by Carol Snow
I must have looked puzzled (or panicked), because he said, “You have done this before, haven’t you?”
Until recently, Haley had been known for her perma-tan. I nodded.
“Okay, so um . . . It’ll take eight hours for the tan to fully develop. Don’t shower until then.”
I eyed my brown body with confusion. How much darker was I going to get?
“That’s just the guide color,” Matthew said, pointing to my (blotchy) brown arm, which, come to think of it, looked more spray-painted than tan. “It’ll wash off. The real color needs time to react with your pigment.”
Wait a minute. I was going to meet Brady Ellis with the completely fake tan that precedes the kind-of-fake tan?
“Make sure you wear loose clothing today,” Matthew said. “But you know that already, right?”
I nodded and tried to control my agitated blinking. Rodrigo was still camped on the pool chaise. Jay was outside now, too, sitting at the big round table, working on his laptop. The table was on the way to the door; there was no way to get inside without passing him.
I ducked back into the curtained enclosure so Jay couldn’t see my mouth move. “Do you have a robe?” I whispered.
“What?”
“A robe. Something loose. Just to get me to the house.”
“No. Sorry.” Matthew looked genuinely sorry.
“You don’t need a robe, girlfriend!” Couch piped in. “You look hot!”
“How’d it go?” Jay took off his sunglasses for a better look. It’s not like he leered or anything, but the gesture still made me feel naked—which I practically was.
I skittered around to the far side of the table and stood behind a chair. “It was okay. Fine. Good. I should probably get dressed.”
“Maybe it’s just the light . . .” he said finally. “But the color . . .”
I glanced at my arm. “The tan takes eight hours to fully develop. This is just the temporary color. It’ll wash off. But for now it does look a little . . . fake.”
“Oh,” he said. “Shit.”
I can’t explain why that made me feel better, but for some reason it did.
“I’m not usually around when Haley gets sprayed,” he admitted. “And she doesn’t go out much, so it’s not usually an issue.”
“They didn’t say anything when you scheduled?” I asked.
“Rodrigo made the call last night. He always schedules Haley’s tans.”
Rodrigo was still stationed on a lounge chair next to the pool, hunched over his laptop. I said, “He knew about my date with Brady.”
Jay raised his eyebrows.
“I mean, my appointment.” I cleared my throat. “I’m surprised he didn’t realize the timing would be a problem.” Maybe he was so excited about his career news that he hadn’t thought about timing problems. Or maybe . . .
“Rodrigo’s a prick,” Jay muttered.
That seemed unnecessarily harsh.
I edged away from the table. “Okay, then. I’ll go change. What should I do with the suit?” It was now more brown than white.
“Just throw it in the trash.”
So that explained the tags: Haley would never wear a cheap bathing suit unless it was disposable.
“I didn’t think Haley would wear Target clothes,” I said.
“She wants to.” Jay slipped his sunglasses back on. “She tries to. Or, she used to, anyway. She’d put on a disguise—a wig and sunglasses and a sweat suit or something—and sneak off to a strip mall in Encino. Then, when she wasn’t looking, Simone would go into her closet and haul everything away.”
“That’s terrible!” I put my hands on the table and leaned forward, my emotions so intense I forgot that I was practically naked.
Jay slipped his sunglasses down on his nose and peered over the rim at my breasts. “Nice.”
I straightened and crossed my arms over my chest. “Yeah—if you like orange boobs.”
Brady got to Fred Segal first. When I arrived at the blocky, ivy-covered building, wearing the denim dress and shaking in Haley’s pink cowboy boots, he was sitting at a shady outdoor table, reading the newspaper and drinking from a tall glass. I stopped in the parking lot, a few paces away, and stole a moment to study him.
His hair was dark brown, almost black, a mass of perfectly messy waves that bordered on ringlets. His skin had a hint of gold just uneven enough to be real. His nose was straight, his lips full, his cheeks clean-shaven. His shoulders were so square they were almost pointy. His forearms, darker brown than his face, were roped with muscle and the tiniest hint of veins.
The hostess stand was outside, under a giant magnolia tree. I didn’t even have to say anything: the girl recognized me immediately.
“Right this way.” She led me across the brick patio to Brady. Diners glanced up, pausing just long enough to register me as Someone Worth Noticing before going back to their meals.
As I approached the table, Brady looked up from his paper and smiled. My entire body went warm. I’d seen his dimples on TV, of course (that’s what the pause button is for), but that was different. Right now, those dimples (the one on the right slightly deeper than the left), his eyes (a bottomless almost-black), and that smile (there are no words . . .) were all directed at me, Veronica Czaplicki!
Well, okay—at me, Haley Rush. But still. I could only hope that no one caught my expression, because there was no way I was looking “over” Brady Ellis.
He put the paper on the table and stood up, staring so intently I dropped my gaze to his muscled-but-not-bulky calves and his brown leather flip-flops.
Brady was shorter than I expected, maybe five foot seven. That meant he was three inches taller than me—perfect dancing (or kissing) height.
Ahem.
“Hey, Hale!” he said. “You look great. I mean that. Thanks for coming.”
I looked up at him and froze. Hadn’t Jay told him that I wasn’t really Haley?
When he saw my expression, he gave me a brotherly hug that lasted maybe three hours less than I would have liked. “Nice to meet you,” he whispered in my ear.
I exhaled.
Of course. No wonder he’d been so convincing: he was an actor. Duh. I knew that. I was just a little distracted. I was just . . . Oh, my God, was this man hot, or what!! No wonder Haley was so miserable. It was bad enough having Hank walk out. How would it feel to lose beautiful Brady Ellis?
Brady pulled out my chrome-and-wicker chair. It wasn’t until I sat down that I realized just how wobbly my legs were.
“Thanks,” I said.
“You’re welcome.” He went back to his seat, which wasn’t directly across from me—more like two o’clock to my ten o’clock, both of us slightly angled out to the parking lot, just enough to allow photographers a good shot.
“It’s good to see you,” he said, his straight, dark, perfectly groomed eyebrows raising just a little bit with humor.
“It’s good to see you, too.” My heart was beating so fast I could barely sit still.
“Coffee?” A pretty waitress appeared at my side. She had dark bangs falling in her eyes, a butterfly tattoo on her shoulder, and a butterfly ring on her thumb. She wore jeans and a lacy white tank top. In short: she was about five thousand times cooler than I.
“I, um . . .” Damn. What was I supposed to order?
“You probably want a latte,” Brady offered.
I nodded, memory kicking in. “With low-fat milk and three shots of caramel syrup,” I mumbled.
“I’m really sorry.” She sounded really sorry. “But we don’t have caramel syrup. Do you like mocha? Or vanilla, maybe?”
Panicked, I looked at Brady. Didn’t he know everything about Haley? Apparently not.
“Vanilla,” I said. “Please.” Oops. I wasn’t supposed to say please.
“Are you ready to order?” the waitress asked.
I kept my face pointed down so my voice wasn’t too distinct. “Baby spinach salad with egg and lemon.” Jay had picked that out fro
m the restaurant’s website.
“Can I get a menu?” Brady asked.
Oh, crap. How was I supposed to know what they had when I hadn’t even seen the menu yet? No matter: the waitress just said, “Sure,” and went away.
I was still wearing Haley’s furry pink backpack. I slid it off my arms. Above me, Christmas lights twinkled on a latticed patio cover.
“Pookie!”
I held up the pink koala. “You’ve met?”
“Oh, yeah.” He laughed. “I hate that thing.”
Score one for Haley. I stuck the backpack on the brick floor, by my feet.
I leaned over the table to whisper. “The waitress seemed pretty unfazed. Didn’t she recognize us?”
“Oh, I’m sure she did. They get a lot of celebs here—they’re used to it. Smile.”
“Huh?”
Too late: the click came from the parking lot, slightly behind me and to my right. The photographer, a stubble-cheeked Mediterranean-looking guy in basketball shorts, took a few steps forward to get a better shot of my face. I smiled. Click.
“One more,” Brady told the man. “I was squinting.”
Click.
“Got it,” the guy said. “Thanks, man.”
“Later,” Brady said.
“You know him?” I asked when the man had gone.
“Oh, sure,” Brady said. “His name’s Franco. I called him—told him we’d be here. I called a couple others, too. They should be here soon. Here’s the thing about the paps. You treat them right, they’ll treat you right. So, you’re going out somewhere, you’re looking good—you call them up and say this is where I’ll be. They get their shots, you get your publicity.”
“But what if you don’t want your picture taken?”
“You got a good relationship with them, they’ll leave you alone if you’re out in gym shorts and a baseball hat or whatever.”
It’s not like his clothes, gray cargo shorts and black T-shirt, were so much dressier than sweats, but they were cut so well, they probably cost more than my nicest dress. Then again, with a body like that, it didn’t really matter what he wore.
I twirled a strand of fake blond hair, the situation’s fantasy quality making me unusually bold. “I bet you look pretty good in gym shorts,”
A slow smile spread across his face. “I bet you would, too.”
The waitress ruined what was turning out to be the best moment of my life by coming back then with two menus and my coffee. Brady ordered a beefsteak sandwich. The waitress said, “Excellent choice,” in a tone that suggested that a less savvy customer might order something less excellent. The spinach salad, perhaps?
When she left, I took a big gulp of coffee, almost gagging when my sweet-detecting taste buds sent a distress signal to my brain. “This is revolting.”
Brady grinned. “Haley usually puts a couple of spoonfuls of sugar in on top of that.”
A random waiter appeared at my elbow. “Is something wrong? Would you like something else? I can get you something else.”
I shook my head. He scurried away.
Brady leaned forward, chin on hands, and studied me. I mirrored his position. He had a small freckle under his right eye. His eyes weren’t black, after all, just an incredibly dark, rich brown. His lashes were as thick and curly as his hair.
In the parking lot, a camera lens glinted in the sunshine.
“Nope,” He said finally, leaning back in his chair.
“Nope what?”
He leaned forward so I could hear his almost-whisper. “You don’t look like her.”
My mouth dropped open. “Do so!”
“Maybe a little,” he conceded.
I leaned forward so he could hear me whisper. “Don’t go saying that to Jay, or I could be out of a job.”
He touched my cheek. I froze, fearful that any movement might make him take his hand away. He took it away anyhow but kept looking into my face. I’ve never been hypnotized, but I’d guess this is what it feels like.
Finally, he leaned back into his chair, bit his lip, and looked up, thinking. “This is going to sound obnoxious,” he said at last. “But people have always noticed my looks. Even when I was a kid, I was just really . . .”
He looked to me to finish the sentence. I tilted my head to one side and kept my mouth shut.
“Not ugly.” He rolled his eyes with self-deprecation.
“Really?” I raised one eyebrow and then immediately pulled it down when I remembered Jay’s warning.
“Hard to believe, I know.” There were those dimples again.
“So I guess,” he continued, “well, it’s not like I don’t notice if someone’s attractive. I mean, Haley—the minute I saw her I was like, wow.”
And he didn’t think I looked like her? Damn.
“But the thing is, I’m so used to people judging me by my looks. Some people like me because of them. Other people don’t like me because of them. Because of that, I think I get beyond the exterior faster than other people.”
“Gotcha.” Sort of.
He continued, “So on the outside, yeah, you and Haley could be twins. But I saw beyond her outside a long time ago. It’s inner beauty that counts for me, you know?” He squinted and leaned forward. “I could swear your skin has gotten darker just in the time we’ve been sitting here.”
“Oh, God.” I held out an airbrushed arm. “Does the tan look fake? Because it is.”
He threw back his head and howled with laughter.
“What?” I demanded. “You’re a Hollywood actor. Surely you’ve seen a fake tan before.”
“All the time. Only no one ever admits it. They’re always like, ‘I was up in Malibu for the weekend.’ Or, ‘I spent a lot of time outdoors when I was in Cannes.’ It’s just, I don’t know, cool that you’d be so honest about it.”
“Well, you know, I have a lot of inner beauty.”
“I’m sensing that. You’ve got a lot of outer beauty, too.”
The waitress brought our food. I couldn’t eat a bite.
Chapter Fifteen
Monday morning, I was late for my subbing assignment in Mrs. Largent’s first-grade class (Shaun Mott couldn’t find one of his sneakers, which turned out to be under the couch, approximately sixteen inches from his other sneaker), but when I saw Nina standing outside the door, arms crossed, it was clear I’d be even later.
The first-graders were lined up outside Mrs. Largent’s door. I directed them into the classroom and told them to spend five minutes on their independent reading. They filed in serenely and pulled books from their desks. Mrs. Largent had trained them well.
I turned my attention back to Nina, forced a smile and thought, Please don’t say anything about my hair. I’d pulled it back to minimize the impact of the extensions, but it still seemed a little, well, trashy. Besides that, it looked like I had just spent a week on a beach in the Bahamas. As promised, the tan had finally come in. It looked good and only a little bit fake (a real tan wouldn’t be so even), but I still felt self-conscious. When Jay had told me he wouldn’t be needing me to do any double work for the entire week, I tried really, really hard to wash the brown off my skin. It had faded, but not enough.
So far, it had all been for nothing, at least from a press standpoint. As of Sunday night, my relentless Google searches had turned up no shots of Brady and me.
But Nina didn’t say anything about my appearance. Instead, she cleared her throat, tilted her chin up, and said, “Terri asked me to ask you if Ben is coming to Tyler’s birthday party this weekend.”
“Tyler’s—what?”
“His birthday party. The invitation said to RSVP no later than last week, but Terri said she hasn’t heard from you.” Why was Nina looking at me like this?
“I never got an invitation.”
“Everyone else got theirs.”
“Well, I didn’t.” And then I understood: “I bet she sent it to my old address.”
Her face relaxed with forgiveness. “You’re probabl
y right. Can he make it?”
“Saturday? I guess so. What time?”
“Noon. It’s kind of a drop-off party, but adults can stay if they want. John’s going to do hamburgers and hot dogs, and Terri’s got this big treasure hunt planned in the backyard. It’s a pirate theme. She got a refrigerator box, and she’s turned it into a ship. Last night she stayed up till one o’clock making telescopes out of paper towel rolls.”
“Cute.” I tried to sound sincere, but Nina caught a whiff of sarcasm.
“Oh, please. Who has that kind of time? I told Terri that when a woman starts making pirate ships and telescopes, it’s time to either get a job or have an affair.” Now she was sounding more normal.
“Tell Terri I’m really sorry—I mean, I’ll tell her myself, just if you see her first.”
“So, you’re going to stay for the party, right? It feels like I haven’t talked to you in ages. Besides, I want to hear about your new job and your trip to, uh . . .” She tapped my arm and smirked. “Bali?”
“Bali is so last year,” I joked. “I got this tan in another, less populated South Sea island.”
She snickered and kept smiling until I got back to the subject of Tyler’s birthday. “The party sounds fun, but I have some stuff I need to do on Saturday,” I said. “So I think I’ll just drop Ben off.”
Her face shut down. “Oh. Right. Well, happy teaching.”
“Sure. Thanks.”
Although Ben was in first grade, he had a different teacher, and I had never been inside Mrs. Largent’s classroom. The little chairs were arranged in tables of five or six. Butterfly paintings hung from a cord strung across the room. The walls were covered with students’ labored printing and yet more artwork.
If I could teach any grade, I’d pick first. The kids are so cute and still excited about learning. Plus, they’re funny. They say exactly what they think.
Like a little girl wearing a Kitty and the Katz T-shirt: “Mrs. Czaplicki, you look just like Haley Rush! Do you know who Haley Rush is? She’s on my favorite show!”
