Just Like Me, Only Better (16 page)

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 from 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.”

“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.

 

 

 

M
onday 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 probably 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!”

“I do know who she is,” I replied. “Other people have told me I look like her, too!”

Or, from a little boy with squeaky sneakers: “Why are your legs lighter than your face?”

“My—what?”

In an effort to counteract my hair and tan, I had outdone myself in putting together a boring outfit: a white blouse and a knee-length khaki skirt.

“Not your whole legs,” he said. “Just the bottom part.”

Twenty faces turned to stare. All weekend, I’d been watching the progress of my face and my blotchy arms. Since Haley’s denim dress didn’t qualify as loose, I’d thought it would rub the color off my torso, but that tan had held up surprisingly well. Not that it mattered; no one was going to see my bare tummy, anyway.

I hadn’t gotten a really good look at my legs. My little house was kind of dim, and on Sunday I’d worn long pants. But now, under the fluorescent lights, I bent down, and—oh, no. Each leg had a line below the knee that demarcated the light and dark zones. Damn pink cowboy boots.

I cleared my throat and pasted a stern expression on my face. “It is not nice to stare at other people. It is not nice to point out ways in which other people are different.”

Twenty little mouths gasped. Twenty little faces folded in shame. Forty little eyes shot away from my legs.

I love first-graders.

 

 

Mrs. Largent (who was out for “elective surgery”—though no one seemed to know what that meant) had left a detailed lesson plan. The kids spent twenty minutes using pinto beans (uncooked) to practice addition. We talked about their observations for ten minutes, and then they spent fifteen minutes writing equations on paper. I loved the way they held their pencils, so awkward and yet so reverent. I loved the way they stuck out their tongues in fierce concentration as they attacked double-digit numbers.