Shooting Stars (21 page)
Authors: Allison Rushby
Okay, slow down, V-balls. Slow down.
I take a deep breath and try to be logical about this. I try to catch and line up the crazy, superbouncy tiny V-balls into some kind of order. I stare at the white table before me and work out what I know.
Okay, so here it is:
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1. Melissa hired me for this job, but Matthew (Luke!) Hartnett is paying me;
2. Matthew Hartnett has planted Jake at
the retreat to look like Ned’s
here;
3. Matthew Hartnett is paying me to take shots of Jake being Ned and to give
them to Melissa, apparently so people
will know he’s
here; and
4. Matthew Hartnett wants the shots to
look as if he’s not behind any of this
and that “Ned” is being exposed, pap-
style, in Melissa’s paper.
Now, math has never been my best subject, but even I can see that adding 1 + 2 + 3 + 4 in this situation = Matthew Hartnett is using me. Via Melissa and Jake.
I clench the phone in my hand as, suddenly, a whole lot of things make a whole lot of sense. No wonder Melissa wasn’t concerned about Ned’s so-called privacy. His privacy
was hardly going to be breached, considering Matthew Hartnett, his very own father- manager, would be signing off on all the photos himself.
That Matthew Hartnett. I should have known he would never have been doing this for the right reasons. As if he would have planted Jake here “just in case.” He’s planted Jake here “just in case” and then made very sure that he 195
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spun a decent amount of publicity out of it. “Class clown Ned takes time out!” I can just see his grin as he picks up his morning paper and sees the not- exactly- fl attering shots of Jake that I took at the circus skills workshop, complete with a little story to follow about how Ned is “getting some rest.” I mean, as if this was ever going to be about Ned receiving the treatment he needs for the right reasons. Oh no. It was all about Matthew Hartnett, his precious cola contract and Ned still receiving a whole heap of publicity while he was out of the spotlight for a couple of weeks. And wouldn’t he have loved those V-ball shots? Or shots of “Ned” canoeing on the lake?
Yeah? Well, guess what. Just like Melissa, he’s not getting them.
I knew taking this job was a bad idea. I knew there had to be more to it. And there is— so much more. I know I only took it because I wanted the money so badly for school.
Because, one day, I knew I’d need to get out and get on with what I really wanted to do. Well, that time has come a bit earlier than I thought. Because that’s it for me.
I’m out.
Out of papping, I mean. For good. No more Zo Jo.
I’ve had enough. I’d rather work split shifts at some fast food place, or cover kids parties, or shoot pet portraits than do a job like this again— do any papping job again, actually.
And it’s not just what’s happened with Jake and Ned. It’s 196
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everything. All of it. I’m sick of it. Sick of being sworn at, spat at, kicked, used, falling asleep at my desk and being hounded by Ms. Forman.
I’m beaten. It’s over. I’d take that Kiddifoto job at the mall before I’d chase another star again.
I push my chair back from the desk with such force that I almost tip over backward. When I right myself, adrenalin pumping through my body, I’m still clutching the phone. I look around me. For a second, I think about storming out and fi nding Jake, grabbing him and then . . . what? Oh, I don’t know. I don’t know what to do with Jake anymore— yell at him, take shots of him, kiss him.
But then something makes me pause. I think back quickly over all our interactions— I think about the circus skills workshop, the talk about what we’d change, canoeing, the pen incident with Seth, our kiss in the pool, our talk by the lake, V-ball . . . wait! Did he know? Did he know who I was? Who I am?
I keep fl icking through my memories like pages in a photo album, thinking, analyzing. Did he know? Could he possibly know?
Finally, I stop. No. I don’t think he does.
But that
doesn’t mean he isn’t aware there’s someone here taking shots of him— that he isn’t in on Matthew Hartnett’s plan. He was pretty jumpy when it came to that pen and Seth. The thought makes my blood boil.
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But what does it matter? I’ve got to stop thinking about Jake and start thinking about me.
Right now what matters is getting out of here.
And fast.
But fi rst— Mannie.
★ ★ ★
I take my laptop into the bathroom, lock the door, and turn the shower on so I’ll have some privacy. It doesn’t take long for Mannie to send me a message.
Mannietheman:
Jo? You there?
ZoJo:
Here!
Mannietheman:
You all right? You’re weirding me out.
ZoJo:
I’m weirding me out. Never been so confused in my life.
Mannietheman:
What’s going on?
ZoJo:
Get comfy. Long story coming your way.
And it is a long story. It’s a good thing we’re not on Twitter because I need a lot more than 140 characters per Tweet to tell this tale. When I’m done, there’s a pause from Mannie’s end, then . . .
Mannietheman:
Wow! That’s some story. And some trippy job. Matthew Hartnett—
he’ll get publicity any
way, anyhow, huh?
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ZoJo:
Even at the expense of his own kids. He makes me sick.
Mannietheman:
Look, none of that matters now. It’s all in the past. What you need is a plan for the future.
ZoJo:
Tell me about it. But I’m all planned out. Can’t get a decent grip on this.
Mannietheman:
You’re in too deep.
ZoJo:
You can say that again. I’ve gotten to know Jake and now he’s a person, not a target. I don’t think he knows what’s really going on.
Mannietheman:
He doesn’t know you’re a pap?
ZoJo:
No. Don’t think so.
Mannietheman:
Think he knows what his dad is really up to?
ZoJo:
No. And don’t think he’s lying to me, either.
Mannietheman:
That’s heavy. Give me a minute to think . . .
In the intermission, I change positions from my uncomfortable seat on the toilet, to another uncomfortable position sitting on the bathroom’s hard gray tiles, my back against the wall. Finally, I can’t wait any longer.
ZoJo:
If it were you in my position? Gut reaction?
Mannietheman:
Okay. Gut reaction? I’d get out. I’d keep the shots I had and scram. Try to pull together a plan in LA.
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Instantly, I know he’s right. And as I think about the implica-tions, I nod slowly as I stare at my computer screen.
ZoJo:
You’re right. So right. I’m already freezing up on taking shots as it is. No point in staying.
Mannietheman:
Jo . . . I know you’re angry, but don’t delete the shots you’ve got. Half of what we’re going on here is guesswork, yeah?
ZoJo:
True. I hear you.
Mannietheman:
I know you like this Jake guy, but try to keep your emotions out of it for now. Cover all your bases. Have you spoken to your dad?
ZoJo:
My dad?
Mannietheman:
He’d have some good advice on this.
ZoJo:
Haven’t spoken to him. It would give him too much satisfaction. Also, he’ll probably disown me when I tell him I’m getting out.
Mannietheman:
What? For real? Forever?
ZoJo:
Have had enough.
Mannietheman:
That’s huge. But not true about your dad. You know that.
ZoJo:
Do I? Anyway, don’t want to argue about this now. Appreciate your advice.
Mannietheman:
No problem. Good luck and promise you’ll meet me for lunch Thursday when
we’re both
back in LA. I want to see how this all pans out. . . .
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16
“Jo? What’s going on?” Katrina enters the room just as I’m shoving my toiletries on top of my bag and zipping it up.
“What are you doing?”
“Quick,” I say to her, “give me your phone number and e-mail address. Just write them down. On anything. I can’t stop. I’ve got to go.” I’d exited the bathroom, toiletries in hand, laptop under my arm, and simply started throwing things into my bag.
Katrina looks confused at my request, but goes over to the desk and does what I’ve asked. “I don’t understand,” she says as she writes. “Why are you leaving?”
“It’s nothing about here. It’s external. I’ve got to go home.” 201
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She walks over and hands me the piece of paper, her face reading several different expressions at once— sadness, confusion, excitement. “Is everyone okay? Are you okay?” I nod. “Everyone’s fi ne. Including me. It’s just . . . a work thing. I’ll explain later, okay?”
“Okay,” Katrina replies after a moment or two.
I take a step over and give her a quick hug. Or I give her waist a hug, anyway, considering our height difference.
“Don’t look like that. Life continues on the outside, remember? In fi ve minutes you’ll be out of
here and we’ll be in
touch.”
“I know,” Katrina says.
“Just do me one favor,” I say as I grab my bag from the bed, place it on the fl oor, and then swing on my backpack.
“Sure. What is it?” Katrina answers.
“If anyone asks where I am, just say you’re not sure, but that you’ve seen me around. That’s not exactly lying, is it?” Katrina nods. “I’m looking at you now, aren’t I? In a moment I won’t be. I’m just your roommate. It’s not like I know where you are all the time, right?”
“Great. Thanks. I’m going to slip out through the pool emergency exit.” As I pick up my luggage, I think about Jake. Part of me wants to say good-bye and part of me
wants to kick him in the shins for possibly collaborating on Matthew Hartnett’s plan. If I found him, things could get ugly. Or they could end up like they had in the pool or behind the blow- up during V-ball. That’s how things were
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with Jake— I could never fully know what was going to happen. So I decide to let it go.
“Good luck,” Katrina says to me.
“And Katrina . . .”
“Yes?”
“Be good to yourself. You’re bigger and better than ballet— in a good way— and don’t you ever forget it!” are my fi nal words, as I leave room 20 for the very last time.
★ ★ ★
I manage to make it out the pool’s emergency exit without anyone seeing me and then half run, half walk down to the lake. I skim the edge rather than use the lit- up driveway, in case I’m seen. I slip through the trees that line the path and, fi nally, get to the large gates. Still hidden, I search in my backpack until I’ve found my cell, then switch it on, hoping it’ll work now that I’m so close to the main road.
I don’t know what kind of interference system they’re using at the retreat, but it’s good. I’d tried my cell several times during my short stay, and it had never worked. But now it powers up and dings all the right dings at me. And within the next minute or two I’ve secured myself a cab to the airport.
While I wait for my
ride, I call the airline Melissa has
booked my return ticket on and cross my fi ngers that (a) there’s a decent fl ight out to night and that (b) it isn’t full. As it turns out, I’m in luck. There’s a seat available for me on a 203
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fl ight that’s leaving in less than two hours. After it’s set, I put in a quick call to Melissa and cross my fi ngers. Obviously the crossing the fi ngers thing works, because I get her voice mail, just like I’d wanted.
I leave a message. “I know what’s going on, Melissa.
Check me out of the retreat. I’m on my way home. We’ll talk when I get back.”
And then I turn off my phone. Because, right now, I don’t want to talk to Melissa or anyone else.
Right now, what I need is time to think.
★ ★ ★
My brain does that crazy all- over- the- place thing again as the cabbie drives me to the airport. One second I’m thinking maybe Mannie’s right and that I should call my dad, then I’m off on a tangent of how I’m going to play things out with Melissa, and only milliseconds after that, I’m wondering if there’ll be anything decent to eat at the airport at this time of night.
I
can’t concentrate on anything for longer than fi fteen seconds, let alone form any kind of decent plan.
Which makes me wonder if I should call my dad again and . . .
Aaaggghhh!
So I try to concentrate on other things for the rest of the trip. I count people, dogs, and red lights. I force myself to sing along in my head to the terrible golden oldies radio 204
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