Just Like Me, Only Better (23 page)

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.

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 and 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:

I followed Jay into the second-to-last row. Once I settled onto the comfy seat, I finally took off my sunglasses.

Brady leaned forward to see my face. “Much better.”

“Thanks,” I mouthed.

We locked eyes. I forgot to breathe. Brady dropped his gaze and smiled shyly.

He plucked at his trousers. “Are the leather pants too S-and-M?”

Fighting a giggle, I shook my head.

“Seriously?”

“Yes!” I whispered. “I like them.”

He sighed. “I just hired a stylist and she told me to wear them. And, you know, it’s embarrassing enough that I’ve even
got
a stylist, and now she’s got me looking all Village People. She said it’ll make people notice me, and I’m all—that may not be a good thing.” He ran a hand over the leather. “It’s crazy soft, though, I’ve gotta admit. Feel it.”

Did he just say—? Fingers trembling, I reached over and stroked a spot just above his knee as dirty, dirty thoughts swam through my mind.

In the aisle, the film’s director, producer, and voice-over cast filed in to the theater. Everyone started to clap, which unfortunately meant I had to take my hand off Brady’s leg. A couple of people tried to get a standing ovation going, but it didn’t take.

The theater had a shallow stage with a microphone on one side. Once the cast had settled into the first few rows, a skinny guy with salt-and-pepper hair bounded up the stairs and stood in front of the enormous blank screen. He wore khakis, a pale blue polo shirt and white sneakers. Anyone who dared wear such boring clothes had to be very, very important.

The applause started up again, along with the standing-ovation attempt, but it still didn’t take.

The thin man held up both hands. The applause stopped almost immediately, and the crowd craned forward.

“Executive producer,” Jay murmured in my ear. I’d almost forgotten he was there.

Hands in pockets, the man spoke into the microphone. “Five years ago, someone came to me with a screenplay and said, ‘This is a movie that has to be made. And you’re the man who has to make it.’ ”

He paused so we could all take that in.

“And so I asked him, ‘What’s it about? The civil rights movement? War? Genocide?’ And he said ‘no.’ ”

Here he paused even longer, which seemed kind of silly since we all knew what he was about to say.

“And that’s when he told me it was a movie about sheep.” He grinned.

Obediently, people in the audience threw back their heads and laughed. A few clapped.

His face grew serious, impassioned. “And on the surface, yes—
Baaad Boys
is a movie about sheep. And if you ask young children why they liked it, they will say it’s because it’s so funny, or they like the music, or they like animals. But what they learn from this movie—what we all learn from this movie—is that
it is okay to be different
.”

Brady leaned so close to my ear, I could feel his body heat. “Friend of mine saw this movie at a private screening last week.”

“Any good?”

“He said it was worse than
Air Bud
.”

Ben actually liked
Air Bud
, but I didn’t say that. It didn’t seem like the right time or place to tell Brady that I had a child.

Finally the producer got off the stage and the movie began. It was about a herd of well-groomed sheep that follows the sheepherder without question until they all stumble across a blue sheep living in a cave. Separated from its parents at birth as the result of a mountain lion attack, the blue sheep was raised by birds who have since flown away. No word on why the sheep turned blue.

The blue sheep joins the herd. Before you know it, the other sheep start using berries to dye their fleece. No one wants to be shorn. One sheep (now purple) sprouts dreadlocks. The sheepherder turns mean.

Brady’s friend was right: it was much worse than
Air Bud
. But I didn’t care because I was sitting next to Brady Ellis, who would occasionally lean over, lightly touch my bare arm, and whisper in my ear: “Jay should give you hazard pay for this.” Or, “Check it out—the kid three rows in front of us is playing with his Nintendo.”

“That’s baaaad,” I whispered.

“Very baaaad.”

“Shh!”
Jay said in my other ear.

Brady fought a smile. “Baaad girl,” he mouthed.

Less than an hour into the movie, as the early exit traffic increased, Jay pointed his thumb toward the door. I slipped my sunglasses back on and groped my way toward daylight.

In the lobby, Jay called the driver, and Brady lingered. He reached out like he was going to take my hand. Instead, he brushed the backs of my fingers with the backs of his. A current ran up my arm and through my body, all the way to my toes.

He smiled shyly and then dropped his eyes to the ground. “I’d like to see you again.”

“You would?”

“Why do you sound so surprised?” He touched my cheek. I was grateful for my big sunglasses, which allowed me to gawk at him with undisguised lust.

“Well, let’s see. How about—because you’re a big star and I’m just this random girl.” I couldn’t remember the last time I’d thought of myself as a girl rather than a woman. It was kind of nice.

He slipped his hands in the front pockets of his soft, soft pants. “Not much of a star. I’m totally B list.”

“Well, you’re going to be a huge success,” I said. “I can tell. So, um—yes. I’d love to see you again. But . . . do you mean as myself or as Haley?”

He laughed. “That’s a funny question. I want you to be yourself. I don’t care who you look like. You can dress up like Cinderella for all I care.”

“I don’t know about Cinderella. I’ve always been more partial to Snow White.”

He grinned. “If you’re Snow White, I’ll be Happy.”

I fake-winced and then started to giggle. “That was bad.”

He pulled out his cell phone. “Can I have your number?”

Jay came over just as Brady finished inputting all of my information. “The driver’s bringing the car around front.”

Brady held my eyes. “Later, Ver—I mean Haley.” His smile let me know the slip had been intentional.

I expected Jay to chide him, but he was already involved in another phone call.

Later, in the limo, I pulled out a tiny mirror to check my makeup and fuss with my hair. “That went well.”

Jay raised one eyebrow.

“Anytime you want me to do something like this . . .” I said. “It doesn’t have to be a film premiere. Brady and I could go to the beach, maybe, or just out to dinner.”

“This isn’t a dating service,” he said, offending me on more levels than I knew I possessed.

I pulled off the cowboy hat and fluffed my pale hair. “I’m just trying to do my job.”

 

 

 

F
riday morning, all alone, I made a big pot of coffee and settled myself in front of the computer, where I did an images search on “Haley Rush.” Sure enough, there I was in my cowboy hat and sunglasses, standing on the red carpet, hand on hip, posing for photographers. It was hard to believe that was me. I looked so happy, so confident. I looked like a movie star. I looked like someone Brady Ellis might want to date.

Would he really call?

My photo showed up on a celebrity gossip site called
Get This!
The caption was uninspired: “Haley Rush attending the
Baaad Boys
premiere in Brentwood.” Underneath, there were viewer comments—lots of them! How cool was that?

Well! That was rude. But it’s not like I picked out the clothes. Simone should feel bad, not me.

My eyes were not bloodshot, thank you very much! They are just a brighter, prettier blue than Haley’s. So there!

I have . . . what ? Ohmigod! Cellulite? I do not! It’s the lighting! It’s the angle! It’s . . . okay, maybe that dress is a little too short to be flattering, but—

I am not preggnent! Or pregnant! How could these people be so mean?

I closed out the site, shut my eyes, and tried to calm my breathing. Once I was back to normal, I clicked right back to the picture and read every comment. A couple of people chided the meanest commentators to cut me some slack, but most took delight in trashing my hair, my hat, my body—even my pretty pink cowboy boots.

I had pored over Haley’s photos before, but I had never read the comments. Now I went back to the image search and clicked on some of the more familiar shots.

People were kind at the beginning of Haley’s rising popularity, but they had grown increasingly cruel. Her eyes were too close together, her fashion sense was off, her posture was bad. They called Pookie, the fuzzy pink backpack, “childish,” “stupid,” “retarded,” “lame,” and “like something she ripped off from one of the tone-deaf kids who thought she was a good singer.”

Haley had encouraged me to take Pookie on my lunch date (oops—platonic encounter) with Brady. She knew there would be pictures. Was she thumbing her nose at the photographers? At the public? Or at me?

 

 

When my phone rang Sunday morning, I hoped it was Brady. Three days had passed without a word. But no: it was just Jay. “Do you have any idea where Haley might have gone?”