I So Don't Do Famous (4 page)

I would give anything for a hug. Or even a few minutes of Real Time, where I can actually see her and be with her.

“When did it happen?” she asks gently.

I choke out the story. Then I add, “I'm not walking around like a zombie or whatever. I have chunks of time when I'm pretty much fine and not even thinking about the breakup. But then, sometimes I have
pain with every heartbeat. With every breath. With every song on the radio. My emotions are totally whacked out.”

“Sounds normal. The sadness comes and goes in waves,” my mom says. “But I'm sorry you're having to go through it.”

Caw. Caw.
A cactus wren flaps in and wraps his yellow feet around the branch directly above us. The cactus wren—our state bird and my grandfather. Grandpa died of a heart attack a few years ago. He opted to take on the shape of a wren and the position of mascot for the Academy of Spirits. He's tough to understand, but has a solid sense of direction and really comes through when we're hot on the trail of a clue.

“Hi, Grandpa.” I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand.

“Sherry and Josh broke up,” my mom tells him.

He clucks sympathetically.

“How's Grandma?” I ask.

“Good,” he croaks. “Still recovering.”

“What's happened to Grandma?” my mom asks, concerned.

“Hip surgery,” Grandpa says.

“Grandpa's hanging out with her a bunch,” I say. “Still hoping she'll make the connection that he's no ordinary wren.”

Grandpa shakes his little balding head to indicate
that no, Grandma hasn't figured out his true identity. My grandmother is all New Agey, with herbs and crystals and auras, but she can't see Grandpa for who he really is.

“I didn't realize she was having surgery.” My mother sighs. “Some days life moves too quickly, and I feel that I'm missing out. Especially right now while I'm working for the foreign Academy.” Our branch jiggles. I bet my mom is sitting in her favorite position, one leg crossed over the other, her foot swinging back and forth. “Sherry, can you stay busy? With Junie? And try to keep your mind off Josh? Wallowing is not healthy.”

I smack my forehead. I think this breakup is affecting my memory. “I have huge news. Huge California news!” I spill.

“I am so proud of you!” my mom says, all enthusiastic.

Grandpa's beak opens, and out pours a long string of Russian-sounding syllables.

I shrug. From the way his dark birdy eyes are flashing, I'm sure he said something enthusiastic too.

“Grandpa believes that he and your grandmother helped you win because they're an excellent example of true love,” Mom translates. “Obviously, true love is in your genes.”

Nice to know, because at the moment it feels more like failed love is in my genes. I grimace inside.

Grandpa flutters above me. He briefly places a tattered wing across his tiny feathered chest. “Back to Grandma.”

I wave as he becomes a dark speck against the white moon.

I turn to the space next to me. “Mom, guess where I'll be staying? Three clues.” I extend a finger. “The year is 1929.” I hold up a second finger. “The address is 7000 Hollywood Boulevard.” I waggle a third finger. “The event is the Academy Awards.”

“The Roosevelt Hotel!” My mother gasps. “What if your awards dinner is held in the Blossom Ballroom? My baby getting an award in the same room where the first Oscar was given out!” The branch shakes more. Her leg must be bouncing a mile a minute. “I
have
to be there.”

“I want you to be there.” And now that I've said it aloud, I realize just how much I do want my mom to come to Hollywood. Some of my best memories are of watching the Academy Awards together. The two of us on the couch with a giant bowl of buttered popcorn, the TV blaring, our guesses written down in sealed envelopes on the coffee table.

My hand clenches in excited anticipation.

“And Marilyn Monroe's ghost shows up in a mirror at the Roosevelt,” she says. “You know how long I've been fascinated by the mystery surrounding her death.”

My elbow bends.

“I'm sure the foreign Academy would love to tie up the loose ends on that case. Any academy would,” Mom says. “What if I approached the administration about working the Marilyn Monroe mystery? It wouldn't exactly be a vacation for me, but I could attend your awards ceremony. We could hang out and do some touristy things together in Hollywood.”

“Yes, yes, yes!” I punch the air with a victory fist.

Finally, it arrives—the day of our trip.

The plane ride from Phoenix to LAX—Los Angeles International Airport—is short. Junie and I talk for the entire flight. My dad starts off reading a business book, but we're barely in the air before his head is bobbing and his book tumbles to the pull-out tray table.

The plane lands and we follow signs to the baggage area. While we're waiting for the carousel to crank up, my dad pulls a packet of papers from the front of his carry-on. He slaps at his jeans pockets, trying to locate his reading glasses. “Let's look at the information Paula typed up.”

“Dad, seriously.” I watch for my bag as the carousel jerks to life. “Junie and I memorized the itinerary.”

“Next is a limo ride to the hotel,” Junie says.

We pull off our luggage, then head for the exit. Junie strides fast, which she can do easily, as her suitcase is the size of a tissue box. I'm a little worried that she didn't pack enough clothes.

We drag our bags through the automatic doors. It's warm. It's muggy. It's noisy with honking horns and screeching cars.

A hand on her forehead to shade her eyes, Junie
scans the horizon. I dig through my purse for my new blingy sunglasses. My dad catches his breath.

“Here it comes,” Junie sings out.

Shining and gleaming in the California sun, a sleek black stretch limo glides up beside us.

I run my palm along the fender. I thought I'd have to wait until my prom to snag a ride in a limo.

Junie knocks on the front passenger's window.

The driver's door yawns open, and a guy clambers out. A guy Amber would totally glom onto. He's twentyish, with bleached-blond hair, a beach tan and mirrored sunglasses. He's wearing a white T-shirt, cutoffs and flip-flops. This guy's a WAB and a BUB all rolled into a cute California package.

He holds up a piece of cardboard with one word on it:
SHERRY
. “This name apply to any of you?”

“Me.” I give a half-wave.

“
Hollywood Girl
sent me to take you to the Roosevelt.” He leans through the open door and presses a button to pop the trunk. “This your party?”

“Yeah. My dad and my friend Junie.” I gesture with a shoulder.

Dad sticks out an arm.

“Hello, sir.” The chauffeur shakes my dad's hand. “Welcome to the City of Angels. I'm Stephen.” He grabs our bags and swings them into the back of the vehicle.

We hop in, scooting along the spotless white leather seats. Junie and I ooh and ahh over the adorable TV and the minibar.

We're barely buckled up when Stephen peels out into the airport traffic. Zooming away from a trail of horn blasts, we zip onto a freeway with about thirty different lanes, each one filled with vehicles speeding faster than their neighbors.

Hello, California!

And then we arrive at 7000 Hollywood Boulevard. The Roosevelt stands tall and white, with its name in block letters on the roof. We check in and ride the elevator up to the eighth floor and our adjoining rooms. Dad unlocks his door first. He drops into a corduroy chair like he's arriving home from a grueling day at the office. With a yawn the size of the Grand Canyon, he stretches his arms up above his head. “I need to phone Paula and then make some business calls to set up meetings for the next few days.”

And take a nap with ESPN on in the background, I think.

“Do you girls want to watch cartoons or something in your room?”

“Cartoons? Uh, Dad, we're
middle
schoolers, not
pre
schoolers?” And we're on vacation in a hotel with a few resident ghosts and a load of movie-star history.
A hotel that's located right in the thick of things on Hollywood Boulevard. There will be no cartoons in our immediate future.

“Actually, Junie and I want to scope out where the awards ceremony will be, find the pool and restaurants, and see if there's a gift shop.”

“Got it.” He yawns again. “Don't leave the hotel grounds and stay in touch.” He picks up the remote.

Junie and I take the elevator back to the lobby. By the check-in counter is a white sandwich board announcing today's various functions. We're at the top of the list:

Across from the counter, there are groupings of coffee tables and overstuffed leather couches and chairs. We plop down at the side of the room. I stretch out on a wide chaise longue, crossing my legs at the ankles. My pink toenails wink in the dim light.

Junie's beside me, also reclining on a chaise longue. She hauls her backpack up next to her hip, tugs open the zipper and pulls out a spreadsheet. “I want to narrow down places we can visit while we're here. Places I can write about, that is.” She gnaws on the end of her pen. “Definitely the attractions within
walking distance, like Grauman's Chinese Theatre, Madame Tussauds, the Walk of Fame and the Kodak Theatre.”

“Those sound good,” I say. “And how about shopping on Rodeo Drive? Also, my mom mentioned Pink's hot-dog stand. I'm salivating at the thought of a chili dog.”

“It's so cool that your mom's coming out.” Junie looks up from her list. “When will she arrive?”

I shrug. “In time for the awards dinner. That's all I know.”

Junie jots away in her no-nonsense cursive. “I want to write about some off-the-beaten-track places too.”

“Not too off-the-beaten-track, though, right?” Sometimes I worry about Junie and how she doesn't totally relate to the typical teen.

She taps the pen on her thigh. “Well, like the Petersen Automotive Museum and the Museum of Neon Art.”

“You might want to rethink that plan.” I hold my hand up like a stop sign. “I'm your target reader, and I have zero interest in reading about those places.”

Junie juts out her chin. Just an inch or even less. But when you've been friends with someone for as long I've been friends with Junie, you can read all the body language. When Junie juts out her chin, she's moving into stubborn mode. And once she's in stubborn mode, there's no budging her.

Beep.
She has a text.

My chest tightens. Because only a few people text Junie: me, Brianna and Nick. It's obviously not me. We're supposed to text Brianna first so she doesn't use up a bunch of our texts with boring stuff about her babysitting job. Which narrows it down to Nick. So, Junie's relatively new boyfriend, Nick, is texting her. Nick, who sometimes hangs out with Josh!

J
unie reads her text message, smiles, then thumbs in a reply.