That’s pretty much what it feels like.”
“Still . . . Los Angeles . . . ,” said Wynn with a wistful sigh. She and I both knew that if anyone belonged out here, it was Wynn. She was the one with encyclopedic knowledge of every single celebrity right down to their babies’ oddball names and astrological signs. Even the parts of her room I could see behind her on the screen were a shrine to glitz and glamour. Gray-bordering-on-silver walls and a (faux) crystal chandelier dangling over her bed. The bedspread had ruffled edges and was shimmering silver too, except for the few remaining garnet beads from an afternoon of BeDazzling eight years ago that went terribly wrong (in our defense, we think the BeDazzler had a defect that probably had nothing to do with us not reading the instructions before beginning).
The only relief from the silver was the chunk of wall behind her bed covered in framed posters of old-time movies: Some Like It Hot, Casablanca, Citizen Kane. Vintage glam all the way. Only a select few people knew that on the inside of her closet door, she had one other, far more current poster. That one was a life-size cutout of one Graham Cabot, child sitcom star turned movie actor, current teen heartthrob, and the object of Wynn’s unfaltering adoration (along with the majority of the world’s female population between the ages of six and twenty-six). Sure, Wynn’s crush was about as teenybopper as they come, but it was all part of her charm, as my mom liked to say.
Without even needing the video feed, I could perfectly picture the shelves circling the top perimeter of the room that Wynn’s dad built to house her out-of-control snow globe collection. I also didn’t need the camera to show me the empty spot that, until last week, held her very first one: Clara and her Nutcracker Prince ice-skating around on a small circle of mirrored paper. On my side of the country, I gave the scene a shake and watched a thin layer of flaky snow settle over Clara’s ivory nightgown.
Wynn noticed. “Hey, my snow globe made it in one piece.”
“Yup.”
“Did you find a good spot for it yet? Turn your laptop around so I can see what your room looks like.”
“Pretty standard,” I said, complying. I held the laptop over my head and turned in a slow circle. The angle didn’t matter much, as the view was mostly the same, 360 degrees. White walls, white drafting table in the corner with a black swivel stool tucked under it, and a black bedspread with a cityscape of buildings marching across it in chalky-white outlines.
“Jeez, Ans, it looks like a carbon copy of your old room. Need me to send you some links to decorating blogs?”
“Yeah, well, I’m still going for the clean, modern look.”
“But you’re in the land of movie stars and magic. Have fun with it! Set up a lava lamp and buy a puppy that will fit in your purse. Actually, you should probably buy a new purse first.”
“Oh yeah, I can just see that now. How very ‘me.’ Besides, this move isn’t exactly all about fun.”
“Well, you’re there now. You might as well embrace it.”
I snorted. “I’m trying. Hey, but I did sign up for an event next week at SCI-Arc.”
“SCI-Arc? Is that a new nightclub?”
“Southern California Institute of Architecture,” I told her. “They have this really cool lecture series and there’s one next week where all the graduate students present their theses. Plus, there’s an exhibit on—”
I stopped speaking when Wynn put her head in her hands and pretended to snore. When she heard my silence, she looked up and smiled. “Are you done yet? Forget columns and arches and . . . okay, I don’t actually know any other architecture terms, but forget them all and get your scrawny ass down to Laguna Beach so you can send me videos of hot surfers doing their thing.”
“I know, but—”
Wynn plowed on. “Better yet, take some surfing lessons of your own. Once you get a tan, you could totally pass for a surfer babe with that beachy-wavy thing your hair does. You know I’ve known you forever and ever and I have no choice but to love you exactly as you are, but really, Ans, you’re gonna have to stop acting like my grandmother if you want to make new friends out there. And you better appreciate how bitter it makes me to coach you on finding my replacement.”
As if I could replace Wynn. It didn’t even warrant a comment. Instead I answered, “Sorry if I can’t make myself get all worked up over the latest kiwi-seed diet or a seven-hundred-dollar cell phone case.”
“Wasted. That place is totally wasted on you,” Wynn said with a grin. Then her expression turned more somber. “Seriously, though, what do you think this means? Your mom getting fired so fast? Think you’ll pack up and move back?” Her voice went up a little at the end, like she couldn’t quite hide the glimmer of hope.
“I really don’t know. I doubt it, though. With things the way they are with Dad, I think she’d rather have more than just a country between them, and so would I.”
Wynn gave me a look of sympathy that made me bite down hard on my lip to keep tears from spilling over. Then she said, “I saw him the other day, ya know. He looked terrible. He was at Mac’s buying mulch and when he saw me it seemed like he wanted to cry. I’m no
t sure if you want to hear this but, um, he told me to tell you how much he loves you.”
“You’re right, I don’t want to hear it.”
Wynn dropped her eyes to her desk and quickly changed the subject. “Well, I give your mom credit. Imagine living somewhere your whole life where you were the total bomb and giving it all up for a chance at a brand-new life.”
The living somewhere my whole life part I could definitely relate to. Being “the bomb”? Not so much.
I answered Wynn. “Yeah, well, her bravado’s gone missing. You should see her now. She’s been on a tear ever since she recovered from her mini-meltdown. Three guesses what she’s doing now?”
“Uh-oh. Does it involve an apron with our kindergarten handprints on it?”
“Yup.”
“Oatmeal raisin or chocolate chip?”
“Oatmeal raisin. Joe’s on his way over and they’re his favorite. She called him freaking out on our drive back down from the Hollywood Hills.”
“Hollywood Hills . . . ,” Wynn breathed in awe. “Whatever you do, you have to figure out a way to stay there through Thanksgiving. My plane ticket’s nonrefundable.”
“Ha! That’s like a lifetime from now.”
Wynn looked over her shoulder. I couldn’t see who was standing in her doorway but I assumed it was her little brother from the face Wynn made. Confirmation came when Wynn said, “Tell her I’ll set the table in five minutes. What? Just tell her, Toe Cheese!” She tossed something balled up in the direction of the door, then returned her attention to me. “Sorry, gotta go. Hang in there, okay? Text me tomorrow and let me know what’s happening.”
I nodded, waved good-bye, and clicked end on the session. Despite all we’d talked about after, the part of the conversation that lingered was Wynn’s comment about my dad, and I sat for a moment, trying to push my feelings to a far corner of my head. I was usually pretty good at that. I needed to get my emotions under control before I saw Mom or we’d just loop right back into the way things had been at home before the move. Before the move, but after we found out what my dad had been up to. Even though things weren’t exactly going according to plan out here, I knew how much Mom needed this fresh start, and I didn’t want to be the one dragging her back into all the drama.
The timer buzzed in the kitchen and brought me out of my fog. I took a few steadying breaths before venturing out to see how many racks of cookies were cooling, which was sure to give me some indication of Mom’s mood.
It was worse than I’d thought. There must have been four dozen cookies, maybe more, spread out on every surface of the tiny kitchen and spilling over onto the table in the living room. I was just yelling for Mom about the buzzer when there was a knock and a head poked around the front door and into our apartment.
“Ya know, this isn’t Shelbyville, ladies. You might want to get in the habit of locking your front door.”
The disembodied head waited patiently until I offered, “Come on in, Joe.”
Then the rest of film producer extraordinaire (to hear him tell it, anyway) Joe Ribinowitz strode into the room. His eyes lit up when he spied the bounty of Mom’s afternoon bakefest. He paused to inhale the smell of warm oatmeal and vanilla. I slid the next batch out of the oven and switched off the buzzer.
“Your assistant said this was a safe neighborhood,” I accused.
“Well, of course it is. By Hollywood standards. But this complex is mostly people in the industry and you have no idea what desperate people starved for a role—and probably even regular starved from dieting for that role—are capable of. There are some kooks out here looking to land their shot at fame. And never, ever underestimate those stage moms. The things they’ll do to get Junior a speaking line . . .” Joe gave a whole-body shudder that culminated with him subtly snatching a cookie off the cooling rack on the counter. “Where’s your mom?”
“Not sure,” I was answering, just as Mom appeared in the doorway to her bedroom at the far end of the hall.
“Hey, did you get the cookies out? Oh, Joe! Thank God. Finally a friendly face. How on earth did I let y’all talk me into this move?”
I had to admit, when Joe first started hanging around Grandma Madge’s salon last winter as he recruited extra stylists for his production and, a few weeks later, landed at our kitchen table, I was pretty sure he was putting the moves on my mother right under Dad’s nose. If anyone in pinprick, dusty Shelbyville was going to catch the eye of a visiting film crew, it would be Mom, with her glossy honey-butter hair and her chirpy “Hey, y’all”s. People told her all the time that she was the very definition of a Southern belle, and she had the Miss Georgia Peach sash to prove it.
My mom’s sweet as a peach too—she’d probably never even see the seduction coming. But it hadn’t been like that at all. Joe was every bit as friendly with Dad and he’d been a really good friend to Mom when everything went down. He was the one who made the move out here happen.
Oh, and plus Joe was gay. Kinda missed that important detail.
So now I’d finally begun to take him at his word; he was in it for the oatmeal raisin.
He answered Mom. “I’ll tell you how the hell you let yourself get talked into it. Because I didn’t get where I am in this godforsaken industry without learning how to get anyone to do anything.” Joe polished off a second cookie and reached for a third. “Plus, you’re far too talented for a town so small it doesn’t even have a Starbucks. Who knew places like that still even existed? Criminal. You belong in the big time. The city of angels will open her gates for you two celestial beings.” Joe ended with a typically dramatic flourish that would usually have Mom in giggles.
Instead she snorted ruefully. “I don’t know about that. I can’t even stay employed for an entire hour.”
“Well, what did I tell you about those A-listers?”
“You said stars are just shinier versions of regular people.”
“I did?” asked Joe. “Huh. I think I must have meant douchier versions, not shinier.”
My mom shook her head, a small smile fighting to break free. Joe saw it too and went in for the kill. “Anyway, you, my sweet, are on to bigger and better. I had my assistant’s assistant make some calls and, as they say in the biz, everything’s coming up roses.”
“Really?” Mom asked as she drizzled cream into Joe’s coffee. I scooted my chair in and propped my elbows on the table.
“Well. It’s not ideal. For me, at least. I’m gonna have to dive back into my freezer supply of oatmeal raisin. Though these batches will hold me over for a bit. I can have them, right?” he asked.
Mom waved her hand over them, eager to move past talk of cookies. “They’re yours. Now, back to the job, please.”
“By any chance do you ladies have passports?”
My mom and I exchanged a puzzled look. “No. Neither of us had ever left Georgia before last week, much less the country.”
“Okay, no worries. We can get a rush job on a couple in two, three days tops. First stop is New York anyway, and you should be there through . . . wait, today’s Tuesday, so Wednesday, Thursday . . .” He ticked days off on his hand until my mother and I both screamed “Joe!” at the same time.
Joe looked startled. “What?”
“Are you fixin’ to tell us what the job is?” my mom asked with exaggerated patience.
“Oh, right. Sorry. Guess I should have led with that.”
He leaned in and smiled.
“Do you two happen to know who Graham Cabot is?”
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo by John Malone
JEN MALONE once spe
nt a year traveling the world solo, met her husband on the highway (literally), and went into labor with her identical twins while on Stevie Nicks’s tour bus. These days she saves the drama for her books. She is a former Hollywood film publicist and current college professor who lives in the Boston area with her husband and three children and (someday, when she wears her husband down) a pet hedgehog. She is also the author of Map to the Stars. You can learn more about Jen and her books at www.jenmalonewrites.com.
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BOOKS BY JEN MALONE
Map to the Stars
Wanderlost
Changes in Latitude
CREDITS
Cover art © 2016 by THOMAS BARWICK / GETTY IMAGES
Cover design & hand lettering by KATE ENGBRING
COPYRIGHT
HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
WANDERLOST. Copyright © 2016 by Jen Malone. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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ISBN 978-0-06-238015-9
EPub Edition © May 2016 ISBN 9780062380166
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