Secrets of My Hollywood Life: There’s No Place Like Home (16 page)

Liz gives me a look. “
You
think so. And yes, it sounds like it, but come on! That guy is too weak to stand up to his friends, especially now.” She
throws an arm around me. “Besides, why would you want to waste your time on a high school guy when you could be with someone
like Drew Thomas?”

“Eww, Drew Thomas?” I freak. Liz is talking about my self-absorbed ex-boyfriend and costar in
Pretty Young Assassins
. He practically cost me my relationship with Austin a while back. “I would never date Drew!”

Liz laughs. “What are you talking about? You were majorly flirting with him two weeks ago at the Motorola party! You better
get going on that. You said yourself you need him to take you to a premiere before he moves on to the next hot thing.”

Oh gross! “I think I’m going to throw up.”

“Oh, stop!” Liz looks at her Movado watch and then at the fork in the cobblestone path ahead of us. Each walkway leads to
a different brick mansion. “Fourth is basically over, so why don’t we just skip and head over to the caf ? We need to read
this week’s gossips so we can figure out who to hang with next.” I must not look that enthused because then Liz adds, “Added
benefit to an early lunch: You can probably avoid being target numero uno on the Tipster List if we eat now.”

“I’m in.” The thought of sitting in class doesn’t seem that appealing at the moment anyway.

Liz starts texting while we walk. Well, she walks and I hobble with my heavy red bag—do I really need to carry this many books
for class? “I’ve got so much to do before Thursday night. I could really use a new dress for the party—I mean
parties
—and some cute shoes and maybe an airbrush tan. You should go through my closet and pick something out that has a label.”
Her phone pings and Liz squeals. “It’s Lauren!” She holds the text up proudly. “She’s inviting us to the after-party. You
in?”

“Doesn’t that start at three AM?” I ask, knowing how these kind of parties work. “My mom will never let me go to a party that
late.” Here’s one time it pays to have alter-Mom. She’s much more concerned about my beauty rest.

“Just say you’re staying over at my place. Please?” Liz begs. “Don’t make me go alone. We’ve got to wow these girls or they
won’t invite us out again. I know it’s late and you’ve got a long day on Friday with the internship, but you can take a nap
or something. Please?”

Friday! So that’s when I have the studio internship. “I forgot I had work on Friday. What time do I have to be there again?”

Liz looks at me. “Two PM, like always. You get to skip ninth period since it’s study hall. Did you forget to take your meds
today?”

I nod solemnly. “I do feel a bit foggy.”

“You’re coming with me to that party,” Liz insists. “You need to get out. I’m telling the girls you’re in before you can say
no.” She types too quickly for me to stop her. “There! I hit send. Now you have to come or Lauren and Ava will dis us. You
don’t want to be on their Tipster List too, do you?”

I bite my lower lip. “Liz, what exactly is the Tipster List anyway?”

Liz groans as she holds open the door to the mansion that has been converted to Clark Hall’s cafeteria and culinary school.
The noise level is definitely high, and I can see the large eating area is packed with tables of teens.

“If you don’t remember, I’m certainly not telling you,” Liz says.  “It’s too depressing to explain. You’ll never leave your
room again.” Liz walks into the room and heads straight to the lunch line.

The place is packed, and I look longingly at the wall of French doors leading to the outdoor tables we used to sit at. I hope
we’re going out there. This room is loud, and I can already hear people whispering about me. Liz already has her tray and
is moving down the line, grabbing a mesclun salad and ordering a panini.

“Liz! Wait! I could use some help.” She doesn’t hear me. Fine. I can do this. I stare down at the pile of faded orange trays
in front of me and try to figure out how to pick one up and manage my crutches. I bend forward and grab a tray, but I can’t
really walk like this. I look at Liz, hoping to send her a telepathic message to turn around, but instead all she does is
answer her cell phone.

“Need help?” a girl behind me asks. It’s Beth, and next to her, Allison. Saved! Beth and Allison were great friends to me
here when I was at Clark Hall, and Liz adores them. I look at the girls nervously, half expecting them to be as changed as
everyone else in this alternative universe, but thankfully they look the same. Beth is still petite, dark-skinned with curly
black hair, and Allison still has brown hair and is super tall, which works for an aspiring ballerina. Neither has had a boob
job, lip plumping, or gone overly tan! They both smile shyly.

“Beth! Ali!” I exclaim, and they sort of take a step back. “I mean, thanks. That would be great. Liz didn’t hear me call her.”
I hobble ahead of them.

“What do you want, Kaitlin?” Beth asks, adjusting her black wire-rim glasses before picking up my tray.

“A roast beef sandwich and a Diet Coke would be great. Thanks so much. How are you guys doing?”

“Are you feeling okay?” Ali sounds concerned, and she looks at Beth curiously.

“Much better, thanks,” I say. “What about you two? What have you been up to?”

After Beth gets my food, we chat a bit as we move down the line. We’re so engrossed in a conversation about
Glee
(just another show I’ve discovered now that I have nowhere to be at night—I guess that’s one good thing about this reality,
all the TV I can handle) that I don’t hear Liz.

“Kates, what are you doing?” Liz says slowly, talking to me as if I’m about to wear a pink shirt with orange pants. She looks
so shocked I’m afraid she’s going to drop her overpacked tray.

“What do you mean?” I shrug, looking from Beth to Allison, who are starting to fidget. “I’m getting lunch.”

Liz smiles thinly. “I’ll take that, thanks,” she says in this super-chipper voice, but as she yanks me and my tray away from
the girls without giving me a chance to say thanks, her tone changes. “Are you trying to make things worse?” she hisses. “What
are you doing talking to
them
?”

“What’s wrong with them?” I look at the girls again and see them sit at an empty table near the back of the cafeteria.

“They”—Liz begins slowly, smiling even though she’s mad. She nods slightly in Beth and Allison’s direction—“are social suicide
girls. Talking to Beth and Alexandra will make you less popular than you already are at the moment.”

“Allison, not Alexandra!” I say incredulously.

“Whatever.” Liz shrugs. “No one talks to them, and if you’re seen talking to them then your stock will go down even more.”

“You’re not friends with Beth and Allison?” I ask quietly, looking back to see what could be so social suicide-ish about those
two compared to Lauren Cobb and Ava Hayden. They’re both nice-looking and dressed normally. Allison has on this pretty green
sweater and khaki cords, and Beth is in this cute gray cardigan and dark denim jeans.

“Not since third grade, and neither are you,” Liz says and heads to the double doors that lead to the eating area outside.

“That’s so sad. They’re really nice.” I follow Liz to an outdoor table that I remember Lori sitting at, the one in the perfect
shade. Liz starts to laugh as she sits down. “Seriously, Kates, I think you may be delirious. You’re acting totally unlike
yourself. Why are you so concerned with this place anyway? It’s high school. We have a better life outside these walls. We
have to concentrate on that rather than swoon over Austin Meyers, who will never give you the time of day.” She takes a forkful
of the salad on her tray.

Now I’m really depressed. “I think I’m going to skip lunch today,” I say, hoping to find a quiet place to process all that
has happened this morning. I grab my tray through the crutch, and my sandwich and soda starts to slide. I am never going to
be able to walk like this.

I’ve barely righted my tray when I hear Liz yell, “Look out!” My tray flies into my chest, and my sandwich and open soda ooze
down the front of my shirt along with the roast beef, mayo, and lettuce. I cringe.

“And that’s how you work the Tipster List!” shouts Murray as he high-fives a guy in a lacrosse jacket. Lori and her best friend,
Jessie, are at a table behind him, and they stand up and cheer. Austin looks sort of bothered, but there he is, clapping too,
and I give him a dirty look before looking away.

Tipster List. Now I get it.

Clever.

“Hope you liked your first taste, Tread Marks,” Murray adds with a chuckle. “I’m sure there’s more where that came from.”

With the dignity I have left (which isn’t much), I let the tray drop to the floor, sidestep the remains of my sandwich, and
hobble back inside, ignoring the stares of everyone around me. All I want to do now is find the nearest bathroom, lock myself
in, and cry.

Aaah! I missed the bus! I hobbled as fast as I could to the bus stop outside the Clark Hall campus after eighth period to
catch the bus to the studio for my internship, and I missed it by two minutes. Another one doesn’t come for an hour.

I can’t wait an hour because then I’ll be late to work, and I can’t be late on my first day. Well, it’s technically “my” first
day. Alter-Kaitlin has been going for a month, and the real me started on
FA
when I was four, but the me stuck in this alternate universe has never been an intern before. God, I’m giving myself a headache
just trying to work out the logistics of this scenario!

I really want to make a good impression. Part of me is secretly hoping when I walk on that set that everyone will see me and
realize I’m the one who should be playing Samantha. Then they’ll kick Alexis to the curb.

As if that would ever happen. But at least I’m thinking positively for a change. Last night I tried writing my USC essay again,
and even though I came up with zilch, I did have a mini breakthrough. After I ranted and raved about how much I hate it here
for the umpteenth time, I came to the awful realization that I might NEVER get out of here.

What if I’m stuck here forever? Then what?

I can’t mope around and complain about how this life can’t hold a Jimmy Choo to my real one forever. As long as I’m in this
place, I’m going to get my life together. I’m going to change my life, and I will try to make this world as close to my other
one as possible. First step: reclaiming Hollywood, which I’ve slowly begun to realize I miss more than I ever thought possible.
I need to get on set at
Family Affair
and take a look around.

If only I had a ride to the studio! I can’t jog there on crutches, Mom and Dad are both working, and Liz ditched school at
noon to go to the Lavender Hills Lotion gift suite and spa with Lauren and Ava. I loved Rodney before, but his stock just
went way up in my book. When I get home, he’s getting a raise.

I need a car. Fast. I start racking my brain for people I can call, but it’s hard when this world is so different from my
old one.

And like a gift from fate, a horn honks.

“Do you need a lift?” Austin’s pulled up to the curb in his mom’s car, and the engine is idling loudly. He’s got the passenger’s
side window down, and he stares at me expectantly, like I should run to the car and just jump in, thanking my lucky stars
that the most popular guy at Clark Hall would offer me a lift.

Why would Austin offer
me
a ride after the way he treated me this week? That’s A. And B is majorly important too: “How are you driving with a cast?”

Austin grins. “Left leg. Don’t need it to drive, remember?”

Ah. Gotcha. Back to A then. “So I guess it’s okay to offer me a ride now that your friends aren’t around, huh?” I question,
feeling touchy. “Shouldn’t you be alerting the Tipster List brigade so they can chase after me with today’s lemon chicken
surprise?”

Austin shifts the gear into drive. “Never mind.”

Sigh. Being catty is no way to win Austin over. I have to swallow my pride. “Wait. Forget what I said. I do need a ride.”

Austin presses the unlock button, and I see his mouth twitch slightly. “Say please.”

My eyes narrow. “Are you kidding me?”

“Fine. Get in.” He leans across the cabin and throws open the passenger door.

I slide into the seat next to Austin, throwing my crutches in the back next to his. I hold my red bag close, and I avoid eye
contact. I’m trying not to get freaked out.

That smell.

Just putting my seat belt on and breathing in that warm vanilla cookie air freshener makes me feel dizzy. This car smells
like home. I’ve spent so many hours in here: going to Disneyland, on dates, to the beach in Malibu to watch the sunset. I
touch the dash without thinking and trace my fingers along it.

“Where to?” Austin asks.

“It’s pretty far away,” I admit and pull the bus schedule Mom gave me out of my red bag. She looked at me like I was crazy
when I asked how to read it this morning. “You can drop me at the Santa Rosita Boulevard stop. There should be a bus coming
by in fifteen minutes.” I glance at the clock on the dash. “Don’t you have to get to ninth period?”

He gives me a serious look, which is sort of cute. Of course he’s cute. He’s Austin. “Like they’re going to flunk me. All
they care about is me getting off crutches and back on the field. I said I had a doctor’s appointment.”

Sigh. Changing Austin is going to be harder than I thought. “Don’t you have, um, English ninth period?” He nods. “I thought
you liked English.”

“I do, but…” He hesitates. “Look, I’m here and I’m not going back to school, so do you want me to drive you or not?” His voice
is sort of gruff. “I have nowhere to be since I can’t practice, so I’m in no hurry.”

“Burbank,” I say reluctantly, because I really do need to get there. “I have an internship on Fridays at
Family Affair
.”

Austin puts on his black aviator shades. They’re not the Ray-Bans I got him, but they still look good. “The chick show. Got
it. Let’s drop the English pep talk and get you to Burbank.” He slowly pulls away from the curb.

I should protest about that chick show comment, but he is giving me a lift, and it feels so nice sitting in this car. Austin
turns on the radio. Some Coldplay-sounding knockoff song fills the silence, and he begins cruising the short distance to the
highway.

“You know, I don’t skip class that often,” he says, like this has been on his mind the whole time. He doesn’t look at me.

“I know,” I say, because my Austin wouldn’t. “You’re better than that.”

“Why do you always say that?” he asks wearily. “I deserve better, I should know better, I need to do better, I’m better than
those guys.” He gives me another hard look. “You’re one to talk. It’s not like you’ve done so well at Clark yourself. ”

Touché. “That is why I’m overhauling myself. ” I smile. “Kaitlin 2.0 is in full effect. You won’t recognize me in a week.”

“Don’t change too much,” he says, avoiding the subject of himself. “I liked the girl I met on the first day of school.” He
smiles and I find myself blushing. We stop at a light, and Austin starts rummaging around the center console, then looks in
the dash, leaning over me to get to it. I catch a whiff of his signature smell—good clean soap and aftershave—and begin to
feel woozy.

“What are you looking for?” I ask to distract myself.

“The GPS. I thought my mom kept it in here.” He checks under his seat, then behind his seat, then checks the center console
again and frowns. “I thought we could punch in the address so that we can go right there, but I can’t find it. Are you good
at directions? Lori can’t find her way off the football field. We’d never get there if she was sitting where you are.”

“It’s a good thing she’s not sitting here, then,” I say stiffly at the mention of his girlfriend. But come to think of it,
I’m not sure I know exactly how to get there either. It’s been a while and Rodney always drove. We need that GPS. I’m pretty
sure I remember Austin commenting once that his mother keeps the GPS in the most nonsensical place possible—the trunk—because
she’s afraid it’ll get stolen, but what’s the point in having one if you can never get to it when you need it? But I can’t
tell him that. He’ll think I’m Crazy Stalker Girl. I keep quiet and hope he’ll remember.

“I’m just going to pull over and call my mom.” He dials and I hear his phone go to voicemail. “No answer. I may have to take
you to the bus stop after all. Sorry.”

I am not going back to the bus stop now. I’ll be three buses behind! Men! I’ll take care of this myself. I lean back and shimmy
myself with one stiff leg halfway into the bench backseat.

“What are you doing?”

I slide my butt back then reach my hand out to grab the strap in the middle of the backrest, the one that conceals the mini
console. With it down, I can see the small door to the trunk. I turn the knob, reach my hand inside, and pull out the GPS.
“Here.”

Austin stares at me wordlessly. “How did you know where it was?”

How do I explain this one? I look away—I hate lying. “My mom keeps hers there.”

“Right.” Austin nods as he hooks up the GPS. He doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t say anything either. “Guess we’re going
to Burbank, then.”

He’s got his eyes on the road—real Austin is a serious driver too—but his face has relaxed finally. It’s as if we’re far enough
away from Clark Hall that maybe shades of the real Austin come out. “Tell me the truth about the GPS. You’re stalking me,
aren’t you?”

I’m a little insulted. I don’t stalk! Larry the Liar does that. “I am not!”

He starts to laugh. “It’s kind of cute, in a creepy sort of way,” he says. “You can admit you like me.”

“I do not,” I insist. But I do. Sort of.

“You do,” Austin says, sounding slightly arrogant, which just makes me mad. So much for the real Austin shining through. “You
wouldn’t be so concerned about me going to class if you didn’t.”

Only two highway exits to go and for the first time ever, the exit ramp doesn’t seem backed up. I look at Austin’s smug face,
and my annoyance level creeps up.

“Well, maybe you like me too,” I blurt out, “but you’re too afraid to say it.” The smile wipes off Austin’s face. “You like
being around me, but you’re worried about your reputation so you only talk to me when no one is watching. You’re nice to me—again,
when no one is listening in. Any guy who got hit by a driver’s ed car would not talk to the girl who ruined his lacrosse season
unless he liked her. Not to mention know what bus stop I was waiting at, Mr. Stalker.” I’m on a roll. “I just wish you’d realize
that you don’t need to be a jerk to be popular.”

Austin’s face twists slightly, and the car grinds to a halt. “This is your stop.” The large, decorative wrought iron gates
to the studio are right in front of us. Austin stares straight ahead.

“I guess I’ll get out here,” I say, my voice much softer than it was a moment ago. “Thanks for the ride.” I go to shut the
door when I hear Austin.

“Maybe I am the one who is the stalker,” Austin says uncertainly, and my heart feels like it will need a defibrillator. “But
knowing that won’t make it any easier. You make it sound so simple, but I’m trying.”

He looks at me expectantly and all I want to do is hug him, but I know that won’t help things. Instead I pull my glittery
bag onto my shoulder and grab my crutches. “Try harder,” I say quietly and shut the door. I don’t bother looking back.

My confidence deflates quickly after that. That’s because the
Family Affair
soundstage is nothing like my
Family Affair
soundstage, starting with the large pictures of Alexis Holden that greet visitors in the lobby. Alexis winning an Emmy! Scenes
with Alexis! Alexis swimming with dolphins!

Gag. Gag. Gag.

I may be sort of getting through to Austin, but how am I going to change anything at a major television show?

“Kaitlin?”

A woman I don’t recognize is sitting behind the receptionist desk wearing a large headset, and she’s staring at me. Where’s
Pam, our regular receptionist? “They’re waiting for you in hair and makeup. Can you manage to get down there on your crutches?”

“Absolutely.” As long as the hair and makeup room is where it was when I was on
FA
, I should be fine.

“Word of warning: She is in RARE form today, even for her,” the woman says, giving me a look. “Try to stay clear. I heard
even Tom is hiding in his office.”

Is she talking about Alexis? That doesn’t sound too promising.

I head down the hall toward hair and makeup, and my walking slows down to a complete crawl. I can’t help feeling sort of misty
and nostalgic as I move through the soundstage. I want to take in every picture on the walls, every face that passes me. I
want to remember the stage’s fresh paint smell (they were always painting some set), the sounds, the wires… all of it. Being
here makes me miss
Family Affair
in a way I haven’t in a while, but it’s more than that.

I miss working.

It’s been weeks (
I think
—it’s hard to tell when you’re in an alternate dimension) since I’ve been on a soundstage, and I can feel the pang in my heart
as I see familiar things, like tiny stars on dressing room doors and the craft services cart being wheeled by. I miss
Small Fries
. I miss reading scripts, doing wardrobe fittings, eating lunch with Matty and Sky in the cafeteria, getting gummy bears from
crafty. I…

I miss my very complicated, very overbooked Hollywood life.

If my ankle wasn’t broken, I would kick myself for being such a fool and wishing it away. I want it back. All of it, warts
and all, just for the chance to slip on a costume again and emote about a problem that isn’t my own.

I take a deep breath and move out of a P.A.’s way as he runs by me with a box full of strange electrical items. I have two
choices at this moment: I could burst into tears and cry about the cruel twist of fate that is my new life, or I could do
the job I came here to do.

After all, I am still on a soundstage. The
FA
soundstage. Yes, I want to go home, but if I have to be anywhere other than home, this is a great place to be. In my world,
the
FA
set is no more, but here it is up and running and everyone is still here looking happy and…

Well, actually, come to think of it, no one I’ve passed actually looks happy. If I study the harried faces of P.A.s, lighting
folks, union workers, and assistants running past me, no one looks even remotely cheery. They look stressed and sort of freaked
out and… is someone yelling? It’s coming from the hair and makeup room. I freeze outside the door when I see who is causing
the commotion.

“GOD, PAUL! You call this a half pony? This is not a half pony! I could do a half pony better in my sleep!”

My old
FA
hairdresser, Paul, is the one taking the tongue lashing. He’s still impeccably dressed and has great dark, curly hair, but
his tall frame is slumped forward and his face is blank while she tears into him.