Shooting Stars (14 page)
Authors: Allison Rushby
★ ★ ★
For the next hour, everyone messes around with their clay and their potter’s wheel. So do I, by the looks of things, but what I’m really doing is switching between my two pieces whenever possible. Despite all my “just do it” bravado, I still have to talk myself into taking further pictures of Ned, even 125
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though they’re not the fi rst ones of the day. It doesn’t make any sense, but the more I shoot, the harder it is to keep going.
The truth, I realize after a while, is that I’m disgusted. Disgusted at taking the shots, disgusted at not taking more shots.
Disgusted at being here, disgusted at still being here and prolonging the agony when I could already be gone. The reason I’m disgusted with myself changes from minute to minute, but the feeling remains.
After what I hope are twenty usable shots, I have to get up and leave the room. I mutter something to Katrina about the bathroom as I go, in case anyone wonders, but what I really do is stop just outside the entrance and kick one of the metal pylons holding the place up. I hate this so much. And what is my problem, really? I decided to take this job, didn’t I? Now I should just get on with it and then run back to LA.
I move over to the other side of the connecting bridge and peer into the pottery room. My eyes are instantly drawn to Ned.
I stare at him for I don’t know how long. It could be seconds, it could be minutes or hours. I stare until I’m so fi lled with self- loathing, that I pull back and kick one of the metal pylons again. And again and again and again.
Him. Ned. That’s what’s wrong with me. I’ve gotten to know him far too well. That was my fi rst big mistake— not keeping my distance. I should have played Hoodie Boy’s trick and just slunk around in the background looking surly.
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The thing is, when you don’t know them, it’s easy to chase stars down, hang around them when they’ve told you to get lost, invade their personal space, fi nd out what kind of coffee they just ordered or what kind of face wash they bought at the drugstore when another company is paying them millions to promote something else. It’s not diffi cult at all when they mean nothing to you other than where your next paycheck is coming from. When you can see them as little more than a way to get the money you need for school. But I can’t see Ned like that anymore. The thing is, I’ve come to like him.
Too much.
Okay, fi ne. Way too much.
That’s what’s making this so hard. And I don’t want to like him. I want Ned to be an evil, nasty, bitter, and twisted star who squishes wads of chewed gum into my hair that I have to cut out at 3:00 a.m. when I get home. I want him to make it easy to take invasive photos of him recovering from the hardships of stardom in fancy retreats. But he’s not making it easy for me. He’s not making it easy at all. He’s picking me up off the ground before I even know him and then, when I do get to know him, he’s still supportive and nice and—
“Jo?” the door pushes open to reveal Ellen. “Everything okay?” she asks, looking concerned.
“Just getting some air. Everything’s fi ne,” I tell her and 127
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push off from the railing to follow her inside. Sure. Everything’s fi ne. Everything’s just freakin’ fantastic.
★ ★ ★
I manage to take another fi ve photos or so as everyone fi nishes up with their pieces and then just kind of sit and stare into space, trying not to think about anything much.
“Jo? Both of yours in the kiln, or just the one?” I look up to see Ellen hovering above me.
I glance at both pieces. The fi rst piece is a misshapen mound of fauxPod- enclosed clay. The second is a sad attempt at a vase. For one crazy second, I think about putting both of them in the kiln. Maybe even accidentally fl icking my fauxglasses in there as well. That would certainly solve a lot of my problems, though none of the Melissa- based ones. “Just the vase,” I tell her. “I might take this one with me, if that’s okay.
You know, keep playing around with it . . . ,”
“Sure, of course,” Ellen says, moving on to Katrina and her pieces.
Yup, might be a good idea to take the piece of clay with the fi fteen- hundred- dollar camera inside it.
“Ready for lunch?” Katrina is wiping her hands off on a towel beside me.
I nod. Sure, why not? I may even manage to get some photos of Ned eating bacon bits. I’m sure that’d make Melissa’s lead page.
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11
I skulk around in the afternoon, keeping pretty much to myself during lunch, going for a walk afterward and lying low in group. After group, I take another walk by myself and snap a single shot of a squirrel with my now cleaned- up fauxPod.
Yes, a squirrel.
These are desperate times.
I scrounged a minute or two alone in our room before lunch, where I managed to download the shots I’d taken in the pottery studio. The few from my sunglasses were okay, but nothing all that hot. There were two from the fauxPod that were almost usable. I couldn’t tell how much was of poor quality because the camera was encased in clay and how 129
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much was me not having the heart to take them in the fi rst place.
Now, I go back to room 20 again and, for something to do, download the squirrel shot.
It is eerily good.
This, combined with a passing thought of having it Photoshopped to add in his own pair of dark sunglasses and call him a “celebrity squirrel,” depresses me even further, and I lurk in our room until dinner with a “headache,” eat dinner (again, pretty much in silence), and then head back to the room to lurk some more and read Katrina’s magazines. I know I should be following Ned around, but I don’t really care.
Halfway through a magazine, there’s a knock on the door. I get up unwillingly and open it to fi nd someone standing there whom I really don’t want to see.
“Nine to ten again to night,” Rowan says, with a nod.
“Yeah, what ever,” I say, closing the door on him with a bang. I don’t have the energy this eve ning to come up with any sass.
I slump back on the bed once more, knowing that I am dangerously close to losing this job. It feels as if I’m clinging on to the edge of a cliff. And while part of me wonders whether it would be a relief for it all to be taken away, there’s another part of me that knows I’m holding on to the job with the very tips of my fi ngernails, scared to let go and fall.
Because I can’t lose this job. There’s no other big job to save me at the bottom. Just a whole lot more of long nights of 130
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papping and falling asleep at school. I need to dig in and hope I can pull myself up over the side somehow.
When I’ve fl icked through every single one of Katrina’s magazines and identifi ed at least four of my own shots, I put the last magazine on the pile I’ve made on the fl oor and fl op back onto my bed with a sigh.
“You’re practically institutionalized and it’s only day three.” Katrina comes out of the bathroom rubbing her hair with a towel. “You need to do something before you go insane.”
“Too late,” I moan.
“Seriously,” Katrina continues, “I mean it. You need to get out of this room.”
“And do what?” I roll over to look at her. “It’s almost eight.
Scary curfew time. No going out of the doors after that, or the bogeyman will come and get me. Or Brad will come and get me. Not sure what’s worse, actually.”
Katrina laughs. “Me, either.” She pauses for a second or two, thinking. “Why don’t you go for a quick swim? You haven’t been yet, have you? Apparently it counts as being offi cially indoors, so you can do that until nine.’
I think about her suggestion for a second. It’s not a bad idea. “Have you heard if anyone else is going to night?” Katrina nods. “I think Ned and a couple other guys were, but they usually go before dinner. If you want to swim alone, you should be safe now. But the pool does close at nine, like I said, so if you really want to, you’d better hurry.” I take Katrina’s advice, and within minutes I’ve pulled on 131
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my swimsuit, wrapped my towel around my waist, and put on a sweatshirt over my top. A swim will be perfect. Just what I need— lap after lap of counting stroke after stroke. My thoughts wiped clear with excessive chlorination. Maybe I’d even fi gure out some fantastic excuse to tell Melissa to night.
When I get to the pool door, I peep through the glass to see if there are any stragglers around. None. There’s a towel that’s been left behind, but not a person in sight. Relieved, I enter and throw my towel and sweatshirt on the long steel bench that runs the length of the pool. Then I take the few steps over to the deep end and dive in. Probably the most me- like action I’ve taken today. I’m not a testing- the- water type of person. I mean, you’re going to get in, right? Get in already and quit with the fussing around.
I do one full lap of the pool, fl ip turn, then head back.
Stroke, stroke, stroke. I feel better already. When I reach the wall, I do another fl ip turn and head back. And I’m thinking I must almost be at the wall again when I open my goggle-less eyes to check if I’m right and realize there are legs.
There are legs in my lane. In front of me. With a jolt, I stop swimming and stand up.
“Excuse me,” Ned says. “But I think you stole my lane.” I look to my left and then to my right. There are fi ve other lanes, all empty.
So what is Ned Hartnett doing in mine?
I decide to play along. “Your lane?” I put a hand on one hip.
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Ned nods. “Yes, my lane. And there,” he gestures with one hand, “is my towel. You’ll notice, at the foot of my lane.” Oh. So it wasn’t an abandoned towel at all. It was Ned’s towel.
“You leave your towel in a specifi c spot to guard your lane?”
“When I have to pee, yes.” He grins. “Or would you rather I peed in the pool?”
I’m silent for a second. And so is Ned.
“I think we’re starting to talk too much about peeing.” He grimaces slightly. “First Katrina’s soda issues and now my pool ones.”
I nod in agreement.
“I think I’ll let you have the lane, after all,” Ned continues. “As I believe that may have been too much information about bodily functions.”
“It was.” I nod, trying not to laugh. “But if it makes you feel any better, you’ll note I’m still in the water. For future reference, if you told me what kind of soda you drank too much of and how it meant you had to exit the pool to pee, I’d probably get out.”
“Good to know,” Ned replies, ducking under the lane rope.
“Now, I’ll race you to the end and back. If I get there fi rst, the lane’s mine,” he says quickly, and before I know it, he’s pushed off from the wall.
“Hey!” I start, but realize I’m protesting for nothing and crouch down and push off the wall myself. Cheat, I think, as 133
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I swim faster and faster, gasping for air. At the end of my fi rst lap, I fl ip turn and notice I’m not that far behind Ned at all. That’s the beauty of growing up in California with a beach-loving Aussie father: you swim better than everyone else. As I keep swimming my second lap, I open my eyes to check once, then twice for the wall. And I’m almost there and am checking for a third time, reaching my arm out, when I reach it right out and into Ned, who’s in my lane once again.
I begin to stand up, dripping wet and confused, when something even more confusing happens. Ned pulls me the rest of the way up, and before I know it . . .
He’s kissing me.
And even more confusing . . .
I’m kissing him back.
It all happens so suddenly, I don’t even have time to recover my breath from our race. Or maybe it’s just that I lose it again. I almost think I’m imagining what’s going on—
that maybe I’ve accidentally dived into the pool at the shallow end and hit my head, or sucked up a lungful of water somehow and drowned (and am in heaven, obviously). After all, I’ve been imagining this moment at least half of every minute that I’ve been in Ned’s presence. Now it’s actually happening.
His lips on mine— warm compared to the cool water we’re standing in.
And sure, I’ve been kissed before, but not like this. Not in the way that the event itself is better than the ideal I dreamed up.
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I expect Ned to pull back at any second. To say, “Wait up.
I’ve got the wrong person here. Sorry, wrong lane.” Or I expect me to end it. Because what I’m doing— kissing a star— goes contrary to everything I’ve been brought up to believe. It goes against my job description and common sense and any possible way of doing the task that I’m here to do.
But I don’t care.
I don’t care because I now realize that I’ve wanted to do this so very badly from the very fi rst second Ned reached out and dragged me and my aching elbow up from those concrete stairs and, well, cared.
Ned Hartnett. I’m kissing Ned Hartnett is all my chlorine-soaked brain can think, over and over again, as my lips explore his. I’m kissing Ned Hartnett. Ned Hartnett. I’m kissing Ned Hartnett and he’s kissing me. We’re kissing each other. Me and Ned Hartnett.
