The Art of Getting Stared At (13 page)

“No. This is good.” Isaac leans over to take the pen and paper and breaks our leg tango. “What's your name?”

“Savannah,” she says. “And my brother's name is Ben.”

“Savannah.” The name trips from his tongue like drops of liquid gold. I almost laugh but the tremble in the girl's lower lip stops me.

Isaac turns around and begins to write.

“Thanks.” She gives me an apologetic smile. “If I'd
known I was going to see him, I would've brought something nicer.” She's sweet. And nervous. Clearly overwhelmed by The Voice.

“That's okay.” I want to tell her he's just an ordinary guy who drives a beat-up old van and right now has garlic-laced roast beef breath, but why burst her bubble? A little hero worship never hurt anybody. “He doesn't mind.”

She visibly relaxes.

“Here you go.” He hands over his autograph and digs in his pocket. “Listen, I'm hosting a gig at The Ledge this weekend. For an up-and-coming garage band called Jagged Five. Do you know where The Ledge is?”

She nods so fast I'm worried her neck will snap.

“It's by invitation only.” He hands her four tickets. “It would mean a lot to me if you'd come out and support them.”

Her face turns pink, then red, then a shade of purple I didn't know existed. “Thanks so much. I-um—” She looks down at the tickets in her hand, then up at him again. “Just ... thanks.”

“You're welcome, Savannah. I hope you enjoy the show.”

I expect him to check her out as she walks away—for sure she's his type—but there's nothing remotely predatory in his eyes as he watches her go. Mild curiosity, maybe. He doesn't even look at her ass.

“Pizza.” The waitress slaps a bubbling, meat-saturated pie in front of us and hurries away.

“I hope that's the last interruption today,” he says.

“No kidding.” He has surprised me again. First his brother. Then Savannah. And now the video. “We'll get nothing done if we get interrupted.” We need candid shots of people laughing; we'll never get them if we're being followed.

“I'm not worried about that.” Cheese oozes in a long, fine string as he lifts a slice of pizza. “I'm almost out of tickets.”

A cool wind kicks up as we walk through the gate at the San Francisco Zoo. The morning sun has given way to cloud. “I wish it was brighter,” I say after we check the directory and head for the Primate Discovery Center. Although I'd look stupid wearing a wool fedora in bright sun. And I'd be too hot.

“High cloud is easier to work with,” Isaac says. “Less glare and fewer shadows.”

We pass the zebra enclosure. “You're right.” He's done his homework. In spite of myself, I'm impressed.

We stop by the African savannah and I wait for him to adjust the settings on the camcorder. “Check out the bench to the right,” I murmur. Three girls are looking at an iPhone and giggling. I study them objectively, watching their body language, reading their lips, thinking about how I might use the footage. When Isaac continues filming long after their laughter stops, I say, “Only twenty seconds, remember?”

He grins. “And not just girls, right?” He is not fooled.

When we get to the primate centre, most of the monkeys are inside. There's one outside, grooming itself in the corner. A family of five is waiting for it to do something more exciting, but people waiting doesn't make for good video.

“We could go inside and shoot,” Isaac says, “but I doubt we'd have enough light.”

We head for the chimpanzees. Luckily, two chimps are
out and there's a crowd, including some loud, active school kids. We discuss the pros and cons of various camera angles while surreptitiously studying people.

“Try for those kids there.” I gesture discreetly with my head. “They're the most energetic.”

An hour and a half later, we're done. “We got some great shots,” Isaac says as we sit at the Leaping Lemur Café. After shooting people at the monkey enclosure, we wandered over to Penguin Island and got some wicked good stuff there too.

We watch the playback. The monkeys, the penguins. Lots of laughter. At one point, Isaac pans the group and catches a toddler who drops his hot dog and starts to cry. His older sister laughs.

“Laughter at someone's misfortune,” Isaac says, glancing at me. “You going to use that?”

“It's real.”

“Mean though.”

“But honest. And that counts for something, right?”

I'm staring at the footage, watching the mother comfort her son, when suddenly I'm onscreen. Isaac has panned the crowd, and there I am.

I'm beside a woman with red hair. She's animated, fresh, vibrant. I'm all hat and washed-out face. I look like a shadow beside her. “We'll have to delete that.”

“Why? You look fine.”

Fine. A four-letter word that begins with
f
. Truthfully, I look like shit. I look fugly. “I'm not laughing.”

“You just don't want to be on-camera.”

“It doesn't matter anyway.” And it doesn't. So why the sick, sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach? “Let's go.”

“Sure, okay.” He packs up the camera, stands, and digs into his pocket. “For you.” He waves some tickets at me. The same tickets he gave to Savannah. “I hope you'll come.”

I don't know if it's the sexy smoothness of his voice or the memory of how I looked on-camera, but I don't even pretend to consider it. “I'm moving my stuff to my dad's this weekend. I'll be busy.”

“It would mean a lot to me if you were there.” For a second I think he means it but then I remember Savannah and how he said the exact same thing, right down to the inflection in his voice, to her. “They should call you The Flirt instead of The Voice, you know that?” I tease.

“What?” His eyes widen in mock indignation. “You think I'm flirting with you?”

“Of course you are.” The blush hits me like a tsunami, racing into my cheeks and down my throat. “I see right through you, Isaac Alexander.”

“You do?” The corner of his lip quirks up. “Cool.”

Not going there
. I pluck the tickets from his fingers and stick them in my pocket. “I'll see what I can do.” There's no way I'm going anywhere near The Ledge. All I can think about is how rotten I look. Even with the new hat. My stomach tightens. I can't worry about it. I can't afford to be so stupid. I have a video to produce. A scholarship to try for. That's way more important.

Or it should be.

Saturday morning, I'm floating in an uneasy slumber when a distant
thud, thud
trickles into my consciousness. I bury under
the covers, grapple to hold onto my dream. It was something about a Ferris wheel.

“Sloane!”

The wind is howling. Sounding out my name.

“Sloane. Wake up!”

I bolt upright. Heart racing, I stare blankly at the picture of an olive grove hanging on the wall. Then I remember. I'm at Dad's. We moved my stuff last night.

“You have a phone call,” Kim hollers. “It's your mother.”

I toss aside the pale green duvet, jump out of bed, and grab a sweatshirt from the nearby chair. Why didn't Mom call my cell?

Kim bangs again.

“I'm coming!” I shuffle to the door, stepping over my laptop, my duffle, the file I started on the video. That's when I remember. I left my purse, with my cell, in the other room last night.

I open the door and hold out my hand, peering at Kim through slits that in another hour will become eyes. “Thanks.”

Even half blind, I cannot miss her look of complete derision. “I don't deliver,” she says, holding up empty hands. “And our phone stays in the kitchen. Unless it's an emergency. Which this isn't.” A ghost of a smile flits across her face, or maybe that's the eye slits playing tricks on me. “Unless you count the obvious need for caffeine an emergency.”

Grunting, I follow the smell of dark roast down the hall. Dad's kitchen is like something you'd see on HGTV. Dark cherry cabinets, granite counters, stainless-steel appliances. And the fancy white phone that Never Leaves The Room.

I lift up the receiver. “Hey, Mom.” I'm almost afraid to put it near my face in case it picks up skin sheen. I spot a tub
of pink baby wipes in the corner. Maybe I'm supposed to disinfect the thing when I'm done.

“I've just gone through security,” Mom is saying, “but I couldn't leave without a final goodbye.”

“You're already through security? It can't be that late?” Mom flies out at twelve twenty. I check the clock on the microwave: 11:02! I slept in.

“Clearing security can take forever. I decided to go through early. Kim says you were still sleeping. You must have had a good time last night.”

I take a midnight blue mug from the cupboard and help myself to coffee. “Ella and I watched a movie. And I had trouble sleeping after.”

“Huh.” I hear a faint, metallic voice in the background making a final boarding announcement. “I love you, Sloanie. You know that right?”

“Of course, I know that.” But her words make me feel little-girl weepy so I slug back a mouthful of coffee. And then choke. Damn, the stuff is hot. Fresh though. Gotta love that.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah. Coffee went down the wrong way, that's all.” I open the fridge and root around for coffee cream. I see skim, one percent, almond, rice, and soy milk but no cream.

“I know you have a problem with me leaving but I've made a commitment to the people in Sudan and I need to see it through.”

Her going to Sudan isn't the problem. It's that she's going at the same time my hair is taking a trip too.

“I want you to know that I'm on your side,” Mom says. “That I believe in you. That you're strong enough to handle whatever happens over the next couple of months.”

An irrational rush of fury swamps me. Hot, vicious, and ugly. I stare into the bowels of the fridge and pretend my anger is over the lack of cream, but of course it's not. I'm jealous that Mom has her hair. I'm pissed that her life hasn't changed. I'm scared because mine has. And worried that it could change more. But I can't say that. I don't want to be childish. I don't want her to feel bad. “Sure. I know.”

“Don't forget you see Dr. Paxton in three and a half weeks.”

Almost four weeks but whatever. They called to confirm Thursday. “Yeah, I know.” Four weeks is good as specialists go. But when your hair is falling out, it's four weeks too long.

“I have that stopover in London, but as soon as I get settled, I'll check out email and Skype possibilities, okay?”

After one more “I love you,” we disconnect. I top off my coffee, go into the living room to retrieve my purse, and head back down the hall.

The house is quiet; the thick, white carpet squishes between my toes. I check Ella's room as I go past, but it's empty. She has dance on Saturday, I remember. Dad was taking her this morning. That leaves me alone with Kim.

Sounds like a good time to unpack my stuff and lay low.

When I walk into the guest room, Kim is standing beside the bed, her back to me.

I clear my throat. I'm about to ask, “What are you doing in here?” when she whirls to face me.

“What is this?” The soft voice and nostril flare are dead giveaways. She is seconds from a meltdown. Clearly furious with the stuff I've piled all over the floor.

My question dies in the back of my throat. I lick my lips. “I know. I should have cleaned up last night.” I put my
mug and purse on the desk and retrieve my bra and dirty socks. The laundry basket she provided for me sits empty and waiting.

Kim stares at me like I'm some kind of ghost that's taken form in front of her. A sloppy ghost. She's preppy perfect and wearing the same colours as her living room: brown denim, a V-necked white cashmere sweater, and a chunky beaded necklace in shades of green and blue. I wonder if she's expecting company and wants to be colour coordinated? I squelch a bubble of nervous laughter.