Shooting Stars (34 page)

Bo mentions that he'll be leaving for Canada soon. When I ask him what he will do once he gets home, he says, “Make a little money, then hit the road again. I'm a wanderer, a wanderer full of wanderlust. That's just the way I gotta be.”

And I realize that's what it is about Bo that I'm drawn to. In this way we are a lot alike. Of course I'm ready to settle down now and give my baby a good, stable life. That might not be Bo's cup of tea.

Though that's not what bothers me. It's the other stuff I can't shake. Bo's troubles consume me for days afterward. I believe his heart is good, but it's clear to me that he's affected by a tremendous amount of hurt, which he hasn't dealt with. As a soon-to-be mother, I am having serious doubts regarding Bo's ability to have a healthy relationship with a son or daughter—at least in the way that I would want for my child.

The few friends who know I'm pregnant all say the same thing: “You're not gonna tell him, are you?” Everyone instinctually seems to know that including him in my life—and more importantly, in my child's life—would be a bad idea. Aaron is the most adamant: “Mate, I'll break his legs first. Yours second.” Only little Elif back in Turkey has a different opinion: “You must tell him. I'm sure his family is lovely people. They will be a big help for you. You may not want him, but you want his mother.”

And initially, I'm inclined to agree with Elif. Besides not telling a man that he has a child—can you even do that? Not only is there the obvious ethical dilemma, but what are the legal implications? Georgia is on it: “The law's often on the mother's side,” she says after a bit of research, “especially in California. The father doesn't always have a legal right to know.”

“How can that be?”

“Think about it. Some fathers may be a danger to their children. Maybe not Bo. Or maybe Bo. Or, what if a mother doesn't even know who the father is? I'm sure that happens.”

I'm under no misconceptions that involving Bo in raising my kid would be miserable for me. It would be like having a second child, but one I didn't want. And his lifestyle and “issues”—would they harm the child? Perhaps not physically, but possibly emotionally, mentally, spiritually? If my mama-instinct truly believed that Bo would not make a healthy father, could bringing him into our lives be worse for a baby than not having a dad at all?

Georgia and I continue to discuss the morality of my dilemma. “If a man is willing to ‘put out' anywhere, as Bo apparently is, maybe he doesn't deserve to know,” Georgia muses.

“OK, let's just say I don't tell him. What do I say to my child? ‘I didn't tell your dad that you existed because I thought he and his issues were a potential danger to you?'” While I don't love this idea, it occurs to me that it does sound better than “Your dad was A Sperm.”

“You're thinking too much, Jen. Meryl Streep did a fine job in
Mamma Mia.
”

I'm still not quite convinced.

* * *

The next day, September 2, Skylar Peak, the Malibu Beach Master who lead the surfer-pap turf war, was charged.

Two Malibu Men Charged with Attacking Paparazzo

Officials on Tuesday said they charged two Malibu men for attacking a paparazzo who was snapping pictures of actor Matthew McConaughey as he was surfing in the Pacific Ocean in June.
[abridged]

Skylar Martin Peak, 24, and Philip John Hildebrand, 30, both of Malibu, were each charged with one misdemeanor count of battery for attacking Richid Altmbareckouhammou, who was working for a French news agency, the Los Angeles District Attorney's office said.

Officials claim the two men threw Altmbareckouhammou into the water from where he was taking pictures on the beach. Each faces up to six months in jail and a $2,000 fine.

(Reporting by Bob Tourtellotte; editing by Jill Serjeant and Eric Walsh)

It took two months for charges to be filed, and I hear it was only because of pressure from the paparazzo's attorney. And while I seriously doubt it will change the way Malibu views the paparazzi, rectification is nice. And who knows, maybe someday justice will be served.
¹⁶

Would the paper mention me soon too? I get a second note from Detective Gonzalez asking me to contact him. This time I check with Georgia, who specializes in contract law for a uniform company, but who is, these days, getting familiar with criminal law as well as family law, thanks to me. She agrees with CXN. “Ignore it. If they want you, they can get a warrant.”

My initial guilt, though, has turned to anger, and my pride has resurfaced. I shouldn't have bitten Frank Opis, true, but I only did it because his nasty pap hand was by my mouth when he was pushing my camera into my face!

It's not the L.A. courts I fear. If Paris can handle community service or a few days in county jail, I can too. It's the threat of a civil suit that looms over me like the devil's cape—that's the one that would force me to get a lawyer and drain my money as fast as a tap at a UCLA keg party. And then what would be left for my baby's future?

Besides my legal woes, all I think about is this “feeling” growing inside me. I leave work early to go to the doctor's office down the street from my house. The clinic is used to walk-ins in this neighborhood, and I'm seen almost immediately. I lie on the table and pull up my shirt. The doctor squirts cold goo on my stomach and with a flat metal instrument irons my belly. Live moving pictures appear on the ultrasound machine next to the table. There are a lot of lines, then a noticeable dark dot. “That's it,” he says. “It's not much more than a mass of cells right now.”

Then we hear a heartbeat. The heartbeat of my baby. A gentle
lub-dub, lub-dub
. I've never heard a more beautiful sound. This is what I've been waiting for all my life.

He prints out a still shot for me. He asks when my last period was and counts my pregnancy weeks from that. Though I conceived four weeks ago, for purposes of medical counting, I'm considered six weeks pregnant.

I walk home with my photo. One black dot. Add a little food and water plus some kind of mysterious “energy” (God) and in nine months out pops a separate human being with all the complexities of
us
—something brand-new and spiritually distinct with a personality and feelings and a moral code and an ethereal heart that loves and hates and breaks. All this from a tiny bit of DNA—a microscopic sperm and egg from a man and a woman.

This is undeniably a miracle.

* * *

Less than two weeks later, eight weeks into the pregnancy, my elation has waned. There is no time to daydream about baby because all I can think about is vomiting. What feels like some awful concoction of prescription drugs—but is just mega-doses of hormones—swirls around in my head like someone turned the blender on “mutilate.” Nauseous, fuzzy-eyed, and exhausted, I do not have morning sickness but all-day-long sickness. Each day, until about 3 p.m., watermelon and saltines are the only foods I can stomach. After that, I
must
have a hamburger or another large piece of red meat. My reaction and motor skills are so slow right now that I'm frightened to drive. I've hit at least five curbs and had two minor car accidents in the last week.

For the past five days,
if
I can get out of bed and go to work, I crawl to the back of my car when I get there, lie down, and float in and out of consciousness. I keep the window cracked hoping that I'll
hear
my doorstep leave, but also hoping that I won't; I don't want to move. The idea that I'm going to vomit consumes my thoughts, hour after hour, day after day, although I never actually puke. When I get home—well before six—I go directly to the sofa or the bed and don't move again.

It's a lucky thing my new company doesn't know how many sets I usually turn in, and a relief Jimmy, my new boss, doesn't call every morning like Bartlet did. Bartlet would be on to me by now for sure. I had hoped to work extra hard these first few months of pregnancy, figuring I'd probably have only about six before I must quit papping. (I will
not
be a giant preggers pap running backward down Robertson shooting Adrian Grenier or Eva Longoria while TMZ videographers record the ludicrous scene.) But now, I've barely shot a competent set in the last two weeks and that means much needed baby funds are dropping.

Money and child support (or lack thereof) and Frank Opis are stressors that I know I have to face, but right now I'm too sick to care about anything but walking straight—perhaps God's creative way of keeping my frazzled thoughts from damaging my baby.

* * *

It is a bizarre pairing: Zac Efron is with Tori Spelling and Tori's son Liam. Zac is in his Audi, and he won't let me have the shot. When they stop for gas, Zac gets out and finally gives it up after I beg him. But my camera is put together all wrong and it won't focus. Then I can't see through the lens, so I get nothing.

I wake up sweating and anxious. A nightmare.

Back when I first started papping, I'd have dreams that involved celebrities almost every night. I was friends with Madonna, and we'd hang out. Jessica Simpson got in a car accident, but I was there to rescue her. And take her picture. The dreams were unsettling and would disrupt my sleep.

As dreams often do, last night's formed from current events. During the week, I'd worked Tori with no luck. Then last night, I pulled an evening doorstep on Zac. I despise working nights, but I hadn't made it out before noon in the past ten days so felt compelled to do
something
.

We knew Zac was around, but these days he wasn't giving it up. It had been nine months since he'd hit the scene, so this came as no surprise. He didn't need us anymore. He was huge enough—at least for now—and for now, he'd had enough. “The tide recedes with the young lad,” Simon warned.

But I knew Zac liked me—at least, at one time he did—and perhaps one-on-one with me, I might get him to cave. After all, when a boy is in his sexual prime, females have magical powers.

I figured I'd get Zac to myself, and I did. No other paps. He came out in his black Audi at about eight-thirty with Vanessa in the passenger seat. Even at night, he did a pap-check, driving down a lonely road adjacent to his apartment complex. He sussed me out immediately. But it didn't matter. I wasn't going to hide. I rolled down my window and turned my interior car light on so that he could see me.

As I opened my mouth to say, “Can I just have a couple shots tonight, Zac?” the words dissolved. His smile, when he looked at me, heated my
heart and it skipped a beat. I took a breath and admitted, “I've missed you.” And I meant it in a-bit-more-motherly-and-less-of-Mrs.-Robinson-way than I had in the past.

“Hey you,” he said and laughed good-naturedly.

The last time I'd worked Zac, two months ago, I had waited outside his apartment complex one afternoon. When he'd pulled out in his Audi, I'd shown myself and he'd pulled over to say hello.

“You going anywhere interesting?” I'd inquired.

“Just the studio. I'm super excited.”

“Oh, yeah? Why's that?”

“I'm gonna be on the cover of
Allure
. Isn't that cool?”

“That's awesome. Good for you.” I had been genuinely excited for him. Zac's got a heart that exudes humbleness, and I don't know how you couldn't like him.

“You wouldn't have time to stop for gas on the way, would you? Or coffee? My treat.” (I had asked this because I knew there would have been no shot at the studio.)

“Aw, sorry. Really, I don't.”

“No worries. Catch you next time. And congratulations.”

I hadn't gotten a shot that day, but as we'd waved good-bye, I'd thought,
Zac's gonna be a big, big star, and I'm glad.

Since then, a lot has changed in Zac's relationship with the paps. Daily, he challenges them to testosterone-filled car races if they try to follow. And if he can't outrun a follow, he just covers. Zac never needs to race the paps—he's an outstanding “coverer”—but he's young and it's fun and that's why he keeps doing it.

Back to last night. The car light beaming on the head of an older woman looking for his picture wasn't what Zac expected.

“I haven't seen you in a while,” he continued.

“You'll give me a couple of shots tonight, won't you? It's just me on you.”

“You know, I can't. You might be my favorite paparazzi, but I just can't.”

“Why not? For me? Only me. For old time's sake.”

“It's out of principle. I can't do it anymore.”

I reminded him that once he had promised me that if I asked, he'd always give me a shot.

“It's not like that anymore,” he responded.

And I understood. If he really didn't want paparazzi, he had to set precedence. If he caved to me, he'd pay for it with an army outside his door for a solid week.

Simon thinks Leo got to him. Leonardo DiCaprio is a well-known publicity avoider: you'll often hear stories about him from regular L.A. folks who have seen him around town in a low-billed baseball cap, reluctant to make eye contact with anyone. Simon speculates Zac's getting mentored: he and Leo have been spotted together at recent Lakers games.

Zac was patient as I pushed back in argument. Like a good parent listening to his teenager, he let me talk as long as I needed—but he didn't budge. When I couldn't think of anything more to say, he drove away slowly. The look on his face was repentant.

At a light a few miles down the road, I pulled up beside him with another thought. It surprised him; he thought I'd left. We both knew that without his permission, I couldn't get anything. He was in full control. He rolled down his window, still being the good dad hearing my case. At my unexpected appearance, Vanessa giggled.

“You gave it up the other day when you were on your skateboard. We all knew that was your decision,” I said. “You didn't have more paps on you the next day. No one doorstepped you. We all knew it was a one-off…You could do that with me.” The story circulating was that Zac had given it up because he was so impressed that a pap had recognized him in an area of town where he wasn't normally seen.