by Carol Snow
“Haley doesn’t drink.”
During the ride to the theater, which was out in Brentwood, near UCLA, Jay, all business, gave me the rundown. Along the red carpet, there would be photographers, entertainment reporters, and cameramen. I would stop and smile. I would pivot around to give the photographers a straight-on shot. And then I would hurry past the entertainment reporters into the theater. In still shots, I could easily pass for Haley; video was harder to master, and YouTube was to be avoided at all costs.
When we got into the theater lobby, Brady would be waiting for us, but I was not to look overly excited. He would give me a friendly hug. I could hug him back, but without too much enthusiasm.
Mmm-hmm. Good luck with that.
“When we get inside, you and Brady will go into a corner,” he said. “You’ll want to look deep in conversation—well, not too deep since you are supposedly trying not to waste your voice—but still platonic. I’ll hang nearby so no one interrupts. There could be photographers, so watch your facial expressions.”
“What do you mean?”
“No adoring gazes,” he muttered.
His phone buzzed. He checked the screen, said, “Shit,” and turned it on.
“Hey, Jeff . . . yeah, I just got the e-mail. Sorry, dude, but it’s a no-go. I know . . . I know. Sucks, man, but don’t give up—you’ve got real talent . . . Right . . . I know . . . okay, later.”
He sighed and slipped the phone back into his pocket. “Where was I? Oh, right. As soon as they open the theater doors, we’re in. You’ll sit between Brady and me. When the media’s gone, maybe forty-five minutes or an hour into the screening, we’ll slip out a side door.”
“Why not stay until the end?” I asked.
“It’s a movie about talking sheep,” Jay said, as if that was enough of an explanation.
He twisted open a bottle of Perrier and handed it to me. “Did you practice the autograph?”
I set my Perrier in a cup holder (you’d think a car this fancy would have a table) and pulled a pad and pen out of my simple denim clutch. (Simone thought the big fringed pocketbook, paired with my cowboy attire, would make people “question your taste level.”)
In big, bubbly script, I wrote “Haley Rush,” followed by a heart.
Jay studied the paper. “That’ll do.”
The street outside the theater was jammed with limousines in all shapes and colors: dark green Hummers, navy SUVS, black stretches like ours.
Jay slid open the privacy screen. “Main line,” he told the driver.
The driver edged his way close to the red carpet. A young man wove among the cars to reach us. He had thick black glasses and floppy hair in desperate need of a trim.
Jay pushed a button, and the tinted window slid down.
“Haley Rush,” Jay said.
Behind his big glasses, the young man squinted. He looked at the brown clipboard in his hand and flipped through some pages. “Who set you up?”
“She got added late,” Jay said.
The young man looked back at the red carpet, as if trying to decide whether or not I was worthy of walking it.
“It’s Haley Rush,” Jay emphasized. “From Kitty and the Katz. You know—the number one rated show on the Betwixt Channel?”
The young man studied me again, more intently this time, appraising my big hair, my exposed legs and arms, the buttons left open below my neck.
“Okay,” he said finally, waving the limo toward an open patch of road.
The driver jumped out and jogged around the car to the back door. Jay climbed out first. The driver held out his hand to help me. I took it, careful not to make eye contact, careful not to thank him.
Jay put his arm around my shoulders and guided me toward the carpet, where two skinny blond women in tiny, shiny dresses were posing for photographers. On the concrete to one side of the carpet, a short line of people, most of them either well-dressed or good-looking or both, stood behind a velvet rope, waiting their turn.
A ponytailed young woman, clipboard in hand, saw me standing on the sidewalk, waiting for instructions. She nodded once and unhooked the rope, allowing Jay and me to jump to the head of the line.
“Give it a few minutes,” she said, glancing back at the shiny-dress women, who were half-pretending to be engaged in deep conversation with a couple of the photographers. “You’ll be next.” If she was excited to be talking to Haley Rush, she didn’t let it show.
Behind me, a very tall, very pretty woman in a low-cut tight black dress and silver spike heels sighed with disappointment at getting bumped. Her date, a middle-aged paunchy bald guy in a polo shirt, put his arm around her waist and rubbed one bony hip. “Won’t be long.”
“We can wait,” I said without thinking. How many times had I warned Ben of the evils of cutting in line?
Jay squeezed my arm and forced a laugh. “Kidding,” he told the woman with the clipboard.
Nonplussed, she rehooked the rope in front of us.
I met Jay’s eyes. I wanted to tell him I was sorry for the outburst, but opening my mouth again would only make things worse. He blinked rapidly, as if questioning the wisdom of bringing me along.
Not that anyone was paying any attention to me; there was too much else going on. A giant sheep balloon, like the kind you’d see in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade, floated above the theater. On the other side of the red carpet, children in cotton clothing stroked gawky white lambs while their hovering parents clutched hand sanitizer. Even from here I could smell hay and animal sweat.
It was hard to see what was happening on the red carpet itself. Behind the lines of photographers, people—normal people in gym shorts and khakis and Old Navy jeans—peered around shoulders and photo equipment, hoping for a glimpse of a celebrity.
Suddenly, a sound like chanting monks filled the air. Haley Rush Haley Rush Haley Rush Haley Rush . . . The photographers were passing along the news of the next big arrival: me.
I caught Jay’s eye. He nodded.
“You’re up,” the girl with the clipboard said, unhooking the velvet rope.
“Haley!”
“Haley!”
“Hey, Haley—over here!”
I was glad to have sunglasses to protect me from the flashing cameras and the hot, towering lights that lined the carpet. Jay kept his hand on my back. “Smile,” he murmured, his breath hot on my ear.
I smiled. And I waved. When I moved too fast, Jay squeezed my arm. I stopped and turned to allow everyone a straight-on shot.
“Haven’t seen you out here for a while, Haley,” one photographer said.
Jay answered for me. “She’s been holed up, working on her next album pretty much nonstop. She’s got to save her voice today—fighting laryngitis. No questions, guys.”
A little red-haired girl held out a paper and pen. I wrote Haley Rush and drew a big, fat heart. I wrote the name again on the back of a grocery list and a third time on someone’s arm.
“Mind if they get some photos of Haley alone?” yet another assistant asked Jay. He released my arm and melted away, like a puppeteer behind a curtain.
The camera flashes, coming from all directions, made me feel like I was living in slow motion and filled me with a warm, happy glow. So this is what it felt like to be adored. In all my life, I had never felt so beautiful.
And just like that: it was over. The monk chant returned, different this time. Instead of Haley Rush Haley Rush Haley Rush, it was Reese Reese Reese Reese: no need for a last name.
Reese Witherspoon, looking ravishing and not costume-y at all in a simple dress and cardigan, strolled onto the red carpet, holding hands and swinging arms with two picture-perfect children.
Jay retook my arm. When we passed the entertainment reporters with their microphones and camera crews, Jay didn’t have to make any excuses for why I wasn’t talking. They were too busy trying to score an interview with a bigger star. Moments later, when we traded the California sunshine for the theater lobby’s fluorescen
t lights, the fans and photographers had forgotten all about us.
Inside, it was more like a cocktail party and less like a parade. Clusters of people stood around smiling and chatting, holding plastic cups of wine and soda. Their laughter was too loud, too fake. All around the lobby, in the open, in the corners, even in the middle of conversational clusters, people talked into trim cell phones or poked at their tiny keypads.
Here and there, I recognized some faces: young actors and actresses from television shows that Ben liked to watch (and that were available on DVD). Otherwise, there seemed to be two entirely different crowds. There were the carefully groomed J. Crew wearers. And then there were the messy hair, faded T-shirt, artistic eyewear fans. One thing they had in common: an entourage of pretty, young, blank-faced women in revealing clothing.
Brady was not there.
Jay swore under his breath and pulled out his phone.
Two pretty young things, one male, one female, spotted me from across the room. They waved. I waved back.
“You were supposed to be early!” Jay snapped into the phone.
A very toned man in black pants and a tight white shirt offered a tray of little cheesy things.
“Porcini mushroom and sheep’s milk quesadillas,” the server said, offering me a white cocktail napkin patterned with sheep.
The quesadillas smelled wonderful, but before I could grab one, Jay held up his hand. “No, thanks.” The server moved on.
I scowled at Jay. He ignored me.
He ended his phone call by saying, “Just hurry up.”
“I’m hungry,” I told him. Besides, I was curious to taste sheep’s milk cheese. Was that like goat cheese?
“So am I.” He slid the phone into his pocket and crossed his arms over his chest. “But do you see anyone else here eating?”
He was right. Plenty of people held plastic cups, but although there were at least four people passing trays, no one but children seemed to be taking any food.
“That’s just stupid,” I said.
“There’s plenty about this industry that’s stupid,” he said. “You can’t think about it too much.”
“Were you talking to Brady?” I think I get points for not asking the instant he hung up.
Jay nodded. “He’s stuck in the red carpet line. He didn’t want to be the first one here, so now he’s late.” He shook his head with irritation.
“Why didn’t they put him to the front of the line like us?”
“Brady’s C list. Maybe C-plus on a good day.”
“That’s rude,” I said.
“It’s just the way things work. Maybe he’ll make it up to the B list, maybe he’ll fall to the D. But for now he’s a solid C. You’ve got to understand: this is a business. And the actors are products. The smart ones understand that.”
“And the not-so-smart ones?” I didn’t have to say Haley’s name.
“It’s just a phase,” he said. “She’ll be fine.”
Someone touched my arm. “Haley?” It was another clipboard person—a young Asian woman with bleached blond hair. She wore a sleeveless black blouse, black jeans, big hoop earrings, and chunky shoes.
I smiled.
Jay touched my back. “Haley can’t speak,” he blurted. “I mean, she can, of course—it’s not a Helen Keller situation.” He forced a laugh. “But she’s saving her voice for a recording session.”
“I understand completely.” The clipboard woman turned to me and lowered her voice, as if in deference. “I adore your voice, Haley—so full of emotion.”
I smiled and adjusted my hat.
“Anyway. We’ve got Kim Rueben and Rafael Suarez over there.” She pointed across the room to the two good-looking people who had waved at me earlier. “We’d love to get a Crazy Life of Riley Poole reunion photo.”
Thank God I wasn’t allowed to speak. I had no response for that one. The Crazy Life of Riley Poole was not available on DVD, which meant I had never seen it. I had no idea who Kim and Rafael were or how well Haley knew them.
“Ummmmm,” Jay said, cleverly drawing out the sound to buy himself an extra two seconds. “Do we have time?” He feigned interest in a gigantic sheep poster. “There’s been so much buzz surrounding Baaad Boys—we don’t want to miss a single instant of the film.”
“Don’t worry—we’re good.” She turned and waved us behind her.
Jay held me back far enough so he could whisper in my ear. “We’re looking at a hug situation. Maybe even a kiss—cheek, not lips. Here’s the deal. You worked together when you were teenagers. Neither of them act anymore. Kim went to UCLA film school. Now she’s directing documentaries or short films or one of those other things that doesn’t make any money. Rafael left entirely—last I heard, he was at Harvard Business School. Years ago, the Riley producers tried to make it look like the two of you were sweethearts, but everyone knew he was gay.”
He strode ahead of me. “Raffie! Kimmer! I haven’t seen you since the Vanity Fair party!”
Rafael, olive-skinned and handsome, with sharp brown eyes and a strong jaw, got a handshake and a half-hug. Kim, tall and willowy, with curly brown hair and an easy smile, received an extended squeeze and a kiss on the cheek.
Kimmer turned to me. “You look beautiful, Haley. I mean, your hair and your skin . . .”
“Did you get taller?” Rafael interrupted. We stood at eye level.
“It’s the shoes,” Jay said, pointing to the pink cowboy boots (which had almost completely cut off the blood supply to my feet). “Haley’s dying to catch up with the two of you, but I’ve forbidden her to talk. She’s got a big recording session coming up, and she’s fighting laryngitis.”
Kim smirked at Jay’s posturing, which made me like her immediately. I hugged them both (forgetting the kiss, but oh, well), and then the Asian woman with the bleached blond hair herded us over to a platform.
The photo station was much smaller than the red carpet—just a few steps up to a plywood rectangle. Four photographers waited with heavy cameras as the Asian woman positioned Kim, Rafael, and me in front of a backdrop decorated with repeating Nokia logos.
“Can we get you without the sunglasses, Haley?” one of the photographers asked.
I reached up to the glasses—what choice did I have?—just as Jay yelled, “Wait!”
I froze.
He scrambled over to the edge of the platform and motioned the photographer to lean down.
“Eye infection,” Jay murmured. “Nothing contagious, just—you know. Not pretty.”
The photographer shrugged with defeat, and then he and the others lifted their lenses.
“This way!”
“Now over here!”
“Great smiles, beautiful!”
When the photographers had gotten enough shots of the three of us, the clipboard woman bounded up the steps and gently pulled Kim away. “Now let’s get one of just Haley and Raffie. You know—for old-time’s sake.”
Rafael stood behind me, his hands around my waist as if we were posing for a prom picture. He spoke under his breath, his tone utterly deadpan. “I can’t wait to get you alone and ravish you, you dirty girl—just like when we were young.”
Remembering what Jay had said about Rafael’s sexual orientation, I burst out laughing. The photographers caught the moment. It was a great shot, even with the sunglasses. It would bring a good price.
As soon as the pictures were done, Jay pulled me away. “There are some people here that I need Haley to meet. But Raf, Kimmer—it was great to see you both. Let’s do dinner sometime soon.”
Rafael shrugged. Something shut down in Kim’s eyes.
Jay spent the next ten minutes avoiding conversations with an agent, an investor, and a songwriter. Brady, along with a small crowd of pretty young things, finally came in just as the clipboard hordes began herding us into the theater.
In a swarm of perfect people, Brady stood out. His hair had been trimmed since I’d last seen him, and his face was freshly shaven, soft an
d smooth.
He wore leather pants and a plain white T-shirt. Until that moment, I couldn’t have imagined a straight guy looking anything but ridiculous in leather pants, but Brady was the exception. When he put his hands in his front pockets, the outlines of his pectorals showed through the T-shirt.
Thank God I couldn’t talk. If I’d managed to say anything at all, it was sure to be moronic.
Brady spoke to Jay first. “The E! Entertainment woman—must be new, I’ve never seen her before—almost interviewed me. She had the microphone in my face and everything, but then she shoved me aside for this nine-year-old because she thought he was the voice of youngest sheep. But it turns out he wasn’t.”
“Maybe if you’d gotten here on time, you would have gotten an interview,” Jay said, his jaw tense.
Brady noticed me. “Hey, Ver—Haley.” A smile spread across his face. His eyes crinkled and his dimples deepened and my knees just about buckled under my weight.
“Hey,” I said.
“Don’t talk,” Jay commanded.
“No one can hear her.” Brady reminded him.
“But they can see her mouth moving, and I’ve just spent the past half hour telling everyone she can’t talk because she’s saving her voice.” Tension made his lips white around the edges. Actually, Jay was looking rather white all over. Maybe he needed to call the EverGlow people.
Brady tucked his hair behind one ear. He looked me up and down. “You look really . . . really . . .”
“Western?” I suggested.
Jay glared at me. I covered my mouth in mock shame.
“Yes,” Brady said. “Very western. And also very pretty.”
I felt myself flush.
“Though you’d look prettier if you took the sunglasses off. Isn’t it hard to see in here?”
“Her eyes are a brighter blue than Haley’s,” Jay whispered. Around us, people were filing into the theater. Jay chewed his lip with concentration. “You can take them off when we get inside.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Don’t talk.”
All around us, people gushed:
“. . . one of those rare stories that’s accessible to both adults and children . . .”
