Catch a Falling Star (14 page)

off the edges.” She reached out and fingered the end of my pony-

tail. “Get rid of your split ends, that sort of thing.” She rubbed her

hands together, her nails white-tipped. “Where’s your room?”

I held up my hands, feeling as though I needed to defend myself.

“I’m really fine. I’m not much of a makeup girl, and I don’t really

own that many clothes.”

Jewel picked up the duffel. “Honey, you’re now in major maga-

zines, dissected online. People can be brutal. Let’s just spruce you

up a bit. We’re not talking mega-makeover.” There was that full-

body eye scan again. “Just punch you up a bit, a more
defined
version

of you, that’s all. Nothing fancy. Besides, we have Adam’s image to

consider.” Her subtext was clear.
And you’d hurt that image with that

split-ended head of yours.

We headed upstairs.

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After two hours, my room looked like the dressing room of an

understaffed bargain store. Every inch of space had been taken over

with various outfits Jewel would hang up or drape (
yes
) or toss in a

heap (
don’t wear — ever
). “Oooooh, this is cute,” she had exclaimed,

yanking out a short-sleeved peasant blouse I’d worn in a dance my

sophomore year, or saying things like, “Um, don’t wear this,” about

an olive canvas skirt I’d always kind of liked. “You’re not a Girl

Scout.” Every shirt, skirt, pair of pants or shorts, tank top, bra,

underwear, and pajama had been yeaed or nayed. Mostly nayed.

“Some great pieces,” she kept mumbling, her circles spinning.

“The key is pairing them with each other. Like this,” she said,

holding up a tight black T-shirt, “with this.” She held up a flowing

paisley jersey skirt. “But not with jeans. Boooooring.” She hooked

the skirt to the shirt and looped the shirt hanger over my bedpost.

My math final had been easier than this.

“Now, makeup.” She unzipped her duffel and brought out a

tackle box. “The key is to apply fresh, glowing makeup, so you

brighten without looking painted. It’s summer and it’s hot, so

nothing complicated.” Dozens of tubes, vials, brushes, and creams

emerged, spilling onto the hardwood floor. She unfolded a porta-

ble table and set everything onto it.

This wasn’t complicated?

Fifteen minutes later, she held up a mirror. “You have great skin,”

she told me, capping a gloss and leaning back to admire her work.

“Thank you,” I breathed. I had to admit, I looked positively

dewy. “How did you, um, get my cheeks to do that?”

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She handed me a tube. “Apply right at the end. So easy and

the results are amazing.” She proceeded to set out new tubes of the

various things she’d applied and the paper she’d filled out along

the way to show me how to do it myself. I would never be able to

do this myself, but I might get close.

“If you two plan to go to a club or something, just call me. I’ll

show you how to manage the look for nighttime.” She folded up the

table, tucking it back in the duffel.

A club? “We don’t really have clubs in Little.”

She paused, frowning. “Well, for whatever nighttime spots

you have. And, here.” She handed me a business card. “We sched-

uled your hair for eleven this morning because we know Adam has

the signing at two. Just call Parker and he’ll send a car.”

I took the card, thanking her again. She packed everything up

and heaved the duffel over her shoulder. It probably weighed more

than she did. She stepped back, studying me. “You’re adorable. It’s

about time he picked a cutie like you.”

Blushing, I held the mirror back up, my dewy face staring back.

“Carter?” Adam squinted at me. Huddled with me at a table in the

back of Little Eats, he frowned. “You look a bit shaky.”

Shaky didn’t come close.

Adam gave me a sympathetic smile.

About an hour ago, we had stopped in for an iced coffee after

an afternoon of signing autographs outside Mountain Books and,

somehow, the café had suddenly flooded with people. At first,

Adam kept signing autographs at a back table while I made us iced

106

coffees, but soon the crush of Adam admirers became too much

for Dad. He’d turned the lights off and helped Mik wave everyone

out, closing the café early. It had taken twenty minutes to clear out

the last starry-eyed fan, and my ears pulsed with the sound of

Adam’s admirers. Seriously, twelve-year-old girls could let out

sounds that were just not human. Now, Mik stood guard at the

door, his arms two tree trunks crossed across his chest, but I could

still see them out there, milling around like sharks.

I blinked at Adam. “How many autographs did you sign? Like,

a thousand?” I ran my finger over the sweating glass of my empty

iced coffee. Adam’s was still full, the ice melted. He hadn’t had a

minute to take a sip.

“Maybe a couple of hundred.” He had a thin sheen of sweat on

his forehead. He told me he’d been up since four a.m. for shooting,

but I couldn’t tell. “That wasn’t too bad.” He glanced at his sweaty,

watery drink. “Could I get you to make me a fresh one of these?”

He disappeared toward the bathroom.

“Please,”
I muttered, rolling my eyes, but grabbed his drink and

crossed behind the counter. I made a double shot of espresso,

dumped in some nonfat milk, and topped it with ice, giving it a

quick stir with a butter knife. I had it on the table before he

returned from the bathroom, looking damp, like he’d splashed

water on his face.

He sat, taking a long drink. “So good, thanks.”

I slipped into the seat across from him. He’d written his name

hundreds
of times. Written in ink. On napkins. On head shots. In

little books people had in their bags. “What do you think people do

with them?” I asked him.

107

He took another long drink, finishing most of it. “I think it

depends on the person. Some people collect them. I think others

just end up losing them, tossing them. I think it’s more the whole

ability to say, ‘Look what I got. Look where I was.’” He chewed a

piece of ice, staring out the window at the low branch of the maple

in the side yard, its green leaves shivery with an unfelt breeze.

“Maybe it makes people feel like they’ve recorded something in

their life, a memory or something.”

I wiped at the ring of water his glass had left on the blond table

surface. I did notice that tendency in people even in smaller

things — an invite to a party, the good news of a friend, an inside

joke at work. All these ways of time-stamping our inclusion in the

world, our need to say, I was there. I was part of something bigger

than me. “Does it get old?”

He brushed at a stray lock of hair, pushing it out of his eyes and

back onto the tousled top of his head. “Sometimes I wish I could just

go to the grocery store and pick up a snack or something.” He gri-

maced. “Of course, people hate that. Poor movie star wants a normal

life, blah blah blah.” He gave a wave of his hand. “People don’t get it.”

I shook my head. “Those people didn’t just see you get mauled

by that pack of screaming girls.”

“True.” He laughed, a low, sweet laugh I hadn’t heard before.

The sound of it made me smile. “Besides, sometimes living in

a small town, you just want to go to the grocery store without

running into someone who knows you, who wants to talk to you.

I mean, they’re not clamoring for my autograph, but they’re still

connecting. Connecting takes energy. And it’s nothing against that

108

specific person. Sometimes, you just don’t want to connect all the

time. Or at least I don’t.” I followed Adam’s gaze where it had

returned to outside, noticing a couple of photographers, one kneel-

ing under the tree, his lens angled our direction. “Oh, give me a

break.” I pulled the shade.

Adam caught me lightly by the wrist. “Hey, I meant to ask you,

did Parker make sure Jewel found you today?”

“Can’t you tell?” I teased, taking a step back, giving him a better

view of my ensemble, the black T-shirt and jersey skirt from Jewel’s

workshop this morning. I’d even gotten a thumbs-up from Chloe

earlier when I’d texted her a picture after my hair appointment.

His eyes moved over me, his face brightening. “You look fan-

tastic. She does good work.”

Was that compliment for me or Jewel? “Thanks.” I tucked my

newly glossed and trimmed hair behind my ears, pretty sure any

dew that remained on my face after the afternoon we’d had was

sweat.

The bell on the door jingled. Mik let Alien Drake and Chloe

into the café, waving off a few brave girls attempting to talk their

way inside, a tiny flock of bright birds, each in a different version

of the same short shorts and halter top ensemble.

Chloe spotted me and widened her eyes. “I don’t act like that,

do I?” she asked, hooking a thumb in the direction of the girls wig-

gling like puppies out front.

Alien Drake slipped an arm around her. “Well —”

“Of course not,” I assured her. “Hey.” I smiled in Drake’s direc-

tion. “Come meet Adam. Adam, this is Drake.”

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Alien Drake sauntered over, his face round and smiling, a

black backpack slung over his shoulder. “Loved you in that teen

Bond knockoff.”

Adam stood and gave Drake a friendly nod. “Five bucks if you

can remember my character’s name.”

Alien Drake’s grin widened. “Sorry, just being polite.”

Adam laughed. “Don’t worry, I can’t remember my character’s

name, either.” He parked himself back in the chair.

“Erik Simon!” Chloe piped up, lacing her small fingers through

Alien Drake’s. She flipped her hair and smiled sheepishly at them.

“What can I say? I’m a fan.”

“Aw, thanks, Chloe.” Adam grinned at her.

She flushed to her ears, dipping her head, eyes averted.

Alien Drake noticed, frowning, and he shifted awkwardly

from foot to foot. “Is it cool if we grab sandwiches here?” he asked

me. Then he tilted his head, his eyes scrutinizing me. “Did you cut

your hair?”

“Carter got a makeover,” Chloe gushed. “Doesn’t she look

amazing?”

Alien Drake’s eyes flicked over me. “I liked your hair before.”

“Don’t listen to him. He has boy vision. It looks great,” Chloe

said to me.

I flashed her a weak smile as I crossed to the cold case. “So,

sandwiches, right? We probably have some premades left.” Erasing

Today’s Special Sandwich
on the whiteboard, I wrote:

Dad —  took sandwiches and chips for dinner. 

Going to Drake’s! xo —  C

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I grabbed three pesto chicken sandwiches wrapped in white

paper and a couple bags of chips from the basket next to the case.

“I’ll hold these for later if you want,” I told Alien Drake.

Outside, the crowds had thinned.

“You coming tonight?” Chloe asked Adam, still having trouble

meeting his eyes.

Adam gave me a sideways look. “What’s tonight?” We didn’t

have anything in the script today except the autograph signing.

“We’re stargazing.” I hadn’t asked him because I couldn’t imag-

ine him wanting to sit on Alien Drake’s roof with a sandwich and

a bag of Doritos. Not very glamorous. Also, Parker had insisted,

Stick to the script. “We go almost every night. You know, actual

stars. We like to sit on Alien Drake’s roof with a picnic and talk

until it gets dark enough.”

“
Alien
Drake?” Adam asked.

Chloe stared up at Alien Drake, her face awash with affection.

“We’ve been calling him that since forever because he’s obsessed

with aliens.”

Alien Drake winced. “I’m not
obsessed
.” He gave Adam a

funny look. “Watching the stars with a star. Yeah, that’s going in

the blog.”

I rushed to explain. “Drake and I write a blog about the sky.

Stars, comets . . . the possibility of life on other planets. It’s called

Yesterday’s Sightings
.”

“A blog about aliens?” Adam looked interested. “I was in an

alien movie once.”

“It’s about a lot of things with the sky,” I explained. “Sometimes

it’s about aliens.”

111

“More like the possibility of aliens, of something
other
than us,

you know, out there.” Alien Drake’s voice had gone sort of low and

quiet. Was it just me or did he seem nervous? It wasn’t likely that

he would be — Alien Drake cared less about Hollywood than I

did — but normally you couldn’t shut him up about our blog or

his extraterrestrial theories. Was it possible even he was a little

starstruck?

“So you believe in the
possibility
of aliens?” Adam clarified.

Alien Drake opened his backpack and started packing the

sandwiches and chips I’d set on the counter. “I believe in the pos-

sibility of a lot of things. Believing something is
possible
is not the

same thing as believing in it.”

Adam seemed to be genuinely trying to understand. “I guess I