by Libby Street
She gapes up at me with a broad smile. She must have heard us talking. I return her smile.
The lady grins back, but not in that disinterested yet friendly way that strangers do when on the subway. She’s looking at me like she knows me—like she’s waiting for me to recognize her. How do I know her? A source maybe?
I don’t think I know her. But if I don’t, why is she looking at me like that? I suppose she could be a random crackpot. Probably best not to stare.
I’ll just pretend to be examining my shoes.
I let my eyes drift casually down to the floor.
…her name is embroidered over her left breast: Rosa…
…a picture of me is in her lap…
…she has thick, circulation-improving granny hose…
Wait—
Oh, no. A copy of Celeb is open in her lap. It’s the new one, folded back to reveal a picture of me wearing fuzzy ducky slippers and brandishing a baseball bat.
I inadvertently make eye contact again.
The woman looks at the magazine, then up at me.
Magazine. Me. Magazine. Me.
I scan the car for any open space, any little cranny to escape to—but there’s nowhere to run. The businesses of lower Manhattan have emptied into the subway lines and all the cars are crammed to capacity.
I turn around abruptly, briefly startling the handsome stranger.
He recovers and croons, “Hi, again.”
“Hi,” I reply.
Suddenly, a hand pops up between us—bearing Celeb magazine and a pen.
A voice below me calls out, “You sign?” in a thick Spanish accent.
“What’s this?” asks the hot guy, trying to get a good look at the magazine as the woman’s hand sways and bounces with every bump in the train tracks.
“I don’t…I’m not…who you think,” I tell her. Not this. Not now. Not in front of Ethan!
I gently push her hand down just as the people around us are getting interested. They surreptitiously stare at me.
“Is this you?” the hot guy asks, while staring at my picture.
“Yes!” the lady responds for me, while shoving her pen at me.
I look toward Ethan. A self-satisfied smirk creeps its way out from under that ridiculous beard. Damn, he can hear me.
I whisper to the lady, “But I’m not—”
“You sign. Thank you,” the lady says, rudely snatching the magazine out of the hot guy’s hand.
My mother pipes in, “Just sign it, darling. She seems like a lovely lady.”
“Gracias,” says my oppressor to my mother.
My mother is smiling at the loon who wants my signature. Okay, this is too much. I’m in a new reality show, is that it? They make you believe you’re in the Twilight Zone or something, right? Will someone please say, “The tribe has spoken,” or “You’re fired,” or “Auf Wiedersehen, you’re out.” Please?
I try again. “No. I’m not famous, you see. This is a big mistake. This”—for the benefit of the lady, I point at the picture—“is a mistake.” I don’t think she understands a word I’m saying. I point again. “Bad. Wrong. Lies.” Crap, the only Spanish I know I learned from reading in the bathroom—the backs of the tags on my towels—Machine wash cold water. Laveseantes de usarse. Tumble dry low. Secar a temperatura moderada. No chlorine bleach. No usar blanqueador. Unfortunately none of these phrases apply.
The woman just smiles, nods her head, and shoves the magazine farther into my belly.
“You’re going out with Duncan Stoke?” the hot guy asks in an excited tone. He chuckles deeply, almost at me, as though he’s already working out the best way to tell his frat brothers about touching the ass of Duncan Stoke’s girlfriend. When his laughter stops it’s replaced by a wide, disturbing grin. He is suddenly the least attractive man I’ve ever seen.
“Next stop we’ll go,” my mother says in her best concerned bodyguard whisper.
The people around us are unabashedly staring now. A teenage girl with a white studded belt eyes me with a sneer. A guy with thick glasses peers over the teenager’s shoulder to get a look at the magazine. A tall man with long black dreadlocks tries to look nonchalant, though he’s obviously examining my face—trying to figure out what famous person I am.
“I’m not famous,” I say a little louder this time. “This is a mistake.”
The guy with the thick glasses is now ogling me freely, with a smarmy grin—like perhaps he’s got a fuzzy duck slipper fetish of some kind.
Finally, the train begins to slow, nearing the Third Street station. I have to get out of here, but I’m totally surrounded. I aim my shoulder for the door and try to push my way out. It’s no use; I’m pinned. What am I supposed to do now?
The train slows to a stop. The doors open—but they won’t stay open for long.
I try once more to leave, but the woman in white presses her arm against my legs to prevent me.
“Sadie!” my mother says, managing to make a hole from her position to the door.
I’m still stuck. Rosa must work out because her arm is like a rock.
Oh, I give up.
I yank the magazine from the lady’s hand, sign my name near the stupid and incredibly embarrassing picture, and hand it back to her.
“Move!” I shout at the man with the dreads as the door to freedom begins to close. “Watch out. Coming through!”
The (formerly) hot guy who touched my rear reaches a hand out and catches a swath of my T-shirt. He groans, “Where you going?” before emitting an obnoxious laugh. I feel his hand glide down toward my backside, again—slipping something into the back pocket of my jeans.
Somehow—through sheer force of will, I suspect—I manage to squirm my way to the exit and slip out just before the doors come to a close.
I reach into my back pocket.
It’s his business card. Of all the arrogant, disgusting things! Ugh, he’s a junior broker at an investment firm—typical.
“Disgusting!” I moan to no one in particular.
“You get it now?” comes a voice beside me.
I turn to find Ethan Wyatt grinning at me, smug and satisfied.
I snap, “Oh, who died and made you Jiminy-freaking-Cricket?”
Flicking my wrist as hard as I can in the direction of Ethan’s head, I chuck the business card into the whirling jetstream of the passing train. I watch it come to rest with the discarded gum, bits of old newspaper, and piles of rat feces on the filthy floor of the subway tunnel—where it belongs.
…And then I run for the stairs, and my mother, as fast as I can.
“I really think he might be quite handsome under all that hair,” my mother quips as I drag her up the stairs. “What did he have to say for himself?”
I look back to see Ethan following us, snapping pictures of me as I ascend the stairs.
“Nothing,” I huff, stomping out to freedom. “Just his usual snappish drivel.”
“You know, darling, I think he might be interested in you in a different way than you think.”
“What in God’s name are you talking about?” I ask before taking a deep breath of aboveground air.
“I was watching him,” she says coolly, while sauntering toward the street without even a hint of urgency. “There’s something about him, Sadie….” Her voice trails off as she turns around.
Paige stops and watches Ethan as he shuffles out onto the sidewalk and looks for a cab of his own—to follow us, no doubt.
I take her arm. “Yes, mother, he’s good-looking. Big deal.”
“No, he’s enjoying this. Really enjoying it. Like those little boys who used to pester you on the playground. I—”
I cut her off. “I have to get uptown! Come on! We might be able to lose him!”
A cab, with its little numbered light indicating vacancy, pulls up to the curb. I open the door and practically push my mother inside.
“Do you hear me, Sadie, dear? I think he—”
“Drop it,” I say sternly. I re
ally don’t want to hear any of her theories, especially those that reference my childhood. What the hell does she know about what I did or didn’t do on the playground? She wasn’t even around.
I tell the driver where to go, but it’s no use. We’ve just been swallowed by gridlock. We’re not going anywhere. Naomi Watts will be back in Australia before I make it to the Upper East Side. Damnit!
From somewhere in the depths of my handbag, my Sidekick wails.
I dig it out and answer, “Todd, I—”
Todd’s harried voice rings, “Are you there? The girl at the shop says Naomi’s just checking out and then heading to her hotel.”
“I can’t…I didn’t make it there. I was just…the subway…I—”
“You’re not there?” he gripes—loudly. “Aw, Sadie. Come on!” He’s not calling me Killer anymore. For some reason, that makes my heart ache just a little.
“I know, all right? I was almost molested on the goddamn train, okay?”
“A mugger?” Todd asks, concerned.
“Shewantedanautograph,” I mumble.
He groans, before adding, “This isn’t working, Sadie—”
“Todd, I’ll get it under control. Okay?” I have to, this is more than a job to me. This is my life.
Todd gives me a terse good-bye and hangs up.
My mother looks over at me. “Do you really enjoy this stress? What is it about this work, Sadie, that would make you fight this hard?”
Unable to summon the grit necessary to lash out in the way I’d like to, I say, “If I told you, you wouldn’t understand.”
Her dream was to surrender to Dr. Hank—or whatever wealthy man she might have stumbled upon if he hadn’t come along. Mine is to be self-sufficient and maintain some measure of stability in my life. Something she never provided—for me, at least. As insane as this job is, doing it makes me feel safe.
This, not being able to do it, makes me want to scream.
In theory, this plan to ignore Ethan Wyatt makes sense, but it turns out there’s one significant downside—it feels remarkably like doing nothing, like he has all the control. I think I’m going to need a plan B.
I push a few buttons on the Sidekick and quickly find the number I’m looking for.
After a few rings I hear, “Donna Herschel.”
“Hi, Donna. It’s Sadie Price. I need a favor….”
Chapter 18
I just have to shake him for an hour or so,” I tell Brooke as we trot out of the elevator.
This summer has been classified by all the weathermen as “Gonna be a hot one!” Just as the phrase “partly sunny” actually means “You will be surrounded by a grayish gloom all day,” “Gonna be a hot one!” translates to “You will be smoldering, sticky, and miserable for the foreseeable future.” Brooke and I step out of the apartment building and I immediately feel like I need a shower. My tissue-weight T-shirt feels like it’s made of wool. I scan the horizon for Ethan Wyatt while fanning myself with a Chinese food menu I picked up in the lobby.
Brooke eyes me skeptically. “And then this random person that this freelance person hooked you up with—”
“Donna,” I correct.
“—that Donna hooked you up with is going to give you some horrible story about Ethan that you’ll use to blackmail him,” Brooke says, her tone reeking of admonition.
“I’m not going to blackmail him, I’m going to gently encourage him to stop stalking me.” And get definitive proof that he’s not the saint he claims to be.
Brooke’s green eyes blink at me with suspicion. Clearly, she’s unconvinced.
I try another tack. “I can’t just sit around waiting for Ethan Wyatt to decide he’s finished punishing me. You should have seen that banker guy on the subway. He was so…lecherous. It was beyond gross—it scared the crap out of me. All right? If I can dig up something juicy enough, I might get Ethan to lay off.”
“You know how I love helping you out with these things, Sadie. But—just playing angel’s advocate here—that picture at blé hit a nerve with him. What kind of nerve is this going to hit?”
“The one that gets him to back off,” I reply. I stare at her, pleading with my eyes. I don’t know what else to say to make her understand how important this is to me, that my plan may sound crazy, but I can’t stand feeling this helpless.
Brooke shakes her head at me. “I want it noted for the record that I think this is a bad idea,” Brooke says sternly. “Further-more, I reserve the right to say ‘I told you so’ at any point.”
“Noted,” I reply. “Thank you.”
“Okay, what’s your big plan to lose him?” Brooke asks.
“I don’t know. I got rid of my mother for the day, didn’t I? I’ll figure it out.”
“Something tells me handing Ethan Wyatt a flyer for the Saks Fifth Avenue semiannual sale isn’t going to have the same effect that it had on your mom.”
I take several more strides down the sidewalk and quickly survey the street ahead and behind us. No Ethan! “Oh, my God!” I exclaim to Brooke. “You don’t think he’s given up?”
We turn the corner onto Fourteenth Street.
“Uh, Sadie,” Brooke says, pointing ahead.
Damn. Ethan is leaning against his rental car, his feet casually crossed, propped out in front him, his camera and that humongous bag looped loosely around his chest. Oh, and he’s wearing that ridiculous beard and sunglasses.
“You know,” Brooke says, pulling down her sunglasses like a paparazzi-avoiding pro, “that beard is beginning to grow on me.”
“You have serious problems.” I would love to outline them for her—including the episode last night when I caught her taking notes while watching the commentary track of a Duncan Stoke movie. (She shushed me, turned up the volume, and then mumbled something about “facts and battle plans.”) I’m not exactly sure how to bring that up without getting yelled at…or shushed.
Brooke and I keep our eyes forward and shoulders back as we stroll past Ethan without so much as glancing in his direction.
“We have to get him as far away from his car as we can,” I whisper to Brooke. “Then we’ll make a break for it.”
“Well, hello, Ms. Serenity,” Ethan says, bounding up beside us—causing me to jump. He flashes a grin at me and continues, “Did you start taking yoga or something?”
Naturally, my first instinct is to pounce on him—rip the camera from his hands and strangle him with the purple guitar strap he’s using to keep the camera around his stupid (yet ridiculously smooth) neck. But I check the visceral, gut-level reaction to seeing him and take a deep breath. I will not lash out. I will take charge of this situation.
“You like this, don’t you?” I ask Ethan.
“What, driving you nuts? Yeah, I get a certain amount of pleasure from it. I’m not ashamed to admit that,” he says, snapping off a few frames. He shoots me a cocky smirk that makes his fake beard go slightly askew.
“No, Wyatt. You like being a paparazzi. You enjoy being able to manipulate any situation to your liking—such as choosing only the most disgusting pictures of me.” Frame them so I look like a panty sniffer.
He opens his mouth wide, inhales as though forming a sharp rebuttal—then exhales nothing but air. Ha!
Brooke lets out a giggle.
“So, what does that mean?” I add condescendingly. “It means you are no better than me, and I am no worse than you. Except, of course, that I find this whole ‘being pursued’ thing a minor nuisance, and you crumble like so many Girl Scout Cookies under the pressure.” All right, so I may be stretching it with “minor nuisance.”
Ethan looks around anxiously. I think he’s searching for some kind of comeback.
“Oh, Girl Scout Cookies—that was good,” Brooke injects.
I turn to Brooke as we continue to stride arm in arm up First Avenue. “You think? I thought of it last night. Not too abstract a metaphor?”
“No, no. Very visual.”
Ethan lets out a frustrat
ed huff—just enough to prompt me to stop and wait for an answer. I love to watch him squirm.
“You were going to say? About the Girl Scout Cookies?” I prod him.
Finally, his eyes light up. He says, “Tell me something—why is it that you buy Pop-Tarts in bulk…and toilet paper by the roll? What is that about? Who buys one roll of toilet paper?”
“Toilet paper? This is your response to my very profound Girl Scout Cookie point? You’re obviously trying to avoid the issue, Wyatt. I don’t have time for any of your silly arguments this morning,” I say, as though I had an incredibly pressing appointment with someone regarding matters of national security.
“Oh!” Ethan says, completely ignoring me. “And another thing…what’s with carrying a handbag and a camera bag? Couldn’t you put the handbag inside the camera bag?”
Not when the handbag is brand-new and supercute I can’t, smart guy. “Do you believe him?” I ask Brooke in as patronizing a tone as I can.
“Still avoiding the real issue,” Brooke says seriously, nodding her head.
I turn to Ethan. “You’re one to talk about bags, Wyatt. What do you even have in there? Huh?” I ask impishly, creeping forward and tugging at the top of his camera bag. The top flap is partially unzipped. I catch a glimpse underneath—a five-thousand-or-so-page tome entitled Photography for Dummies. Oh, man, that’s really pretty cute.
I eye him with a completely uncontrollable smile creeping its way across my face—and he knows why. He quickly zips his bag and resumes snapping my picture.
I roll my eyes and take two great strides away from him.
“And another thing,” Ethan begins again, as he continues to click off pictures of Brooke and me. “How many pairs of shoes do you own? Fifty? Ninety? What is it with the shoes?”
“I happen to like shoes,” I say, feeling a strange sort of thrill at the knowledge that he’s noticed my shoes.
I smile and toss my hair while continuing my walk uptown. (I thought I’d get him in the eye, but I missed.)
As if on cue, Brooke whispers in my ear, “He noticed your shoes, Sadie. I think he might like you.” She pulls away, as her eyes widen with excitement.
