Accidental It Girl

by Libby Street

  Jason Mraz sings, “Say it isn’t so / How she easily come, how she easy go…”

  Oh, God, it’s getting closer. And, by it I mean some evil nightcrawler that will no doubt make me prime pickings for a “ripped from the headlines” episode of CSI: NY. I can see it now, the rubber-gloved hands pawing my dainty underthings, big burly men examining my medicine cabinet for overused prescription drugs, that chick from Providence flirtatiously swinging her curly hair over my headless corpse.

  Man, I wish I had that baseball bat now. Unfortunately, since I ambushed Ethan Wyatt, Brooke has refiled it under a completely different category. It could be in her frighteningly large box of hair accessories, for all I know.

  What do I do? I mean, besides panic?

  Okay, what am I freaking out about? It’s probably some drunk guy who forgot his keys (hopefully not the sicko who lost the four-foot rubber penis in the alley). Or, a really ambitious window cleaner (with a knife fetish and a collection of spy cameras). Or, I am totally hallucinating…because I think I see Ethan Wyatt on my fire escape.

  “Hey,” he says, his voice sounding quivery and comical as it comes through the fan on my windowsill.

  I approach the window in silence, clenching the toothbrush in my mouth, and blinking my eyes repeatedly in the hopes that this bizarre 3-D mirage will dematerialize without several thousands of dollars of intensive therapy.

  “You didn’t play fair before,” he adds smugly.

  I slowly remove the fan from the window. I inhale deeply and poke my index finger in the direction of the hallucination.

  My nail jabs into a soft cotton T-shirt and then beyond, pressing into actual, tangible human flesh.

  The hallucination speaks. “Ouch.”

  Oh, he’s really here.

  He’s really here!

  Crap—and I am in my underwear.

  I quickly back away so that he can’t see the cottage cheesyness of my thighs. “Ever hear of a telephone?” I mumble, spitting bits of toothpaste all over the floor. “I’m in my underwear here,” I add.

  “Yeah, you are,” he says dumbly, staring at me with a strangely blank expression on his face.

  “Well, turn your head!” I demand while backing myself to the nearest pair of clean pajama shorts. Oh, God, where would that be? Drawer? Closet?

  I switch off the stereo and look behind it for any signs of wayward clothing. Then I freeze as something disturbing occurs to me. “Do you have a camera?” “Have” sounded more like “hab” through the toothpaste, but whatever.

  “Naturally,” he says, suddenly sounding like Cary Grant. Coincidentally enough, he also has Grant’s signature mischievous grin.

  “Don’t you dare!” I command, while searching for something to put on. I have literally seventeen pairs of shorts—where are they?

  Behind me, I hear the click of a shutter.

  “Ahhhhh!” I scream. “Stop! This is illegal! You’re on—” Oh, I was going to say private property but that sounds vaguely familiar.

  “What?” Ethan asks, his eyebrows rising dramatically. He puts his hand to his ear. “What was that? I’m on what?”

  “Ugh!” I groan while going ass first in three directions before stopping altogether. I have no idea where clean shorts are—pathetic.

  I grab a small but heavy ceramic cat figurine that sits on my bookshelf—another gift from Paige (Needed. Gift for: female. Age: thirteen. Likes: kittens and Scott Baio). I raise the cat over my head. “Get out of here!”

  “Hold on!” Ethan says, letting the camera swing down on the strap around his neck. “Okay, relax.” He puts his hands up like bullets might shoot out of the cat’s beady little glass eyes. “I shot at the ground just now. I swear.”

  “That better be true, Wyatt,” I say, sending bits of bubbly toothpaste dribbling down my chin.

  I lower the cat slowly to the bed. He lowers his hands slowly to the windowsill.

  At my feet, I spot a semiclean pair of shorts crumpled in a pile. I slip them on and race to the bathroom. While rinsing my mouth out, I double-check my wilt factor. Pretty repulsive.

  I whip my hair into a quick ponytail, dab the perspiration and Pop-Tart dust from my face…. Oh my God, I’m trying to make myself look presentable for a man who just climbed up my fire escape to torment me. I drop the hairbrush and calmly saunter back into the bedroom.

  “Okay, now what the hell are you doing here?” I try to display the proper level of gruff obstinacy, but sitting in my window with that stupid camera around his neck, Ethan Wyatt suddenly looks like a schoolboy on a field trip. I try to keep a smile from creeping onto my face.

  “You didn’t play fair today,” he says gravely.

  A tight knot forms in my throat. Oh, God, he knows about Jacinta. He knows about Jacinta, and my plan B, and now I’m sure he thinks I’m a horrible person.

  Ethan continues, “I liked that shirt.”

  Oh! I exhale, relieved. Trying to act casual, I ask, “Which one was it?”

  “You know, with the little plastic Army guys going across the front.”

  “Oh, right.” It does look good on him.

  “Yeah, well, it’s now a wife-beater.”

  I can’t help it, a smile makes its way to the surface. “You are so exaggerating.”

  “Fine. But, seriously, though, how do you get hot pink lipstick out of cotton?”

  Before I can check the impulse, I’m laughing.

  “It’s not funny,” he gripes.

  “Uh, yeah, it is,” I reply.

  I am laughing with my stalker.

  Right. Remember, Sadie, you hate him.

  Okay. I clear my throat and wipe the grin from my face. “Couldn’t this have waited till—oh, I don’t know—dawn? Or, um…never?”

  He replies nervously, “I saw your light on.”

  What the hell was he doing looking at my lights? And climbing up six flights of rickety fire escape? I guess it shouldn’t surprise me. Actors live by a whole different set of rules than the rest of the universe. “Wait, how did you know it was my light?” I ask.

  My question catches him off-guard. He tips his head and raises an eyebrow with boyish charm—the charm of a guilty boy. He stutters, “Binoculars and…” He points to the little arch-shaped nook over my bed. “The Galella print over your bed. I took a chance.”

  “What were you going to do if it wasn’t me?” I ask—out of unquenchable curiosity.

  “Sign an autograph?” he says goofily, while shrugging his shoulders.

  “Interesting…”

  The room falls under an uncomfortable hush.

  Suspecting that he could sit here being uncomfortable for all eternity, I say, “I, uh, don’t do laundry. So, is there something else I can do for you?”

  “Well, now that you mention it—I had a question,” he says, regaining that Cary Grant cockiness. “Were you just brushing your teeth with a Yoda toothbrush?”

  “Oh, no,” I retort immediately.

  “Oh, no—what?”

  “I’m not going to let you sucker me into saying something that you can blab about in the papers. You can’t use those tricks on me—”

  “What tricks?” he asks, a smile spreading across his face.

  “Those tricks!” I point at him.

  He looks over his shoulder. “What are you talking about?”

  “That little…sexy, charming, debonair thing you’ve got going on, with all your smiling and twinkling and…whatnot.”

  “Whatnot?”

  “Exactly!”

  Ethan laughs, takes off his Red Sox hat, and scratches his head. “Just answer the question. What am I going to say, Duncan Stoke’s secret girlfriend is a Yoda fan?”

  You’d be surprised how mundane a thing has to be to make it into the papers. I tip my nose down and stare at him, glaring at him like my dad used to glare at me when I was a teenager.

  Ethan just laughs. “Come on. It’s a simple question. What was on the toothbrush that you were singing into bef
ore?”

  Singing into? “How long were you standing down there with those binoculars, you sicko?”

  “Long enough.” He pauses for effect. “The running man, I thought, was a particularly nice touch.”

  I feel my cheeks go red, my heart begin to pound. “Do you have a telephoto lens for that thing?” I ask frantically.

  “Unfortunately, no.” He sounds genuinely disappointed in himself. “Answer the question. Was that, or was that not, a Yoda toothbrush?”

  I try to be stern and authoritarian. “Uh, yes. As a matter of fact, it was. You got a problem with that?” The only problem is, the topic at hand is a Yoda toothbrush.

  “No,” he chuckles. “Not at all.”

  “I happen to consider the fight against tooth decay a fundamental battle of good versus evil,” I say, planting my hands on my hips.

  He looks at me with a smile. It’s wide and unprejudiced. He is looking at me not with bitterness or disdain, but in a normal man/woman, boy/girl sort of way—a deeply perplexing, almost flirtatious way. It’s almost like he’s amused by me…interested.

  Ethan continues to grin, thinking something to himself. The only clues to his thoughts are the subtle shifts of expression around his eyes and mouth, barely perceptible—but so powerful. It almost makes me want to grab my camera. Not because he should be plastered on the gaudy pages of a weekly glossy, but because it is an extraordinary and intangible thing he has. It should be documented, made solid—to remind me later that it was real.

  I wonder if I’ve ever looked at anybody that way. If I have, it hasn’t been for quite some time. Unless, well, I might just be doing it now. Not sure.

  I shake my head and try to restore a look of blithe indifference to my face.

  “Do you hate it yet?” he asks. “Tired of never knowing where I’ll be next, with you on the subway…outside your apartment…on your fire escape? You haven’t been working much lately—my fault?”

  “I’m doing just fine, thank you,” I reply.

  “Sure you are—”

  “I could do this for ages. You could sleep out there for all I care.”

  “Uh-huh—”

  “You’re failing!” I say, feeling a warm rush of adrenaline. “You think I’m miserable?” I add, gaining momentum. “Do I look miserable to you? Go ahead, take a picture now! Go on! I’m not afraid!”

  Ethan lifts his camera and shoots off a half-dozen frames. He looks at me, trying not to laugh—he’s not having such an easy time of it.

  Against my own will, my eyes drop and I glance at myself. There’s a Pop-Tart stain on my tank top, I’m wearing Strawberry Shortcake sleeper shorts—backward. My left knee is swollen and purple, and I’m pretty sure that’s toothpaste on my right arm.

  My hands clench and I groan with unparalleled frustration.

  I stomp over to the window and slam it shut—right on Ethan’s camera strap.

  I yank roughly on the cord to the miniblinds and then twist them closed.

  A rough clang startles me—the window being opened.

  “Bye,” Ethan says quietly through a hail of laughter. “See you tomorrow.”

  The window slams shut again, just before I bury my head in a pillow and scream.

  Chapter 21

  Todd,” I say, my tone inching dangerously close to begging. “Please, I may not be able to chase Owen Wilson around Manhattan, but I can do something. I’ll do anything. I can’t take this time off, it’s driving me insane.” I haven’t taken a single photograph of anyone since that thing with Ethan Wyatt and Lori Dunn—and Ethan Wyatt is getting some sort of amusement from it.

  Not to mention my mother just got the brilliant idea that we should all go to lunch…and a matinee. To be followed, if possible, by shopping. She’ll force me to buy a suite of perfectly boring little twin sets and age-appropriate pearls. Honestly, being eaten alive by birds sounds like a more pleasant alternative. If Todd says no, that’s my next stop.

  He stares at me while fiddling with a tattered issue of the Robb Report. “All right, nothing heavy, though. That thing with Naomi Watts cost me thousands,” Todd says before pausing—mulling it over. He continues, “How about this: the premiere for the new Ashton Kutcher flick is tonight at the Ziegfeld Theatre. You’ll be in the pen, but it could be worth a little cash.”

  “Fine. Great,” I say, heading for the office door.

  “Hey, Sadie, I need the old you back. You got me?”

  “Yeah,” I say solemnly. So do I.

  These days, even straight, supposedly highbrow newspapers and magazines are gagging for photos of the beautiful people displaying their borrowed clothes and jewels. Publications from Cosmo to, completely serious here, the Wall Street Journal routinely feature Adler’s red carpet stuff. And let me tell you, it’s no picnic getting it. These parties and premieres may look glamorous on Access Hollywood, but they’re not. They are loud, either too hot or too cold, and involve hours of standing around yelling. I suppose if you’re the one walking down the red carpet it’s not so bad. It is, after all, just walking. Most people do it all day long with very little trouble—I am, at least currently, one notable exception.

  My leg is killing me—I think I overdid it last night with the lunges. This is what happens when I deviate from lotions and potions and attempt random acts of exercise. The throbbing pain of the original injury has subsided, but it’s been replaced by a burning sensation and a strange (and rather disconcerting) clicking noise emanating from my kneecap. One good thing has come of all this, though. I have arrived at the conclusion that giant handbags, especially those filled with rocks, are a clear and present danger to the health and well-being of the public at large. I’m going to petition the mayor for a ban. I think it’ll go through without a problem; that guy just loves to ban things.

  I shuffle toward the photo pen, my gear and gimpy leg trailing behind in my wake. As I go, I quietly nurture the small hope that all of this has been one very elaborate Punk’d, and that Ashton will tell me so himself when he glides past me on the red carpet.

  The photo pen is the small, stockadelike structure that keeps the photographers from soiling the expensive rented red carpet. Like farm animals, we are corralled behind barricades and forced to work for our supper. Within its flimsy confines we elbow, crane, muscle, and stretch to get the shots the celebrities and their “people” need to keep this whole business humming. I’ve always found it a bit ironic that the ones preening, clucking, and strutting around with their feathers and furs are the ones allowed outside the pen. Shouldn’t the photographers be the ones taking a leisurely stroll while the stars are made to squawk and stumble around in a paddock?

  I step onto the red carpet just as the searchlights rev up. Giant swaths of light swish back and forth across the sky. With this, the crowd of extremely chipper Ashton-loving tweens begins to pulsate with anticipation. Their chattering becomes screaming, every emotion exaggerated by the promise of celebrity sightings, autographs, and maybe—just maybe—a quick peck on the cheek from the man himself. Several of the tweens, each with a thick layer of glitter on her eyelids, carry signs that say “Marry me, Ashton!” and “I’m the one you’re looking for!” One says, “Choose me! Dump Demi!” I’d say they’re about thirty years premature, and woefully uninformed about Kabbalah.

  A flock of flustered PR people and security personnel marches up and down the red carpet, talking into tiny microphones and listening to even tinier earpieces. One of them is a source of mine; he slips me tips from time to time. I called him, cashed in a favor, and had him reserve me a spot on the line—front and center. This means I can sit on my collapsible stool-slash-ladder instead of standing atop it at the back of the pack like I usually have to when I do this kind of thing.

  I force my way into the gathering throng of photographers, waving to the few familiar faces already assembled, and settle in between two guys, Mark and Gary, who consider themselves legit photojournalists.

  They’re an interesting pair, an Amb
iguously Gay Duo of sorts, both frail, spindly little things who only work with each other. I can’t tell if they’re a couple or what, but they seem to enjoy each other’s company enormously. Unfortunately, I also can’t tell them apart. Technically, they’re paparazzi, too, but unlike me they only work at events like this. And because they’re “friendlies” (and New York models and socialites are desperate for publicity), they get invited into parties. For some strange reason, this gives them a sense of superiority, false though it may be.

  I nod to each of them in turn. They instantly begin snickering like schoolgirls.

  Oh, great.

  “So, Duncan Stoke?” poses Mark (or Gary), examining me up and down.

  Gary (or Mark) chimes in, “Shouldn’t you be on the other side of the ropes there?”

  “You two should know better than to believe what you read in the tabloids.”

  “She sure sounds like she should be on the other side of the ropes,” Mark quips to Gary (or Gary quips to Mark).

  I could break them like twigs. I’d probably do it, too—if I could stand properly. “It’s just some demented person’s idea of a joke. Either of you recognize the work?” I ask. Pretending not to know who did it seems my best defense at this point.

  “Nah, they’re some pretty shitty shots,” Mark/Gary says before quickly adding, “No offense.” Yeah, right.

  “None taken,” I reply, before turning to Gary/Mark with a silent query.

  “No. No idea,” he answers. He adds smugly, “Not one of ours, obviously.”

  “Yeah, obviously.” Photojournalists, my ass. Exactly what about standing around with a camera and waiting for people to walk by constitutes journalism? If the walkers in question weren’t Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher, it’d just be loitering—with film.

  The first arrivals begin, as the C-listers (the Hasselhoffs, Guttenbergs, and stars of VH1 list shows like 100 Greatest Wardrobe Malfunctions and I Love the 00’s) funnel out of cabs and limos onto the red carpet. Camera flashes trickle to a start, and the screaming begins.