Accidental It Girl

by Libby Street

  “Are you threatening me?” I snap.

  “No. I’m talking about karma, sweetheart. It packs a bigger punch than I ever could. What goes around comes around.”

  Did he just call me sweetheart?

  The line goes silent, but I can still hear his breathing and the distant buzz of a television somewhere behind him.

  I should say something, contradict him. Tell him that this situation is the result of his karma, not mine. Scream at him. Tell him that I don’t usually do this kind of thing. Apologize?

  No. There will be no apologizing. Not to a man who thinks Paige is nice.

  “I think,” Ethan-freaking-Wyatt continues smugly, “you’re broken. Like sociopaths, and wolves, and…I don’t know…invertebrates—you’re missing something…” He pauses, and I hear him sort of humming to himself, as if mentally winding up for the next punch. He adds finally, “In the head.”

  I’m missing something?

  Hold on, am I missing something?

  Wait, why am I giving any credence to what this guy says? How does he know exactly which buttons to push? It’s sick.

  Snap out of it, Sadie.

  I grumble, “You’re right. I am missing something—”

  “I’m right?” he asks, surprised.

  “Yes,” I say coolly. “I’m missing my phone!”

  The line again goes silent. An age seems to pass with no sound but the hum of background noise, and the pounding of my heart. Should I just hang up? I don’t really want to hang up.

  Maybe I should hang—

  “I’m curious,” Ethan says earnestly. “What is it about your job that makes it worth selling your soul and selling out your fellow man? Is it just the money?”

  “Selling out my fellow man? I’m not a war criminal, you whack job, I’m a photographer.”

  “You’re not a photographer,” Wyatt responds calmly. “Real photographers make a contribution. Their pictures say something, they mean something. You take meaningless, vapid snapshots.”

  “I—” I don’t know what to say. “I…I contribute!” I stammer. Oh, I probably shouldn’t have said that.

  “Oh, yeah? How?” Ethan asks bluntly. Yep, there it is.

  The word—how—echoes through my empty skull. I can hear my own restless heavy breathing over the phone line. I feel like an unprepared, hungover college student who’s been called on by a professor. I feel like I’ve been asked by my father to explain something I did wrong. How.

  I rack my brain for something solid and true to tell him, some meager contribution to the world or tiny sense of meaning I get or give through my work. Then, I rack my brain for something made up.

  I get nothing but the irritating swish of blood thumping through my eardrums.

  Hang on a second…

  “Huh!” I say, the only alternative to “Eureka” that immediately springs to mind. “I suppose the same goes for actors, right? That real actors make a contribution, that their movies say something?”

  “Of course!” he replies stridently.

  “I suppose, then, that you think you’re a real actor?”

  “Absolutely,” he says with a little less conviction.

  “Ha! Tell me, what is the grand contribution to the human race made by Motion of the Ocean? What significant impact has Execution Style made to humanity? What new and insightful things do we learn about the human condition by watching that paragon of profundity Loose Girls?”

  “I’ve done independent films,” he says defensively.

  “When you first started out, maybe. But now, Wyatt, you’re a big walking, talking action figure.”

  “I…” he says, stumbling over his words. “I’m…” he tries again, without success. “You’re not a real photographer!”

  “I want my phone back!” I reply.

  “Well, tough luck, lady. You’re not getting it.” His words make my heart pound heavily against my chest.

  I hang up the phone and collapse onto the couch, shaking.

  I can’t let this guy get to me. He can’t be getting to me. What the hell do I care what he thinks? He’s just angry at me because he got caught.

  Ha! Do I do it for the money? Of course I do it for the money. It’s my job. That’s what jobs are for. And he said it as only a man with an American Express Black Card can: “Is it just the money?” Just money? No, jackass, it’s the stuff you can buy with the money—like food. I’m no good at being poor. I’ve done it. It sucks. And even now, if you were to ask me my net worth, I’d have to count all the money in my wallet to give you an accurate assessment. I make just enough cash to keep myself from feeling that I’m drowning. Because that is how being poor feels—like drowning.

  And contributing? I’m not a real photographer? I am a real photographer. I have a degree in it! Granted, I’ve been really busy with the paparazzi stuff lately and haven’t been doing the proper art photography as much as I should. But it’s not like I’ve never done it; and it’s not like I won’t do it ever again. I’m just busy, that’s all. I even have a website to promote my work. It’s probably gathering little digital cobwebs given the infrequency with which I update it, but it’s there contributing, twenty-four hours a day. Why I couldn’t think of that when I was talking to Ethan, I’ll never know.

  Brooke walks out of her bedroom and leans over the back of the sofa. “Who were you talking to? You sounded pissed.”

  “Todd,” I lie, trying desperately to seem bored and nonchalant.

  “Come on, get dressed. I know just the thing to make you feel better,” she coos, patting me on the head like a dog.

  “Oh, God. Not another package from my mother.”

  “No,” she says, lowering her voice to a whisper. A naughty little twinkle glimmers in her eye. “Shopping.”

  Chapter 9

  Saturday is a holy day. For Brooke this means her weekly visit to the promised land—Madison Avenue. There, she worships, she prays, she pleads forgiveness for coveting thy neighbor’s Chloé. She communes with her gurus of choice, their holiness the Dalai’s Dolce & Gabbana. She is such a devoted follower of this religion that she limits herself to shopping only on weekends. She fears that the extended operating hours of Monday through Friday would lead her too far into temptation.

  To tell you the truth, I’d much rather spend my day off sitting in front of the TV, thinking of more comebacks to Ethan Wyatt’s insults, while shoving Chocolate Fudge Frosted Pop-Tarts down my throat. You’ve got to love any dessert that can disguise itself as a breakfast food and get away with it. And I do so love to lie around. I hardly ever have time for it and it’s good for the soul. Much better than that Chicken Soup crap they keep trying to pawn off on us—Chicken Soup for the Woman’s Soul, Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul, Chicken Soup for the Vegetarian Soul. I say, give me Chocolate Fudge Frosted Pop-Tarts for the Judge Mathis Lover’s Soul. Seriously, I’ve considered alerting the AMA; in my experience, small-claims court programs and talk shows involving paternity test results have exactly the same effect as Prozac.

  Brooke and I have wandered into La Perla, international purveyors of all things soft and girly. As I weave my way in and out of the many wispy bits of silk and satin, I start to feel as delicate and feminine as they are. La Perla is a veritable temple of femininity, the place women come to remind themselves that they are girls with feelings and soft spots that deserve pale blue satin and deep chocolate velvet.

  Maybe I’m a weirdo, but I always feel better about myself if I’m wearing pretty panties. Maybe it’s just that I feel more put together, or maybe it’s that whole “If I get hit by a taxi and a hot young surgeon must cut off my clothes, I want to be wearing nice underoos” mind-set. (I’ve seen ER; I know what those doctors look like.) Whatever the reason, nice undies up my confidence level. I could use a little boost just now, even if it is only superficial. For some reason the crisp, fulfilling rush of satisfaction that I usually have after a really big “get” hasn’t hit me. Its absence has left a nagging bit of hollowne
ss in my middle. I can’t explain it, I can only try and fill it. With panties.

  I gingerly pick up a pair of canary yellow satin panties that are way too tiny and expensive for my consideration. I glance around to make sure I’m not being eyed by a nosey shopgirl before gently grazing the fabric against my cheek.

  Too soft and sublime to be legal, frankly. I lift the teensy panties and inspect them; thoroughly examine the graceful stitching and ultrasoft fabric for imperfections. None. No excuse not to buy them. Man, if only I could justify spending ninety-eight dollars on something with dimensions suspiciously similar to those of an eye patch.

  I stand before a full-length mirror and hold up the eye patch and companion chemise against my body. My breasts, which used to be perky yet unobtrusive (that’s code for smallish but nice), have suddenly begun to migrate southward. It’s a minor shift that no one but myself could appreciate, but I see it as just the beginning of a disturbing trend—I’ve also noticed tiny little puckers appearing on the backs of my thighs. I wonder, far more often than necessary, whether my ass is destined to look like the rind of an orange or if, by some miracle, the wizards at Igea will invent a cellulite-removing machine for two easy payments of $29.95, with a “Yours to keep!” fluffy terry bathrobe included.

  I’m curious. Would the monetary value and sheer loveliness of the eye-patch panty set make my butt look less ripply and more perky? Would the sumptuous lace and silk billowing around the chest area of the chemise distract the eye? Maybe that’s why all the “ladies who lunch” shop here. I mean, apparently they’re always eating—perhaps their rears, like mine, are also careening to earth faster than Britney Spears’s career.

  As I take one last look at myself in the mirror, I suddenly feel a distinctive tingle on my neck. It’s the disturbing prickling sensation of being watched. My looks of unrequited panty-love (and possibly a little drool) must have inadvertently alerted the shopgirl that I’m a suspicious person.

  I turn to find the source of the feeling.

  Brooke is admiring a beaded bustier near the rear of the store, and the only shopgirl in sight is busy fawning over a middle-aged woman carrying a $12,000 Hermès Birkin bag and an armload of silk lacy underthings. No one is staring at me.

  I put the chemise down and scan the store again. Nothing. Even the security guard is staring off in another direction.

  An involuntary shiver works its way up my spine. Goose bumps spread from the back of my neck, across my shoulders and down my arms. You know the feeling, right? That strange, warm, jittery sensation on your skin that only occurs when someone’s eyes have landed on you and won’t let go? It’s that palpable sense of being ogled, or appraised. Oftentimes, like in a singles’ bar when you’re in your hottest outfit, it’s a welcome sensation. Other times, like on a nude beach—or, for me, right now—it’s a little creepy.

  Okay, this is crazy. Clearly I’m imagining things. They probably lace the racks with narcotics to break down your natural defenses. Which is the excuse I will use to soothe myself when I get the credit card bill for my eye patch.

  After purchasing a new but sadly empty Sidekick…

  “Sadie, look!” Brooke exclaims as we traipse further uptown. She stops dead in her tracks and points at a newsstand clerk who’s picking his nose.

  I swat her hand down. “It’s gross, yes. But don’t you think that’s a little rude?”

  She chuckles at me. “Not him. The paper!”

  The newsstand overflows with the daily rags. Four stacks of Celeb, severely depleted, are positioned front and center. “Ethan Wyatt Shocker!” it says in bold red letters. The subcaption reads: “They’re Dunn!”

  I resist a sudden and somewhat bizarre urge to scurry away, and instead walk over and pick up the paper.

  “Good job, Sadie,” Brooke says over my shoulder. She loves it when my shots make the cover. I can’t say that I share her enthusiasm this time.

  I quickly flip through and find the layout. My grainy picture of Ethan Wyatt and Lori Dunn covers the whole page. On the facing page is a shot of Wyatt and Maya Dunn together. They’re on set, a Southern California back lot dressed to look like Nantucket at Christmastime. Ethan is obviously in costume, as I doubt he’d wear a suit that ill-fitting out in public. And Maya is dressed like a prim librarian—not a navel in sight, with her ginger brown hair pulled back in a dainty chignon. The two of them are hugging. Just hugging. It’s not a passionate, sexy kind of hug, either—just a regular old hug.

  “Is that really the best they could do?” I mumble. If they were really a couple, you’d think they’d have something a bit juicer than an on-set hug. Could Ethan have been telling me the truth this morning about the two of them not really being a couple? But it was reported everywhere. I mean, everywhere. I thought for sure—

  “That’s how it started for Brad and Angelina,” Brooke enjoins gravely.

  “You really know too much about this stuff.”

  “Spare me the jaded paparazzi act,” she says with a smile. “You know you love it as much as I do.” No, I really don’t. “Man that guy is hot,” Brooke adds as she stares at a close-up of Ethan. “Is he that good-looking in person?”

  “More good-looking, actually,” I reply, trying my best to sound clinical and not like the person who gasped out loud when she first saw him.

  “Really…” Brooke’s voice trails off and her eyes glaze over. She’s drifted off into fantasy land.

  Brooke digs further into the article. Other shots show Maya arm in arm with her sister Lori at VH1 Divas Live, at a movie premiere and—oh, ouch—at a fund-raiser called Sisters Helping Sisters.

  New York has a new resident bad boy. La-La Land import Ethan Wyatt was caught getting down and dirty at Manhattan’s newest, chic-est dining spot, blé. He and a mysterious (yet oddly familiar-looking) young brunette chowed down, and then…ahem…went down. The woman in question? Lori Dunn, younger sister of Ethan’s current flame, Maya Dunn.

  Maya is said to be “livid,” tells one Celeb insider source. Maya had recently convinced her family and friends that Ethan wasn’t as bad as his press would suggest. Whoops. Her happy ending has now exploded, due to a “happy ending” of another sort altogether. Maya’s heart is said to be broken, and her family shattered, by the news that her dear younger sister has been caught red-handed in a steamy rendezvous with her beau.

  In a written statement, the Wyatt camp had only this to say: “The increasing intrusiveness of today’s print and television media is not only disgusting, but…the accusations are lewd and the photo crass.” In PR speak, that means Ethan is not only steamy, but steaming, about getting nabbed in the act.

  This reporter has a little advice for Mr. Ethan Wyatt: You play with fire, you get burned. You play with fire in public, you get shot.

  Maya and Lori Dunn. Huh. I hadn’t really considered them as part of the equation last night. I was so focused on getting Wyatt. A sudden sinking feeling overwhelms me. Ethan Wyatt’s morning rant reverberates through my mind: “You’ve caused the pain and heartbreak of no less than three people….”

  No, I’m sure Ethan was just putting me on about the “You spread lies” thing. He just wanted to make me feel bad, pawn his guilt off on me. I’m sure Maya and Lori knew what they were getting into. And even if he wasn’t really getting a “happy ending” from Lori, he was still on a date with her. If he was so worried about Maya’s feelings, perhaps he shouldn’t have been putting the moves on her sister.

  “It’s a big one all right,” says Brooke, handing over her money to the newsstand clerk and gathering up a thick stack of magazines. She stops to flip through them, admiring her purchases—all Duncan Stoke. His first summer blockbuster hits theaters on Memorial Day, and the media blitz has started with covers on Entertainment Weekly, Men’s Vogue, and People.

  “How could you possibly want to get involved with Duncan Stoke knowing what happens?” I ask Brooke, waving Celeb in front of her and disrupting her mini-swoonfest.

  Broo
ke stares off into the distance, considering an answer.

  “Well, he’s hot.” She takes a deep breath. “Like fire…”

  “Sure, but—”

  “Like lightening…” she continues wistfully.

  “But—”

  “Like a raging volcano on—”

  “Okay,” I say, finally loud enough to get her attention. “Good-looking. Got it.”

  She continues, “And I truly think we have a lot in common.”

  I roll my eyes at her.

  “All right, you want to know what else?”

  I nod vehemently.

  She takes a breath, then looks over her shoulders as though worried about being spied on. She begins in hushed tones. “Okay, I imagine that there’s this feeling when you walk into a room with someone famous. Knowing that all these other women want him, that he is the most desirable, amazing person in the room. The feeling that you’re somehow more special, more remarkable than they are—than anyone else—because he chose you.” Brooke looks at me like I should really get it now. She smiles proudly, like she’s just shared some closely held solution to one of the great mysteries of life.

  She takes my arm and guides me down the sidewalk. I press, “That’s it?”

  “Yep,” she replies matter-of-factly.

  “Let me get this straight. You’re willing to give up your independence for a feeling that may or may not be based on reality? And if it is, may not last more than, who knows, several minutes at a time?” I ask pointedly.

  “I would hope there’d be compatibility, affection, and love in there somewhere, too.”

  “Come on,” I implore. Brooke is not the kind of person who disappears in a crowd. When she walks into a room she’s generally envied by every woman in her vicinity—and it has nothing to do with the person she’s with.

  “All right,” she says, throwing her hands up in defeat before shoving the magazines in her La Perla bag. “The money would be nice, too. If I were, say, married to Duncan Stoke, I might not have to work at all. Or I could just focus on my charity work.” Her charity work? Does donating two year’s worth of stained Gap tees to the Salvation Army really qualify as “charity work”?