Shooting Stars (22 page)

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station the driver is listening to. I fl ick a hangnail back and forth until it hurts. Anything to distract me from the other thing— which I’m starting to realize is less Melissa based and more Jake based. What’s he going to think when he realizes I’ve disappeared?

Finally, we get to Logan Airport. With my bag checked, security negotiated, and my boarding pass held very, very tightly in my hand, I get to my gate and just want to lie down on the fl oor in relief.

I’ve made it.

I’m going home.

I take a look at the fl oor, wonder how I ever thought about lying on it, and pick out a slightly less dirty chair to collapse into, dropping my backpack beneath my legs.

Ahhh.

Again, I force myself not to think too hard. I don’t want to wind up talking to myself or looking in any way insane when I’ve gotten this far— I’d probably end up having some well-meaning fl ight attendant not allow me on board. I concentrate on slowly breathing in and out and staring at the ceiling. I just need a few Zenlike moments to collect myself. Which is no surprise, really. After all, it’s been a vicious couple days.

Hmmm. Maybe that’s not entirely true. My normal work is a lot more vicious. This was more . . . an emotional roller coaster. Usually I’m in and out, running around, darting from one location and tip- off to the next. Not to mention squeezing in that thing they call school during the daylight 205

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hours. But this— immersing myself in a ruse— it was harder than I’d thought. Maybe I should cut those actors a break sometime.

Still, I guess I will be in a way, if I’m getting out of this game once and for all. First things fi rst, though. Get home and see how I can squeeze as much money out of Melissa as possible. I don’t feel like thinking about the money, but I know I need to. For school. As for Jake and his feelings, I need to push them to one side for the moment. I can’t think past confronting Melissa right now. Everything’s going to ride on that, and focusing on what could happen beyond it is simply too complex.

I push myself up a bit in the seat just as a guy sitting across from me cracks open a bottle of cola, which reminds me of the cola contract, and I stare at the soda and think of Ned. The real Ned. Which is more than slightly confusing, because Jake is really my Ned. The Ned who’d been good to me, who’d picked me up when I was hurt, who’d lectured me, who’d given me the whole idea of disguising myself, which led to me being at the retreat to spy on him being Ned. The Ned who made me forget about work all the time and forced me to think about other things. Him, mainly.

I shake my head, dislodging this thought, and then realize, while I’m staring at the soda bottle, that I could really, really go for something similar myself. Not a cola contract (like that’s going to happen!) but a drink of some kind. So, with a sigh, I get up, grab my backpack, and head for the 206

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food court. On the way, my eyes zip through the crowd on autopi lot, just checking to see if there’s anyone worth grabbing a shot of.

It takes me some time to recognize what I’m doing and I stop myself. I don’t need to do this anymore. I’m out, remember? Out, out, out. But I can’t seem to help it. It’s a behavior that is ingrained in me now. So I look at people’s midsec-tions, legs, and shoes and at the fl oor as I go, trying not to care who they are. I don’t even look up to the face of whoever’s wearing that very fl ashy pair of Louboutin boots.

And I’ve just bought my bottle of water and am uncap-ping it, turning to head back toward my gate, when I hear the voice coming from the other side of the baked potato stand to my left and every single hair on my arms stands straight on end.

“Can you put extra bacon bits on that?”

★ ★ ★

“I thought you were cutting back?” I round the cart in seconds. Even with a baseball cap pulled on low for anonymity, I recognize him easily (a paparazzo skill).

“Jo?!” Jake does a double take. “What the . . . ?”

“That’ll be six ninety,” the baked potato guy says, and Jake turns to look at him as if he’s an alien speaking a different language.

“Six ninety? Oh, oh right. Sure.

Here.” He hunts in his

pocket and passes the guy some money.

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“Nice seeing you again . . . Jake.” I fi nally get to use his real name. The baked potato guy raises his head on hearing the cold tone in my voice, and I shoot him a look and grab Jake’s arm. I drag him a few steps over until we’re next to a free table. “Sit,” I tell him, making sure I guide him to the seat that faces the wall. We don’t need any extra attention.

He sits obediently.

“Nice of you to say good- bye.” I sit down as well, then take a long swig of my water.

When I look at Jake again, he’s almost laughing. “I guess I could say the same to you!”

Hmmm, okay. Fair enough. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m going back to LA.”

“Next fl ight?” I raise an eyebrow.

After a second or two, Jake inclines his head slightly.

“You, too?” he fi nally asks me.

I nod slowly as well. It doesn’t look like either of us wants to give too much away too quickly.

A few moments pass in silence. Finally, Jake opens his mouth, closes it, and then hesitates just a little more before he speaks. “But you only got to the retreat a couple days ago. Did you check yourself out? Just now?” I shrug. “Sort of. Did you?”

Jake looks kind of cagey. “I, um, spoke to my dad.” I don’t say anything, opting to just watch him closely. Will he admit to being in on Matthew Hartnett’s plan? Jake looks uncomfortable, but he continues. “Some things came out.” 208

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“Like?”

Jake stabs his overloaded baked potato with his fork but doesn’t eat any. “I told him someone had realized I wasn’t Ned.”

“Which would be me.”

Jake nods but

doesn’t look up. “And then he told me some stuff. Stuff that I didn’t know was going on and didn’t want to hear. So I left.”

My heart starts beating a whole lot faster in my chest.

Wow. Jake really doesn’t know about his dad’s grand plan.

Or at least he didn’t until earlier this eve ning. “What did he tell you?” I ask.

Jake still

doesn’t look up. “He was just . . .

using me.

Again.”

“What did he tell you, Jake?” The words spill out of my mouth too fast.

He looks up at me now, straight into my eyes. “He told me he’d set up even more than me just being there at the retreat. He told me he’d hired some photographer. Some paparazzo! And that they’d been there, at the retreat. As in, shooting me being Ned the whole time. He had a deal with some paper lined up. You know, just once, I thought he could do the right thing by Ned. Just once. But no . . . he’s sick.

He’s a sick man.”

There’s a long silence in which Jake stares everywhere but at me. “So, who do you think it is?” he fi nally says when his eyes move back to meet mine. “It’s got to be one of the 209

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counselors, doesn’t it? Do you think it’s Brad?” He bites his lip for a second, wondering. “It’s just that he made such a big deal about ‘outsiders’ at that circus skills thing, remember? Or what about Seth? Even if that was a real pen he had the other night, the whole thing was kind of weird . . . ,” he says, trailing off.

I stare back at him without moving a muscle. “I don’t think it’s Brad, Jake. And I don’t think it’s Seth, either.”

“But who, then?” he frowns.

I keep staring at him, motionless. Expressionless. Until I realize he’s not going to put two and two together. He’s practically looking straight through me. “You don’t remember, do you?” I blurt out.

“Remember what?”

I pause for a second, wondering if it’s wise to continue, but then I keep going, not caring. I’m sick of all the lies and the game playing. I’m tired of having to think so hard every time I go to open my mouth. I may as well tell the truth for once. And I want to tell Jake the truth. He’s a good guy who doesn’t deserve any of this. “You don’t remember picking me up off the ground. Lecturing me.”

“At the circus skills workshop?” Jake keeps right on frowning.

I sigh. “No, not at the circus skills workshop. In LA. I cracked my elbow. Outside some restaurant. You picked me up. You, not Ned, though I thought you

were Ned at the

time. You asked me where my parents were and I gave you 210

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some lip and . . . well, you were there. You know the rest. I know now it wasn’t Ned. It was you.”

Another beat or two of noncomprehension passes before I can see the realization practically fl ood through every cell in Jake’s body. “Wait. Wait. Are you saying that was you?

That you were the kid I picked up off the pavement?” I take another swig of water. I nod.

“But no . . . it wasn’t . . . you . . . I . . .” And it’s almost too painful waiting for the end result, so I push him toward the truth with a big fat shove in the hope of getting it over and done with quickly. Kind of like tying a loose tooth to a piece of string and a doorknob. “What I’m saying, Jake, is that it’s me. I’m the paparazzo your father has been paying to spy on you.”

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18

“What?!” Jake stands up, almost pushing over the whole

table in the pro cess. “You? That’s who he’s talking about?

That’s who he hired? You?!?!”

“Sit down!” I hiss at him, my eyes shooting daggers.

“Unless you want some other paparazzo spotting you.” Jake sits, his mouth set in a hard line and his eyes not wavering from mine.

I stare back at him wearily. “I take it you remember me now. So, I was right. It was you that night.” He gives me a dirty look and a huff in return. “Yeah, I was there. I just couldn’t see the resemblance. I mean, I thought that was a kid. A funny- looking kid with braces and baggy clothes and . . . I could barely tell you were a girl.” 212

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“Gee, thanks. I’m glad you changed your opinion on that one. Unless you regularly kiss people you can barely tell are girls.”

I get another look for this and shake my head at Jake in reply. “Don’t look at me like that. For a start, you were lying as much as I was, and, anyway, this is exactly the kind of thing you told me to do, isn’t it? You told me I had a ‘distinct advantage’ and that I should use it. Well, here I am. Thanks to your timely advice.”

“I . . .” Jake frowns, then shrugs.

“You can’t deny you told me to take this path.” I point a fi nger and sit forward in my seat. “Don’t get me wrong, you’ve got every right to hate me. Hey, I hate me right now. The editor who’s in cahoots with your dad hates me right now. And I’m pretty sure Brad won’t be lining up to be my best friend, either, when he realizes who I really am.

Feel free to join the crowd. But don’t you sit there and think this has been some easy ride for me. I didn’t want to take this job. I took it because I had to. I need the money for school.

But now . . . well, I don’t know what’s going to happen mon-eywise. I wish I’d never said yes and had kept on doing the paparazzo thing for another six months or even a year, if that’s what it took. I could have handled that. This was obviously just too much.”

Jake stares at me for a while. “What do you mean? That this could have been your last job?”

“Maybe. The money was good. It would have meant 213

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I could at least cut back enough to stop falling asleep in class.”

“Staying awake in class always helps. Do you do that a lot?”

I sigh. “Let’s just say there’s a lot of drool stains on my textbooks.”

“So why didn’t you want to take the job?” I get straight to the point, looking directly into Jake’s eyes. “Because of you, of course.”

“Me?”

I feel my cheeks go hot and distract myself by taking another swig of water from my bottle. “Yes, you.”

“What about me?”

I look away.

“Well?” Jake isn’t going to let it go.

I turn back. “Out of everyone in Hollywood it had to be you. Not even Ned you, but you you.”

“You you? You’re not making a whole lot of sense.”

“I am in my head,” I mutter. What does he need me to do here? Stand up on the table and yell, “Hello! Hot guy! I’m into you!”

Or maybe not, because Jake has a defi nite smirk on his face that looks like he’s enjoying watching me squirm. Just like that smirk he’d given me when we were playing V-ball.

The one he gave me right before we kissed . . .

“So what you’re saying is that it made a difference that it wasn’t Ned you had to take shots of at the retreat, but me?” 214

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I’m trapped. “Look, all I’m saying is that you were . . .

good to me that night. And I haven’t forgotten it. So, um . . .

thanks.” I mumble this last part.

“But you still took photos of me, or Ned me at the retreat?” I’m not sure what to say. I take a deep breath. “I took . . . a few. Before I realized what was going on. And before I realized I was part of something much larger. But I haven’t done anything with them.”