Shooting Stars (17 page)

“That must have been awful for you.” My throat closes around the words and I fi nd them hard to get out. I’m not used to dishing out sympathy to the stars. Or their siblings.

Or anyone, really.

Jake whips his head around to look at me. I think he thinks I’m joking. But then his expression softens when he sees that I’m not. “It was. I’ll never forget it. Never. I couldn’t hear him, but every so often I could see his face. He was looking for me. And his eyes . . . he was so scared . . .” Silence.

“But that’s good that he’s getting treatment now, right?” I fi nally say, in the hope of making Jake feel at least a little better. “He’s fi nally admitting he has a problem?” Jake snorts when I say this. “Yeah, well, Ned’s known all along he has a problem. It’s just that our father wouldn’t admit it. Until he had to.”

“Had to?” I repeat, not understanding.

Jake shakes his head as if he can’t believe what he’s saying. “Because Ned’s phobia has gone untreated, it’s gotten worse. Now it’s at the point where he’s starting to have problems performing onstage. He was always okay with that 155

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before. He could get through a per

for mance with that dis-

tance between himself and the crowd. But not anymore. And the public appearances that didn’t involve a stage stopped a long time ago. They were the worst—

when the crowd was

around him. That’s when he really felt out of control.” I nod, urging Jake to continue.

“But the real kicker is the cola contract.” I frown. “Cola contract?”

“The money— apparently it’s the highest offer ever made to someone Ned’s age. But there are a lot of public appearances involved. And I mean a lot. As in, worldwide. Dad is desperate for Ned to get over his phobia fast and accept the deal. Thus, the hospital. He’s been there almost a week now.”

“Is it working?” I ask.

Jake shrugs. “I wouldn’t know. I’m too busy being Ned.

So, that’s it. Everything there is to know. I hope you’re satisfi ed. You going to run off and call Us Weekly now?”

“No,” I say, giving Jake a look, but in my head I’m thinking more along the lines of, No, because that’s not who I’m working for right now. But of course I don’t say that. Instead, we both stand for a few moments and stare at each other. And I’m guessing Jake’s thinking the same thing as me: What next?

“So,” Jake fi nally pipes up again. “Now that we’ve had our secret squirrel meeting by the lake and you know exactly what’s going on here, can we get some breakfast?”

“What about the squirrel?” I’m only half listening to Jake, 156

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a million and one thoughts running through my head as he speaks, but my ears prick up on the word “squirrel.” What does he know? Has he been snooping in my room? Has he seen that shot of the squirrel I took? Does he know I sent it to Melissa? After a few seconds’ freak- out, I realize Jake is giving me an odd look.

“It’s a cartoon, Jo. Secret Squirrel. You know? The Atom Ant/Secret Squirrel Show? It’s a sixties classic.” I shake my head. “No, I don’t know. I don’t watch a lot of cartoons these days. Especially ones made over forty years ago.”

“Yeah, guess not. So, breakfast then?”

“Um, sure.” I shrug. I push myself into action as Jake is already starting up the hill and toward the cafeteria. I have really got to learn to keep my cool. Not to mention my focus.

It’s only when we’ve almost reached the glass frontage of the main building that Jake turns around and looks at me again. “You know, it’s kind of a relief to get that out. It’ll be good to have someone in here I can talk to. Someone I can trust.”

★ ★ ★

I can’t believe Jake Hartnett trusts me.

Me.

Me.

The very last person in here he should trust. The very 157

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last person he should trust on the face of the planet, really.

Me. A paparazzo. Me!

Oh, Jake. Bad call. Bad, bad call.

As I gulp down a cinnamon and raisin bagel and some orange juice in the cafeteria, I think about Melissa, who I’m supposed to be e-mailing with some shots very, very soon—

most likely to night. Melissa would kill for this information, especially the part about Matthew Hartnett putting a fake Ned in place just in case. Duping the general public and the media— Melissa would go insane for this story. And combine all this with the circus skills shots, like the one of Jake juggling, or spinning plates? Well, it’s just all too good. If I play my cards right, she’ll probably give me a bonus.

So why, then, am I looking at my watch and thinking about getting to group on time? Why am I thinking about going to group at all, when I should be off locating Rowan and getting those oh- so- important shots to Melissa earlier than this eve ning?

I glance across the cafeteria to stare my answer in the face.

But this time, it’s not Ned Hartnett I look at. It’s Jake Hartnett.

This is offi cially the worst assignment ever. Trust me to get stuck with a nice star I actually like. Or a nice fake star I actually like. Or . . . oh, what ever.

I should have sent those shots to Melissa last night.

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When my focus was on being double- crossed and I didn’t feel sorry for anyone. Especially Jake.

I sit, my juice going warm in my hands.

“Um, hey,” someone says, approaching me.

I look up. “Let me guess.” I sigh. “Nine to ten p.m.” Rowan winks. “You got it!”

He’s about to walk away when I reach out and grab his T-shirt. “Wait!” I say.

He hesitates but then looks around him and takes a step back. The cafeteria is pretty quiet now that most people have long since fi nished breakfast. We’re safe.

“I need, um . . . access. Just for fi fteen minutes. Right now.”

“Oh.” Rowan glances around again. “I don’t know . . .”

“One hundred bucks.”

“Well, um . . . ,” he says, and shrugs.

“Fine. One fi fty. But that’s my fi nal offer.”

★ ★ ★

Between Melissa and myself, Rowan is making some serious tips this week.

He decides to take my “fi nal offer”— ha! I would have sprung for at least two hundred— and I run off to room 20

and log on.

Please, please, please be at home, or at least have your phone turned on. I mentally cross my fi ngers as I type.

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ZoJo:
Mannie, Mannie, Mannie. Where are you? Please be there!

Mannietheman:
Jo! How’s it going? How’s the job?

ZoJo:
Thank God. Job is . . . gah!

Mannietheman:
???

ZoJo:
Hard job. Very confused. Need saving. SOS and all that.

Mannietheman:
What’s going on? Can I call you?

I bite my lip and think fast. No, Mannie can’t call me, not with this weird cell phone business they have going on. But I am desperate to talk to him. DESPERATE. I start typing again.

ZoJo:
Can’t do calls, sorry. Could we try to IM again to night? Will have more time then.

Mannietheman:
Can do. Eight your time good for you?

I pause again. Nine would be better, but at nine I’ll be dealing with Melissa. Still, now that I know Rowan has a price (and not as expensive as I thought), another hundred bucks or so will probably buy me the extra online time I need.

ZoJo:
Eight my time is perfect. But please be waiting.

BEGGING

HERE. ON KNEES. GROVELING. NEED

GUIDANCE.

Mannietheman:
Lol. I’ll be waiting.

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I breathe a sigh of relief and then pray that I can make it till 8:00 p.m. unscathed.

Now, what was I doing? I look vaguely around the room.

Oh, group!

I spring from my seat, slapping my laptop closed in the pro cess, and bolt out the door.

Halfway up the hallway, I freeze, pat down my pockets, and realize I don’t have any kind of camera on me.

It takes me only a split second to decide I’m not turning back.

★ ★ ★

I’m not sure what it is with group, but one of the members always manages to have some kind of mini- breakthrough each session, and it’s always in the fi nal ten minutes. I’m starting to wonder if they or ga nize it beforehand. Maybe they even draw straws.

It

can’t be a boredom thing, because group is usually pretty interesting. Usually there’s bickering, or someone gets weepy, or someone makes a few pointed comments. Unfortunately, today the pointed comments just happen to be directed at me.

It all starts because

we’re talking about the death of

the nuclear family. The only person in our group who comes close to having something approximating a nuclear family is Katrina. And even then her nuclear family is sort of irradi-ated in the way that her dad is actually a stepdad, because 161

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her mother married him when Katrina was two, which makes her sisters half sisters.

Of course, Brad comes from a proper nuclear family.

Which explains why he’s messing with the heads of the messed up. Not being messed up by a modern family himself, he’s a messer, not a messee.

Everyone else in the room either lives with their mom, or their dad, or a grandparent, a sibling, or two dads (that must be fun— I can barely even cope with one . . . ). Some of them have stepsiblings, or half- siblings, two stepdads, or are younger than all of their nieces and nephews.

Let’s just say it’s complicated.

Which is why I stay out of the discussion. That is, until Seth drags me in.

When there’s a lull in the conversation, he leans back in his chair with a lazy smile. “So, Jo,” he says. “What about you?” I’m instantly on alert and eye him, across the circle from me. “What about me?”

“Well, you know.

We’re talking families and all. What

about yours?”

I shrug. “There’s not much to tell. Like I’ve said before, I live with my dad. My dad’s parents died before I was born, so there’s not much to tell there . . .” I trail off, everyone’s eyes on me. In par tic u lar, I feel Jake watching me, just two seats away. I don’t look at him.

“So what about your mom? Or your mom’s parents?” he goes for the obvious question.

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I sit very, very still and try to appear calm. I need to handle this carefully and say only what I want to say. Nothing more.

“Well,” I start slowly, “my mom left when I was a baby. I never met her parents.”

“Where’d your mom go?”

“Japan,” I say quickly, then have to stop so I can word things in a way I’m comfortable with— one that doesn’t give everything away. Like where she is now. “I’m half- Japanese.”

“And you haven’t seen her since?” Seth continues fi ring bulletlike questions at me. They feel like bullets, anyway.

“No.” That would be impossible. I take a breath before I continue. “But that’s okay. She had her reasons for leaving.

I know about them. And I’m okay with it.”

“Or maybe that’s just what you tell yourself.” Seth’s eyes bore into mine.

“Hey,” Jake calls out in my defense.

Brad takes the opportunity to intervene. “It’s okay to talk about these things, Seth, but with respect, please.”

“Sure, sorry,” Seth says, fairly insincerely, I think. “Still, it would be good to know why Jo is here.”

“Is that really any of your business?” I shift slightly in my chair. As for Jake, I don’t look at him or thank him for sticking up for me. I’ve been studiously ignoring him the whole session, because every time he’s in my line of sight, all I can think about is the pool.

Seth snorts. “Um, yes it’s my business. It’s called ‘group’

for a reason, you know.”

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With Seth’s comment, I slowly look around the circle and fi nd that everyone is nodding at me, including Jake and even Katrina. Only Hoodie Boy avoids my gaze.

Damn. I guess it’s a fair point.

“Look,” I say. “I guess I’m here because I’m . . . confused.” I glance around the circle again. No one looks particularly impressed with this statement, and I feel myself start to fl ounder. There’s at least another fi ve to ten minutes of group left, and I have no idea what to say, or how to get myself out of this.

And that’s when I’m saved— not by the bell, but by something else entirely.

Today it’s Hoodie Boy’s turn. Just when enough time has passed so that everyone is hitting that midmorning sugar low, he stands up and actually throws his chair against the room’s whiteboard with an impressive ninjalike heeaaahhh!

It’s even more impressive because I think it’s the fi rst sound any of us have ever heard out of him.

Maybe that’s the retreat’s secret— hitting absolute rock bottom 10:30 a.m. decaffeination to force someone to actually do something so we can all get out and hunt for muffi ns and coffee.

Brad does his usual thing, leading the troubled teen to his offi ce, and we’re all breathing sighs of relief and getting up out of our chairs when he turns back around in the doorway. “Oh, and Jo . . .”

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