Mr. Michaels swirled the remaining coffee in his cup. “I read something about that in the paper. He’s filming a Christmas movie?”
I nodded. “Right. For the next few weeks, Hollywood will be filming a Christmas movie. Even though it’s June. And Chloe’s freaking out because she got to touch Adam Jakes’s ice.” I widened my eyes, clasping the hand that wasn’t holding the coffee over my heart. “His ice, Mr. Michaels!”
Chloe scrunched up her nose, a busing tray full of dishes against her slim hip, her face a mask of disappointment at our sad lack of pop culture appreciation. “You both should be freaking out. This is a big deal.” She held up the sacred glass, the ice mostly melted now.
“That,” I told her, not bothering to hide my amusement, “is a glass of water.”
Chloe stomped inside in a huff.
“He’s filming tomorrow downtown. We have to go.” Chloe squinted at her laptop, tucking her short hair behind her ears.
“I’m working tomorrow.” I sipped some iced peppermint tea and waited for her to finish checking her various celebrity sites. We were late to meet her boyfriend, Alien Drake, for stargazing, but it was no use pushing her until she was done.
Chewing my straw, I stared at the pictures plastered on the massive bulletin board above her desk, a layered collection that spilled off in all directions. Pinned amid magazine cutouts of swoon-worthy actors, at least a dozen of the pictures featured seventeen-year-old Adam Jakes, his six-foot frame always muscular and tan, his hair with just the right amount of tousle, his eyes oceanic. There were a few of him smiling, his face lit up, and one of him obviously laughing. But in the more recent photos, he looked gloomy and distant, his face showing the wear of his recent scandal.
Even I knew how much trouble he’d been in. You’d have to live in a hole not to have noticed his face splashed all over Star and Celebrity! last November, documenting his reckless involvement with an unknown twenty-two-year-old redhead, a fast car (also red), and an amount of cocaine the tabloids kept referring to as “substantial.” In one of the larger black-and-white photos Chloe had pinned up, I thought he just looked sad.
She had some other pictures up there, too — pictures of Alien Drake, some of me, and some of the three of us together, usually at one of our star-watching nights. These were my favorites, but it felt strange to see them sandwiched in between all the celebrities, like we could ever be part of the same galaxy. I squinted at a new one I hadn’t seen before of me in profile tugging at the end of my ponytail, staring off over the roofline of Alien Drake’s house, the sky darkening.
“When’d you take that?” I asked her, pointing to it.
“Hmmmm.”
She wasn’t listening to me, still focused on the screen in front of her. I scanned the rest of the wall, smiling at the glossy Adam Jakes’s glass-of-ice print newly taped over an old picture of Adam Jakes at a Lakers game. Chloe never took anything down. She just kept pasting things over other things, papering her walls like some sort of room-sized decoupage project. Every so often, a pale purple wall peeked through, but only rarely. Many a roll of Scotch tape had been sacrificed in the name of Chloe’s wall collages.
One of the things I loved about Chloe was she’d always been a fan girl, pure of heart and obsessed. Even though we’d only started hanging out in ninth grade, her room still held fragments of the girl who’d loved any book, movie, or game featuring fairies or superheroes. Every concert ticket, every play, every actor crush of her past still existed somewhere in the layers of those walls. If you started unpeeling, you’d unearth Chloe’s seventeen years of life. Even if I didn’t share her Hollywood obsession, I admired her for loving it so completely.
My phone buzzed.
Where the asterisk! are you guys?
I texted Alien Drake back:
C’s drooling over Adam Jakes — in case you’ve been living under a rock, he’s in town!!!?
Seconds later:
Gee, hadn’t heard. Tell her to bring a towel & get over here.
“Alien Drake’s waiting.” I picked up the quilt I knew she liked from her bed. Alien Drake was Drake Masuda, my neighbor and best friend of twelve years and Chloe’s boyfriend for the last six months. My phone buzzed again.
A cattle prod works nicely.
I laughed out loud. “Your boyfriend suggested I use a cattle prod if you don’t get a move on. You ready? I’d prefer not to resort to violence.”
“Almost.” Chloe frowned at something on the screen, making no move to hurry. As usual. “He has an early call. I wonder what that means?”
Annoyance bubbled up in me. I was trying to be patient but, seriously, we were going to miss my favorite part of the night, when the sky purpled and the stars suddenly jumped out from the velvet dark. I sighed in a sort of overdramatic way I hoped she’d notice.
She didn’t.
As much as Chloe was obsessed with this stuff, I was the exact opposite. Why should I care about actors? They just happened to be good at acting, the way some people were good at fixing cars or building bridges. Just because they were splashed all over magazines, television, the Internet, did that mean I should listen to their opinions about the world energy crisis or hear what they ate for dinner? It was so weird.
“I think early call means he has to show up to work early,” I told her, hoping to move her along. No wonder Alien Drake had to threaten farm equipment. This girl had her own time zone. “As do I. As do you. So let’s go. This is getting ridiculous.” Nothing. “Chloe!”
“Fine.” She slammed her laptop shut, flashing me her own trademark Hollywood smile, the one that usually came right before she needed something from me. The one I could never refuse. “But you’re coming with me tomorrow to see him, right?” There it was.
“Of course I am.” Anything to get her out of this room and up on that roof.
Morning, sky watchers. Last night, we sat on the roof and thought about nebulas.
No, that’s not dirty (get your mind out of the gutter and into the sky).
A nebula is where a star is born. It’s all the junk that has to come together — dust, helium, hydrogen, ionized gases — to create the right conditions for a star. Think about it: There are so many stars in the sky, we can’t even count them — it’d be like counting every grain of sand on the beach. Still, they aren’t just up there. It takes something, the exact right sort of condition, to make a star. It got us thinking about how everything in life needs a nebula. If we don’t have the right sort of conditions, what chance do we have?
See you tonight, under the sky.
the next morning, Hollywood descended on Little. We lived two blocks from the café, but I could already hear the purr of generators the moment I stepped out onto the front porch of our house. I studied the line of pines behind the Victorians across the street, green but dry against a pale morning sky. The air already warm, I took the steps two at a time, giving our black Lab, Extra Pickles, a quick pat where he lay sprawled on our front walk.
My mom was packing our white VW van on the street in front of our house.
“Need help?” I watched her heave a container full of what looked like pretzels into the back. “Are those pretzels?”
“Snacks for the volunteers.” She wiped at a glisten of sweat on her forehead and tightened her ponytail, a mirror version of mine. Tall and athletic, her dark hair streaked from days in the sun, Mom could pass for thirty even if that was how old she was when she had me. She never wore makeup and mined all her clothes from the local consignment shops. To me, she always looked pretty, even with her face constantly creased with worry for whatever current cause she’d embraced.
If my mom were a superhero (and she kind of was), she’d be Activist Mom. Not for a specific cause, but more in a massive save-the-whole-world sort of way. If there was a protest — anti-war, pro-education, save the yellow-spotted tree frog — chances were, my mother was out hoisting a hand-lettered sign above her head. She followed about a zillion blogs, and since I’d sta
rted high school she often left for a week or two at a time, coming back with pictures of mounds of protesters curled in sleeping bags on the street, or with her arm slung around some guy who called himself Harvest and was protesting an evil chemical used on crops somewhere flat and brown.
It actually drove my older brother, John, kind of nuts. Not me, though. At least she believed in a better world. Wanted to do something about it. It was a lot better than some of my friends’ moms who seemed like they only cared about the theme of the prom or plastering their kids’ walls with SAT words. Sometimes, if I wasn’t too busy, I went with her. Not in the summer, though. Dad needed me at the café.
She stopped packing, her eyes falling on me, casually taking in my denim skirt and fitted white T-shirt, both finds from one of her consignment raids. “You heading to the café?”
“Yeah.”
She tried to keep her face neutral. “I thought maybe you’d want to stop by Stagelights? See what Nicky’s up to for the summer?”
Not this again. Nicky had been my teacher at Stagelights, my former dance studio where I’d spent the better part of my childhood. Until I’d quit. My parents knew enough to stop bringing it up. Or at least they usually did.
“It’s hard to believe it’s been over a year since you’ve checked in with him,” she pushed.
“Mom,” I warned.
She fiddled with a pile of blankets in the back of the VW. “It’s still just so strange not to see you dancing at all.”
“I teach my class at Snow Ridge Senior Living.”
She grinned. “And that’s lovely, even if they mostly can’t move.”
I tried to keep the smile out of my voice. “Don’t mock the elderly, Mom. It’s rude.”
“Okay, okay, I was just asking. No need to make a federal case out of it.” A huge clank downtown sounded through the morning air, and we both started, our eyes straying to something mechanical we couldn’t see but could suddenly hear. She made a face. “Ugh, Hollywood. Glad I’m heading out.” She slammed the back door of the van.
I shot her a look that said, Please, no Hollywood rants. While I was indifferent to Hollywood, Mom hated it. Chloe had learned not to bring it up at our house when she was over for dinner unless she wanted a six-part thesis on Hollywood’s waste, its gluttony, its vapid lack of regard for the working man. Of course, Dad would often remind Mom with his easy smile, “There are plenty of working men in Hollywood, Rose, honey. And women.”
Sighing, I leaned against the side of the van, peering into its depths; Mom had it stuffed with supply boxes, blankets, sleeping bags, and donated clothes.
Hands on her hips, she followed my gaze. “Maybe I shouldn’t go. The café is so busy right now. And your brother might need me.” She chewed at her lip.
This was her ritual. She cited reasons for not going, and we assured her it would be fine if she did. I hugged her. “It’s fine. Go.”
Waving out the open window, she drove away down our tree-lined street.
After seeing Mom off, I headed down our street and crossed to Pine, maneuvering through a couple of STREET CLOSED signs. Halfway up Pine, three huge semitrucks loomed giant and white, coils of wire spilling from them and snaking their way toward Main Street. A small crowd had gathered near the Pine View Apartments, everyone whispering and pointing at the trucks.
Among them, I could see Alien Drake standing on the sidewalk, surveying the white trucks the way he studied the night sky. He’d probably walked Chloe to work at Little Eats that morning. Even if they’d been together six months, I was still getting used to him as Chloe’s boyfriend and not just as my best friend. He and I had, after all, grown up together two houses away and had sleep-outs in my backyard every summer since we were five, when he moved to Little from Maui. Watching him standing there slurping an iced mocha, I tried not to miss the times he used to walk me to work instead of Chloe.
“Morning, stargazer,” I called to him, and he walked toward me away from the crowd, waving a greeting. No matter how late we stayed out watching the sky at night, Alien Drake never looked tired.
He wore his usual uniform, a black hoodie and Bermuda shorts that drooped past his round knees. “Loud enough for you?” He motioned to the trucks with his iced mocha. I could tell Chloe had made it for him because it had I LOVE YOU!!!!! written in Sharpie across the side.
I gave him a quick one-armed hug. “I just sent you some ideas for the blog.”
“Cool.” He took a long drink of his mocha, draining half of it.
Alien Drake and I wrote a sky blog called Yesterday’s Sightings that we’d started last fall as juniors. The blog was mostly the stuff we talked about while we stargazed. Drake was obsessed with the possibility of life beyond Earth (hence his nickname), and even though I’d never fully believed in all his UFO stuff, I didn’t not believe in it — if that made sense. Plus, stargazing was fun year-round even if it was most fun in the summer when the hot days cooled and we could lie on Alien Drake’s roof and “space out.” Drake was way into the science versus myth side of it, so we learned stuff about aliens and space, but mostly it was just nice to sprawl out on his roof or a field somewhere, the sky an onyx, jeweled sheet above us. There was nothing quite like the stars to remind me how small I was compared to the vast black sky and, somehow, that nightly reminder relaxed me.
“Speaking of alien life …” I nudged Alien Drake and nodded toward the trucks. “We’ve been invaded.”
“Definitely beings from another planet.” Even with his wide face, his smile seemed barely to fit it. Alien Drake credited his Hawaiian genes with the fact that he was almost always relaxed and happy. He was like a people version of a therapy dog. Perfect for Chloe. Who often needed relaxing. And therapy. It also made him the world’s best friend. He drained his mocha. “You got big plans today? Working?”
“I’m on sandwich duty today.”
“Exciting.”
“Yes, very exciting. Bread. Turkey. Tomatoes. Lettuce. It’s a science.” He knew, maybe more than anyone, how much I loved working at Little Eats. And I especially loved being on sandwich duty, the steady rhythm of assembly. Preparing large quantities of food was its own sort of meditation.
“Well, I’m heading to the river.” He popped the plastic lid off the mocha and fished out an ice cube to chew on. “You should come out after you finish your scientific duties.”
I quirked a half smile. “Your girlfriend is dragging me in search of the infamous Adam Jakes.”
He raised his bushy eyebrows. “You going to help her raid his cooler for more ice?”
“I’m just there for support. She’ll need me to prop her up when she faints from sheer amazement at his otherworldly presence.” I rolled my eyes, knowing I was standing next to perhaps the one person who cared even less than I did about celebrities.
His smile slackened, barely noticeable. “Carter Moon: Celebrity Support. You should have T-shirts made. Even better, you should come to the river.”
We stood for a minute, watching the idling trucks. I couldn’t believe I’d agreed to go stand around staring at a film set when I could be going to the river. Which is what I really wanted to do. I wanted to sit in a pool of sunlight and read, my feet in the green water.
“For the record,” he said, “I’m taking it personally.” His eyes scanned a group of guys hauling equipment from the back of one of the trucks. “Your choosing Chloe over me.”
I knew he was kidding, but I couldn’t help the snag in my belly. I didn’t tell him I could pretty much say the same thing to him. Not that Alien Drake and I could ever be more than friends. Chloe knew this, which was why I could be a third wheel with them. Alien Drake and I had tried that once in the winter of eighth grade, a kiss on his roof bundled under his mom’s old paisley bedspread as we watched the sky. It had been a total disaster that ended in a fit of giggles (me) and a revolted body spasm (him) that almost pitched him off the roof. Alien Drake was like a brother to me. A brother who didn’t get defensive all the time.
Alien Drake rattled the ice in his cup. “Okay, sandwich scientist. I’m off, then. Text me if you change your mind and you decide to ditch Chloe and do something for yourself for once. Otherwise, see you tonight.” Waving, he headed back up the street, leaving me staring into the mess Hollywood was currently making of my town.
To Hollywood’s credit, they seemed to work a long day. When I got to Little Eats at eight, they’d already staked out a side street nearby for some filming and had built a wire-infested, camera-ridden den of Christmas cheer: heaps of fake snow, sparkly garland draped in windows, a horse harnessed with a cheery Christmas wreath around its sweltering neck. People in shorts and T-shirts hurried about, and I caught glimpses of several actors bundled in wool coats and boots.
No sign of Adam Jakes, though.
All morning, Chloe kept casting her distracted gaze toward the bustle down the street until finally, after three dropped salads, Dad threw her into the kitchen on dish duty and pulled me off sandwiches to take her place out front. We were busier than usual, probably because people had come downtown to see the film set, and I did my best to make up for Chloe’s sudden absence from the patio. By noon, I was sweaty from racing around refilling iced teas and listening to the general buzz about the “movie people.”
During a lull, I leaned against our fence and studied the trailer parked along the street across from us where the film crew seemed to go to get food, emerging with salads, drinks, and other snacks. A man who must have been an actor in the film banged out the trailer door, holding a can of Coke, wearing head-to-toe winter wool as if it were thirty degrees out.
Did it ever throw them off, jumping so quickly between fantasy and reality?
After my shift ended at three, Chloe almost pulled my arm out of its socket dragging me down to the set. At the roped-off corner of the side street leading to Main, we could see crew members moving hurriedly about, actors standing around in Christmas wear, and a few curious onlookers hanging around the edge of the rope like new swimmers. A couple of scruffy-looking guys with cameras slung around their necks checked their iPhones or smoked cigarettes.
The Wonder of Us Page 26
