Catch a Falling Star (5 page)

Crunching chips, he said, “So I was reading on
Universe

Today
that the most massive stars are often the shortest lived.”

He went on to explain that we could write about how many

movie stars often burn big and bright but flame out. “It’s an

interesting comparison, right?” He tilted his head, waiting for

our response. “I mean, especially considering what a mess

Adam Jakes is.”

He had a point. I pulled a notebook into my lap so I could jot

down some ideas. Adam Jakes was the most famous thing to walk

into our town in the last decade partly because of his storied past.

Chloe had already informed us that one of the reasons they were

shooting a Christmas movie in June was because Adam Jakes had

been in rehab the past few months.

Chloe, always quick to defend her beloved Hollywood,

28

frowned at us. “You know, a lot of celebrities get better. I read

somewhere that Adam Jakes is really trying to focus on his career

again. That’s why he’s doing
A Christmas Cheryl
.”

We stared at her blankly.

“The movie they’re shooting right now.” Annoyance crept into

her voice. “It’s a remake of
A Christmas Carol
. It’s supposed to be a

really sweet family movie.”

“A really sweet publicity stunt.” Alien Drake stuffed another

handful of chips into his mouth.

Chloe shrugged. “You don’t know that.”

Alien Drake chewed. “Sure I do. This is his management’s

serious attempt to get him through phase four.”

Chloe rolled her eyes. “Is this the Alien Drake Five Phases of

Child Celebrity theory?”

He grinned. “Why, yes, it is. Thanks for asking.”

A theory of Alien Drake’s I hadn’t heard? “What is that?”

Chloe groaned. “Don’t encourage him.”

Alien Drake chewed another mound of chips. “Phase one:

adorable child actor in a well-known series or film.”

“Check.” I smiled.

“Phase two: branches out, enters teen years, people who care

about that sort of thing hold their breath.” He nodded exaggerat-

edly at Chloe, who stuck out her tongue at him.

“Check.” I held up two fingers.

“Phase three: the train wreck of predictable behavior. Clubs,

drugs, depression, rehab. Fill in the blank with disorder of choice.”

Chloe was trying not to laugh. “You’re a very cynical young

man, Mr. Masuda.”

29

I held up a third finger.

He grinned at Chloe before continuing. “Phase four: the

comeback.”

“A lot of them make comebacks, real ones,” Chloe insisted.

“People like a comeback story.”

“Did you read that in
Celebrity Comebacks
,
the paperback edi-

tion?” Alien Drake crumpled the chip bag, stuffing it back into the

brown sack.

She made a face. “Some of us
who care about that sort of thing
do

like a comeback. You know, real, honest-to-God comebacks. Not

everyone hates Hollywood like you two.”

“Hey, I love movies!” I told her. “We don’t
hate
Hollywood.”

“Yeah, we do,” Alien Drake said. “I love movies, too, but

Hollywood and movies are not the same thing.” He reached for

Chloe’s hand. “But we definitely adore you.”

Chloe popped open another bag of chips, keeping it just out of

his reach, but then she slipped her hand into his and tilted the

chips toward him as a peace offering. “I know.”

“So Adam Jakes is clearly in phase four?” I asked.

“Obviously,” Chloe said, grinning at Alien Drake’s bemused

look. “What? Even I have to admit, it’s a pretty good theory.”

“And what’s phase five?” I sipped my water, waiting.

Alien Drake hesitated, twining his fingers tighter around

Chloe’s. “Phase five has two branches. Either they figure it out, or

they burn out, supernova style. In which case, the only place we’d

ever see them again is on some third-rate reality TV show.”

“So phase four is kind of the key, sort of determines if the star

burns out,” I said, and Alien Drake nodded, staring up at the dark sky.

30

I thought about Adam Jakes, emerging like a zoo animal from

the shop today, barely blinking away his bored expression; thought

about all his bad press, his strained face all over the magazine cov-

ers. “Given the particular movie star in our sky right now, I think

it’s a great idea for the blog. The life cycle of a star.”

Was that what we saw today? The fading embers of Adam

Jakes?

31

four

the next day, Hollywood returned. Only this time, they caused a

bit more of a stir, shutting down two main streets and blocking

access to a stretch of shops. I could see the flurry of activity from

where I stood in the patio of Little Eats. I knew our locals and it

wouldn’t be long before they started getting grumpy.

Little was named after Daniel Little, a miner who’d struck it

rich on gold in the 1800s. The Daniel Little house, now a hotel, sat

like a sky-blue Buddha at the top point of Main and Pine Streets,

the arms of the Little triangle meeting Gold Street at the bottom.

Each year, tourists flooded Little, taking pictures of it, painting it,

or just wandering through its restaurants, shops, the winery’s tast-

ing room, or Mountain Books. “Where are the billboards?” they

would wonder as they sat in our patio, stabbing at a Cobb salad.

“It’s so cute,” they would sigh to me as I refilled their iced teas.

“You must love living here,” they would say.

Thing was, I did love living here. And I didn’t mind the tour-

ists the way some of the locals did. They were a huge part of our

café, and they gave me a constant reminder of how lucky I was to

live here.

A flurry on the sidewalk caught my eye. Speaking of locals, I

32

watched six of them, backs straight and packed like bowling pins,

storm by the café, their arms full of poster boards taped to yard-

sticks. Protesters. Already?

Then I noticed Nora Trent, thin as a birch tree and six feet

tall. John sometimes joked that Nora could just fasten her protest

poster to a hat and she’d actually look like a picket sign. Nora was

a constant fixture at our house, and she often helped Mom with

some cause or another; still, she always seemed to resent being

second in command, and with Mom off in the Central Valley, Nora

could run her own show.

And now she was heading toward the movie set.

Mom would never have wasted her time on a soft issue like

Hollywood. Gripe about it? Sure. Roll her eyes at it. Absolutely.

But
protest
it? Never. Mom wasn’t a bumpkin, and she wouldn’t act

like it by toting a picket sign down to a movie set. Rose Moon

would see the bigger picture, would know the kind of money com-

ing into Little would be good for future causes like parks and

stream cleanup. So unless Hollywood started mistreating ani-

mals or dumping chemicals in the river, Mom would stay out of

their way.

It wasn’t like I was siding with Hollywood, but they didn’t

need Nora Trent gumming up their set, and honestly, it was

embarrassing to Little. Maybe it was the sweet card that Debra

(the frizzy-headed stressball from last night) had left taped to our

window this morning gushing about the salads, or maybe I just felt

like Nora was getting a bit big for her britches with Mom gone;

either way, I pushed through our gate, following Nora and her

gang to the edge of the roped-off section of Main.

33

“Hi, Nora.” I tucked my hands into the pockets of my shorts.

“Pretty cool, huh? A movie being filmed here.”

“Hmmm,” Nora replied distractedly, holding her hand flat like

a visor, scanning the busy crew, her eyes flicking like some sort of

human tracking system, cataloging the number of cables, vans,

lights, set additions, and mentally calculating their total environ-

mental impact.

I tried a different tactic. “I thought you were going with Mom.”

“No, no. Someone needs to stay here.” She directed the five

other women to set up next to Foothill Realty.

Nodding, I noticed Adam’s manager standing near one of the

vans. Parker Hill. He watched us, his glasses pushed into his hair,

his eyes narrowed. “Sure, okay. Make sure Hollywood doesn’t

push its big-business attitude around here, right?”

Her face brightened. “Exactly.” She patted my shoulder.

“Keep corporate out of Little,” I added.

She gave a quick nod. “Your mom’s doing a good job with you,

honey.”

Parker took a couple steps toward us, obviously listening.

I cleared my throat. “Um, okay, no offense, Nora, but where is

everyone? I mean, six of you? Seems like an off day for you, really.”

Nora bit her lip, her eyes sliding to the five women, one of

whom was using her sign to fan her face. “Carter, I don’t have to

explain to
you
that protest is about being a voice, even a small one.”

I nodded agreeably. “Totally, of course. But don’t you want to

plan a
bit
more, figure out what it is you’re trying to say?” I motioned

to a short, wiry woman almost as tall as her sign. “I mean, her sign’s

in pencil,” I whispered. “That’s kind of amateur hour, Nora.”

34

Nora’s sign dipped.

“You guys should come up to the café. I’ll pour you some iced

tea and you can strategize. I mean, what are you even protesting?”

I asked, motioning to a sign that just read: No, HoLLywood, No!

“No what, Nora? No what? It’s not very well thought out.” I started

up the hill a few steps, hoping I could pull her with shame and the

offer of free drinks.

Nora hesitated, just a moment; then she turned on a heel to

round up her drooping group. Shaking my head (that was too

easy), I started for the café, but not before catching Parker’s eye.

He tipped an imaginary hat at me and gave a little bow.

I flipped the sign to read CLosed (Come tomorrow!) and lowered

the front shade. A few seconds later, a tap on the door startled me,

and I zipped the shade back up, coming face-to-face through the

glass with Adam’s manager, Parker Hill, his green eyes smiling,

his hand raised in greeting.

I let him in. “Did you need a drink or something?”

He stepped into the cool café. “Actually, I need to speak with

you. It’s Carter, yes?”

“Yeah.” How did he know my name? My cheeks warmed at the

way he said it in his charcoaled British accent. I was such a sucker

for it. Too much PBS
Masterpiece
and Jane Austen movies.

“You have a moment?” He let his gaze float around the café.

“Sure.” I motioned to a table, my stomach fluttering.

He sat, slipping his iPhone from his pocket and resting it on

the table.

35

I chewed my lip. “You want something? I just turned the

machine off, but I could make you an iced tea.”

“Lovely.”

I hurried to pour some lemon tea over ice, garnishing it with a

fresh sprig of mint, and setting it on the table in front of him.

He didn’t touch it. Scrolling through his iPhone, he motioned

for me to sit across from him.

I slid into the chair, gazing at all the busing that still needed to

be done on the other tables around us, at the bulging piles of dishes

already on the busing cart. I would be here a while tonight.

He looked up from his screen. “Charming place.” He made a

vague motion in the air with his hand. I studied all the pictures

on the walls, all the paintings and photos Dad had collected —

different shots of diners or cafés we’d discovered over the years.

No matter how many we found, he just kept hanging them up, so

not much wall space remained. The collection must be well over a

hundred prints by now. I almost didn’t notice it anymore.

“We like it.”

Parker’s eyes fell on me. “That was quite clever today. With

those protesters. Thanks for helping us out.”

“Believe me, I was helping them out, too. They were about to

look like idiots.”

“Anyway, the point of my visit is that it got me thinking.” When

I didn’t respond, he cleared his throat and leaned on the table with

his forearms. “Listen, this is going to sound a bit strange, and I’m

hoping you take it the proper way because it’s really a compliment.”

My neck prickled the way it did when John was about to lie to

me about something. “Okay.”

36

Parker glanced around the empty café as if making sure it

wouldn’t suddenly turn into a massive recording device. “We’d

like to hire you.”

“You mean, like more Caesar salads?” They must have really

liked my dressing.

He gave his head a little shake. “Not exactly. I mean
you
.”

“Me?” I picked at an unused napkin someone had left on the

table. “I’m not really an actor or anything.”

Nodding, he leaned even farther forward, comically forward,

like he might take a nap right on top of the table. “Which is why

it’s bloody perfect. It’s not acting. More like just your average

make-believe. Do you fancy fairy tales, Carter?”