Mirrored (26 page)

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I dive to the floor in case someone below saw the mirror (how could they not?), guessed where it came from.

I look through the bars, down, twenty floors below. The ground swims up to my eyes, and I feel like a cartoon coyote.

On the floor as I am, I’m not worried about falling. That won’t happen. I won’t fall off the balcony. Even I know I can’t fall from the floor.

I’m worried about the entire balcony falling, detaching from the building and crashing to the ground—but only after it hits every single balcony in between. How is it even attached to the building? Screws? Concrete? Who put it up there? Were they drunk? Disgruntled? Insane? I was able to push these thoughts from my
head when I could look at the mirror or talk to Kendra. Now, with nothing to drown out the noise in my head, all I can think of is the screws that hold the railing up and when was the last time they were inspected?

Probably never.

I have no idea whether Celine is safe from Violet or when Jonah will be back. I know nothing.

The good news is, I hear nothing from below. Hopefully, they’ll think some kid at the pool broke the mirror.

Because kids are always running around with antique sterling silver mirrors.

The bad news is, it’s almost dark.

Or maybe that’s the good news.

I reach for my backpack with a shaking hand. I fumble for the one distraction I have left. Celine’s picture. I take it out and stare at it in the waning light.

The day it was taken was the first day I’d told myself, screw it. I’m never going to
not
love this girl, the day I knew it would never work with Willow or any other girl because I would never stop thinking about Celine.

She’d been so beautiful that day, in a sweater the color of iceberg lettuce that perfectly set off her pale skin and dark hair. They’d been practicing the scene before Oliver and Dodger meet, the scene where Oliver is bullied by Noah Claypool. This guy, Tedder Strasky, was playing Noah, which was perfect casting because Tedder’s a serious bully, like the kind that puts guys’ heads into toilets (not mine, but still . . .). Celine had been playing Oliver halfheartedly. Acting wasn’t really her thing. But when Strasky said his line about Oliver’s mother being “a real bad ’un,” everything changed.

Oliver’s supposed to attack Noah, and considering Strasky is about twice Celine’s size it should have taken an impressive amount
of stage combat to make it work. But as soon as Strasky said his line, Celine stood, launched herself at him, and practically pushed him off the stage. For a second, it was so real. I knew.

I knew, whatever happened, I wanted that girl on my side. She was a fighter.

Just like that day in biology class.

Now, she’s in bed, maybe dying.

I know if our positions were reversed and it was Celine in a situation where she could save me, she would not be cowering on the floor. She would not be worrying about how the balcony was screwed in.

She’d be fighting her way into Jonah’s room.

And that’s what I’m going to do.

What I am doing.

I pull myself up on the railing. I feel it wobble a little, hear it creak. I drop back down.

No, it didn’t wobble. It’s solid.

I’m solid.

I take a deep breath. Okay, I take five. I’m doing this. I don’t look down. I can barely see.

The distance between the two balconies is less than a foot. All I have to do is climb up on one, then down the other. All I have to do.

And if it falls off and crashes to the ground, I will just die. That’s all.

I read a book once, about auditioning. It said that you could combat nerves by imagining the worst-case scenario. Like, you don’t get the part, so you have no money so you starve and die. Death is the worst-case scenario. Some comfort.

But the worst-case scenario right now is that I
don’t
do it and Celine stays in that cold, gray place for the next fifty years.

Worse than death.

Death, I’ll risk.

I stuff the photo into my backpack, zip it, and throw it onto Jonah’s balcony.

I take one last breath and hold it.

I pull myself up on the railing and over.

Maybe it’s adrenaline rush that lets mothers lift cars off their infants. I pull up first one leg, then the other. I’m on top of the railing like I’m Spider-Man.

Okay, not exactly like Spider-Man, but pretty good. It holds. It’s not crashing to the ground. But the whole thing is like slow motion, like I’ve been here for an hour, and just as my foot is searching for the other balcony, the sky lights up with an explosion of red and gold.

Fireworks. Disney fireworks, which means there are a lot of them. Fifteen minutes at least.

I freeze. The balcony, the building, the entire city is shaking with explosions, first from one side, then another.

Think of Celine. Be brave like Celine. For Celine.

My foot finds the other rail. I don’t want to move. I want to stay, hug the railing forever.

No. I want to land on the other side, save Celine.

The fireworks explode like bombs bursting in air all around me. I wonder if this is how it feels to be in a war, like in the 1940s in London or Berlin.

The balcony’s trembling, and I’m trembling with it. I picture Celine on the other side, arms outstretched, beckoning to me, telling me that loving her isn’t a crazy idea.

My feet hit the ground.

I crumble to the floor.

“Hey, what are you doing here?”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

Okay, so I know I’m small. And being small sort of skews your perspective. So, possibly, you might see someone who’s just a little tall and think they look like Fezzik, the giant in
The Princess Bride.
Especially if you were already completely freaked out from hanging from a balcony two hundred feet up, during a fireworks display.

But really, I think this guy is literally eight feet tall.

And there are two of him.

Wait, the second guy is the one I talked to at the elevator, the one with the cut. He’s only seven feet tall. My bad. And I get a good view of the cut on his face because the first guy is lifting me by the shirt collar. It’s a festering, weirdly swollen open wound.

“You really should get that looked at,” I gasp as Fezzik strangles me with my own shirt because, even in stress situations, I can never
just shut up. My mom says, no matter what happens, I always have my mouth to keep me company.

These guys aren’t talking much, though, unless you count cursing. Fezzik carries me into the room and swings me like a pendulum against the wall, then drops me. He starts to pick me up again.

“Stop!” I yell because that seems like a reasonable thing to say.

And, weirdly, they both do stop. They stop and stare at me like they think I’m going to say something brilliant. I try.

“I’m not here to hurt Jonah. I mean, how could I? Look at me.” I stare at the guy with the cut. “Does that thing feel hot when you touch it?”

The guy holds his monster-hand up to his face. “Yeah, really hot. Is that bad?”

“I’m not sure.” I’m glad no one’s picking me up, and I’m trying to prolong that. As I said to Allegra, talking is my superpower, my only superpower. “It gets a little warm just because it’s healing. But if it’s really hot, it might be infected. I knew a guy with a wound like that, and he was seriously ill.”

Actually, I don’t “know a guy.” It was a character on TV
.
And he died. But I keep that information on a need-to-know basis. “Anyway, you should have it looked at.”

The behemoth puts his hand to his face. “Thanks, man.” He turns to his friend. “Otto, do you think it looks infected?”

Otto squints at it. “Could be. He’s right. You should get it looked at.” He turns back to me. “We need to get him out of here. He’ll be back soon.” He starts to pick me up again.

“Wait!” I scream. “Wait! Wait!”

He drops me again. Hard. My head is ringing. “What?”

“Please,” I say, channeling Westley from the same movie. I’m on my knees, more because I’m already down there than because I’m begging. But partly because of begging. “I have to talk to Jonah. I
came all the way from Miami and climbed over a balcony.”

“What are you, in love with him? ’Cause he likes girls, lots of girls.”

“I know. That’s what I need to talk to him about, a girl. She’s my friend. And she’s dying.”

“Haven’t heard that one in a week.” The scarred guy is still touching his cut.

“No, it’s true. If you let me get my backpack, I could show you pictures of her. You could see.” I wish I had the mirror. With that, I could prove lots of things, including the existence of magic. I could check on Celine too. I push aside my worries about Violet. Kendra’s taking care of it.

But the mirror’s gone. I have, as usual, nothing but my big mouth.

So I start talking, telling them the whole story, about how beautiful Celine is, and how nice, all the things that happened to her, her parents dying and everything. At some point, the scarred guy (whose name, I find out, is Sherman) does get my backpack. He takes out the photos and shows them to Otto. I’ve got one of Celine, lying still on the bed. When he gets to that one, I’m practically crying. And so are Otto and Sherman.

“So you see,” I say, “it’s really important that I find Jonah. Only he can help.”

Otto looks at Sherman and shakes his head. “That little prick’s never going to help. He’ll probably fire us for letting him stay.”

“Tell him it would look bad in the papers if Jonah’s bodyguards beat up a shorter statured individual like myself.” They look at me, confused. “A little person, a dwarf. If a big guy beats up someone smaller, that’s . . . frowned upon.” This has gotten me out of many a fight (when my mouth has gotten me into one), questioning the guy’s manhood for hitting someone smaller.

“How would the press find out?” Otto asks.

“I’d tell them, of course. It would be right there on the cover of the
Enquirer
. I’m an actor. I love publicity. And then, it would be all your fault.”

“He makes an interesting point,” Sherman says.

“And, meanwhile,” I say, “it would be really
good
publicity if he visited a sick girl in the hospital. And couldn’t he use some of that after the thing with the bicycle last week? After his breakup with Allegra.”

“He didn’t break up with Allegra,” Sherman says.

“Oh, I think you’ll find he did. He was a total jerk and broke her heart. Even if my friend doesn’t wake up, he could take pictures, prove Jonah visited. We could call
Extra
. It would be a lot better than another story about him getting drunk and doing something stupid.”

“He’s right,” Sherman says. “We could ask Harry. That’s his manager. And you seem like a really nice guy, um . . .”

“Goose,” I say.

“Goose. We should try to help Goose, Otto.”

But, just at that moment, the door opens. And Otto picks me up and drops me again.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

You know in old cartoons, when someone gets beat up and they see stars going around their head? That’s how it is. I literally see stars. Then, I realize it’s the last of the Disney fireworks out the window. Still, my head really hurts.

Otto starts to pick me up again. Why did they turn on me?

“Man, stop!” I scream. “Dwarf tossing’s been illegal in Florida since 1989!”

An aside: This is actually true. In 1989, the Florida legislature voted to ban the “bar sport” of throwing little people against mattresses. This may be one of the best and least-stupid laws Florida has ever passed. Makes me proud to be a Floridian. It’s still legal other places. But there are actually people campaigning to bring it back, to “create jobs.” If that’s ever my job, just kill me.

Sherman’s yelling at Otto to stop too. “Don’t go crazy, man! Dude’s tiny. God, this is gonna look really bad if the papers get wind of it.”

And then, I understand.

When Otto picks me up the second time, he whispers, “When I drop you, stay down and act hurt.”

“Shouldn’t be hard.” It comes out a grunt.

He drops me, and every bone in my body aches. But I get it now. It’s a show for Jonah.

“I just wanted him to visit my sick friend!” I yell.

“What’s going on?” A British accent. Jonah. Wearing purple diaper pants and a backward baseball cap. “You’re beating up a . . . a midget in my room?”

“Actually,” Sherman says, “that word is considered offensive. I believe the preferred term is ‘little person.’”

“Right,” I grunt.

“But you’re beating one up. In my room. That’s my point, really.”

“Otto is,” Sherman says. “I tried to stop him. I told him it would be absolutely horrific publicity if this guy went to the press.”

Horrific?

“He snuck into your room,” Otto says. “On the balcony.”

“Ouch!” I yell, partly for show but partly because it really does hurt.

“Stop it,” Jonah says.

The guys back off. Behind Jonah’s back, Otto winks at me.

“Who are you, and why are you in my room?” Jonah demands.

“My name is Goose. Goose Guzman, and I want you to visit the most beautiful girl in the world in the hospital.”

“Oh, brother.” Jonah sighs.

I pick up Celine’s picture, which has fallen on the floor. “That’s her. She’s in Miami. She’s in a coma. And I think meeting you might
be the only thing that will wake her up.”

And then, I tell him everything else about Celine, how great she is. “I know you have a ton of fans, but this girl is special. And, what’s more, she’s an orphan.”

“An orphan?” Jonah smirks. “Like Oliver Twist?”

“Exactly like Oliver Twist,” I say, glomming on to the fact that he’s British and has actually heard of Oliver Twist. “In fact, that’s how we met, in a school play,
Oliver!
She sang, ‘Where Is Love?’ and that was how I knew.”

“Knew?”

“What a great person she was. Like no one else. And you have the opportunity to help someone like that. And, frankly, it would help you too.”

“What? How would it help me? Why do I need help?”

Is this guy for real? Does he have no idea that everyone thinks he’s a complete turd?

“Well, after the pictures of you peeing on your neighbors’ lawn last week and practically running over that kid in your Maserati, not to mention your big breakup with . . .” I stop, realizing I’m probably not supposed to know about the breakup. “Don’t you think it would be nice to have some good publicity?”

“Now listen here,” Jonah says. “It’s not my fault the press follows me about and reports on my every move—normal teenage stuff like—”

“Like mooning a group of Catholic schoolchildren out the window of your limo?” I ask.

“Nuns are so funny!” He giggles. “They look like penguins!”

“Or when your monkey bit that waitress?”

“She shouldn’t have tried to pet it.”

“So you don’t care that you’re perceived as the biggest douche in the universe?”

“Girls don’t think so.” He glances in the mirror and adjusts his hat.

It’s true. Celine liked him a lot. I always figured it was a blind spot on her part, that she somehow didn’t see what he was like. It’s like on
The Simpsons,
how Lisa reads
Non-Threatening Boys Magazine,
that girls like unattainable, girlish-looking boys because they’re scared of real ones.

My head hurts. In fact, my whole body hurts. My brain hurts, and I just want a ride to the train station so I can go home—after calling my mom to assure her I’m fine and apologize.

“Fine,” I say. “I’m sorry I thought you’d want to help this girl, who’s a really big fan—and, incidentally, a really cool human being. My bad.” I turn and start for the door.

“Actually, I think it’s a fabulous idea.”

Before me stands the biggest, blondest woman I’ve ever seen. She’s wearing a pink suit and a matching hat with big white roses all over.

I turn to stare. Jonah turns too. “Mum, what are you doing here?”

“Allegra phoned. I’ve come to check on the mess you’ve made of your life.” She looks him up and down. “Pull up your trousers.”

“Mess? I’m an international sensation.” But he does pull up his pants, which fall back down as soon as he lets go.

“An international sensation with no soul.” She grabs his baseball cap. “Take that off. It’s disrespectful.”

Jonah tugs at his pants and the cap at the same time. “Mum, what have I done?”

“You spit at that crowd of fans last week. You wore those horrible trousers to sing the national anthem at a ball game. The whole country saw your crack, the whole world, maybe.” She gives them another tug.

“Mum, quit it.”

When you visited the Washington Monument, you said you were
sure Washington would have told a lie to get to one of your concerts.” The roses on her hat tremble with each word.

“He might’ve.”

“And you haven’t been inside a church in a year. This is not how I raised you, Joshbekesha!”

“Josh—what?” I say.

“That’s not my name!” Jonah snaps. “I’m having it legally changed when I’m eighteen.”

“But you’re seventeen now, and you do as I say. And I say you should do one nice thing for every ten rotten things you do.”

Jonah nods. “Yes, Mum.” He looks at me. “Perhaps I can help you out after all.”

Jonah’s Amazonian mother smiles at me. “Now, this looks like a nice boy who listens to his mum.”

I feel my ears get hot, which literally has never happened. Between my olive complexion and my high threshold for embarrassment, I’m not a blusher. But I assume that’s what’s happening now. I say, “Usually, you’re right. I am a great son with a great mum—uh, mom. But I’m afraid today has been an exception. If you’d let me use the phone, I could make it up to her, though.”

Two hours later, I am—as hoped—on Jonah’s private plane. We had to drive through what looked like a cornfield of teenage girls to get out of the hotel. I don’t know how they knew he was leaving, or maybe they just live in the parking lot. I called my mother on Josh’s mom’s cell phone, and she only slightly freaked out. I guess she figured out where I was and was happy I wasn’t dead or arrested.

“Can you check with Kendra?” I ask. I’m trying to figure out what to say not to get her more worried. But I’m worried, so it’s hard. “Can you just . . . make sure Celine’s okay?” I don’t want to tell her about the evil nurse.

“Okay,” Stacey says. “Just get home safe.”

Jonah’s sitting in the seat across from mine. He has on khaki pants and a blue button-down his mother brought him and sort of looks like a waiter at TGI Fridays. He’s saying, “Yes, mum” a lot.

“Yes, Mum, I did notice how Goose called his mum so she wouldn’t worry,” he says.

“You’re right, Mum. It probably wouldn’t kill me to volunteer at a soup kitchen.”

“Yes, I’ll get a haircut. It would look nicer.”

“Of course I’m not on drugs.”

His speaking voice, like his music, is sort of . . . soothing. It’s after 1:00 a.m., which means it’s been almost a full day since I’ve slept. And, even then, I barely did because I was so worried about Celine.

I feel like closing my eyes.

Maybe I will.

Yes, maybe I will . . .

I will . . .

I feel a bump beneath me. I start awake. It takes me a moment to realize where I am. Across from me, someone is saying, “Of course, Mum. Of course I realize it should be about the music.”

Jonah. Jonah’s plane. I’ve actually succeeded. He’s going to go to the hospital and kiss Celine.

Kiss Celine.

I push back all the feelings that causes. I can’t think about how much it’s going to suck to see him kiss her right now. Or ever. Celine is my friend, and I should want what’s best for her. And if this . . .

“Really, Mum, how was I supposed to know I shouldn’t text at a funeral?”

. . . if this idiot is what’s best for her, then that’s what I should want. At least he has a nice mom.

I look out the window. The night outside is black. At least,
since it’s 2:30 a.m., there shouldn’t be too many girls waiting in the terminal.

Okay, I spoke too soon. As soon as we leave the secure area, there are
hundreds
of girls, crushing together, craning to see Jonah.

“Is that him?” one yells.

“Couldn’t be, in that nerdy outfit.”

“It’s a disguise! It’s a disguise!”

“Omigod! That’s his mom!”

“I love his mum!”

“Who’s the little guy?”

“Are you famous too?”

“Not yet,” I can’t resist telling them, “but I’m going to be.”

Otto and Sherman and a bunch of other bodyguards I don’t know fight against the surging mob. How did they even know he was going to be here? Don’t they have mothers to tell them not to go to the airport at two in the morning?

Oh, yeah. They probably blew off their mothers like I did.

Finally, we make it to Jonah’s limo, one of three limos that peel off in separate directions. Ours goes to the hospital.

When we get there, it’s blissfully quiet. It never occurred to anyone that Jonah would go to a hospital instead of a club or a South Beach restaurant where you eat dinner in bed. We head for the entrance.

“Where’s the photog?” Jonah’s manager, Harry, is griping. “The photog was supposed to meet us outside. Damn, there’s always paparazzi around when he’s pissing on a monument, but never when he’s doing something nice.”

“Perhaps it’s because he’s so seldom doing anything nice,” Jonah’s mom says. “Go on, love.”

“Maybe he could go up now and the photographer can come
when he gets there, when Celine wakes up.”

Oh, please, let Celine wake up.

“I think we should wait for the photographer,” Jonah says. “After all, it’s the whole reason we’re—” He’s interrupted by the mother of all nudges from his mum. “I mean, of course I’d love to go up and meet the gi . . . young lady right now.”

He looks to his mother for approval, and she pats his shoulder.

“Come on, then.” I gesture for Jonah to follow me to the elevator. “It’s probably better if it’s just the two of us.”

The elevator is one of those big ones that can accommodate a gurney. We stand far apart and don’t talk. Jonah’s probably tired from the tongue-lashing, and me, I don’t have anything to say. I don’t have anything to think. At least, nothing I
want
to think. If I was thinking—which I’m really trying not to do—I’d be thinking this is
it.
End of the line. If Jonah’s kiss doesn’t wake Celine up, maybe nothing will. Maybe Celine is really and truly gone forever.

The hospital is so silent, which is bad because it allows me to be alone with my thoughts but good because it’s quick. Only one nurse gets on the elevator. She doesn’t seem to notice Jonah, and she’s going to the same floor we are, twelve.

I watch the numbers. I don’t want to talk to Jonah. Celine thinks he’s so profound, but really, he’s an idiot. She’ll be disappointed.

She’ll be disappointed
if
she wakes up.

Five.

This has to work.

Six.

It will work.

Seven.

What if it doesn’t?

Eight.

No point thinking about it.

Nine.

But what if it doesn’t?

Ten.

Stop it. Stop it!

Eleven.

I’ll know in five minutes. Two if we run. Almost there. At least the wondering will be over.

The elevator jolts to a stop.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you boys off,” the nurse says.