Catch a Falling Star (3 page)

with her face constantly creased with worry for whatever current

cause she’d embraced.

If my mom were a superhero (and she kind of was), she’d be

11

Activist Mom. Not for a specific cause, but more in a massive save-

the-whole-world sort of way. If there was a protest — anti-war,

pro-education, save the yellow spotted tree frog — chances were,

my mother was out hoisting a hand-lettered sign above her head. She

fol owed about a zillion blogs, and since I’d started high school

she often left for a week or two at a time, coming back with pictures

of mounds of protesters curled in sleeping bags on the street, or with

her arm slung around some guy who called himself Harvest and was

protesting an evil chemical used on crops somewhere flat and brown.

It actually drove my older brother, John, kind of nuts. Not me,

though. At least she believed in a better world. Wanted to do

something about it. It was a lot better than some of my friends’

moms who seemed like they only cared about the theme of the

prom or plastering their kids’ walls with SAT words. Sometimes,

if I wasn’t too busy, I went with her. Not in the summer, though.

Dad needed me at the café.

She stopped packing, her eyes falling on me, casually taking in

my denim skirt and fitted white T-shirt, both finds from one of her

consignment raids. “You heading to the café?”

“Yeah.”

She tried to keep her face neutral. “I thought maybe you’d want

to stop by Stagelights? See what Nicky’s up to for the summer?”

Not this again. Nicky had been my teacher at Stagelights, my

former dance studio where I’d spent the better part of my child-

hood. Until I’d quit. My parents knew enough to stop bringing it

up. Or at least they
usually
did.

“It’s hard to believe it’s been over a year since you’ve checked

in with him,” she pushed.

12

“Mom,” I warned.

She fiddled with a pile of blankets in the back of the VW. “It’s

still just so strange not to see you dancing at all.”

“I teach my class at Snow Ridge Senior Living.”

She grinned. “And that’s lovely, even if they mostly can’t move.”

I tried to keep the smile out of my voice. “Don’t mock the

elderly, Mom. It’s rude.”

“Okay, okay, I was just
asking
. No need to make a federal case

out of it.” A huge
clank
downtown sounded through the morning

air, and we both started, our eyes straying to something mechani-

cal we couldn’t see but could suddenly hear. She made a face.

“Ugh, Hollywood. Glad I’m heading out.” She slammed the back

door of the van.

I shot her a look that said, Please, no Hollywood rants. While

I was indifferent to Hollywood, Mom
hated
it. Chloe had learned

not to bring it up at our house when she was over for dinner unless

she wanted a six-part thesis on Hollywood’s waste, its gluttony, its

vapid lack of regard for the
working man
. Of course, Dad would

often remind Mom with his easy smile, “There are plenty of work-

ing men in Hollywood, Rose, honey. And women.”

Sighing, I leaned against the side of the van, peering into its

depths; Mom had it stuffed with supply boxes, blankets, sleeping

bags, and donated clothes.

Hands on her hips, she followed my gaze. “Maybe I shouldn’t

go. The café is so busy right now. And your brother might need

me.” She chewed at her lip.

This was her ritual. She cited reasons for not going, and we

assured her it would be fine if she did. I hugged her. “It’s fine. Go.”

13

Waving out the open window, she drove away down our tree-

lined street.

After seeing Mom off, I headed down our street and crossed to

Pine, maneuvering through a couple of street CLosed signs.

Halfway up Pine, three huge semitrucks loomed giant and white,

coils of wire spilling from them and snaking their way toward

Main Street. A small crowd had gathered near the Pine View

Apartments, everyone whispering and pointing at the trucks.

Among them, I could see Alien Drake standing on the side-

walk, surveying the white trucks the way he studied the night sky.

He’d probably walked Chloe to work at Little Eats that morning.

Even if they’d been together six months, I was still getting used to

him as Chloe’s boyfriend and not just as my best friend. He and I

had, after all, grown up together two houses away and had sleep-

outs in my backyard every summer since we were five, when he

moved to Little from Maui. Watching him standing there slurping

an iced mocha, I tried not to miss the times he used to walk me to

work instead of Chloe.

“Morning, stargazer,” I called to him, and he walked toward

me away from the crowd, waving a greeting. No matter how late

we stayed out watching the sky at night, Alien Drake never looked

tired.

He wore his usual uniform, a black hoodie and Bermuda shorts

that drooped past his round knees. “Loud enough for you?” He

motioned to the trucks with his iced mocha. I could tell Chloe had

made it for him because it had
I LOVE YOU!!!!!
written in Sharpie

across the side.

14

I gave him a quick one-armed hug. “I just sent you some ideas

for the blog.”

“Cool.” He took a long drink of his mocha, draining half of it.

Alien Drake and I wrote a sky blog called
Yesterday’s Sightings

that we’d started last fall as juniors. The blog was mostly the stuff

we talked about while we stargazed. Drake was obsessed with the

possibility of life beyond Earth (hence his nickname), and even

though I’d never fully believed in all his UFO stuff, I didn’t
not

believe in it — if that made sense. Plus, stargazing was fun year-

round even if it was most fun in the summer when the hot days

cooled and we could lie on Alien Drake’s roof and “space out.”

Drake was way into the science versus myth side of it, so we

learned stuff about aliens and space, but mostly it was just nice to

sprawl out on his roof or a field somewhere, the sky an onyx, jew-

eled sheet above us. There was nothing quite like the stars to

remind me how small I was compared to the vast black sky and,

somehow, that nightly reminder relaxed me.

“Speaking of alien life . . .” I nudged Alien Drake and nodded

toward the trucks. “We’ve been invaded.”

“Definitely beings from another planet.” Even with his wide

face, his smile seemed barely to fit it. Alien Drake credited his

Hawaiian genes with the fact that he was almost always relaxed

and happy. He was like a people version of a therapy dog. Perfect

for Chloe. Who often needed relaxing. And therapy. It also made

him the world’s best friend. He drained his mocha. “You got big

plans today? Working?”

“I’m on sandwich duty today.”

15

“Exciting.”

“Yes, very exciting. Bread. Turkey. Tomatoes. Lettuce. It’s a

science.” He knew, maybe more than anyone, how much I loved

working at Little Eats. And I especially loved being on sandwich

duty, the steady rhythm of assembly. Preparing large quantities of

food was its own sort of meditation.

“Well, I’m heading to the river.” He popped the plastic lid off

the mocha and fished out an ice cube to chew on. “You should

come out after you finish your scientific duties.”

I quirked a half smile. “Your girlfriend is dragging me in search

of the infamous Adam Jakes.”

He raised his bushy eyebrows. “You going to help her raid his

cooler for more ice?”

“I’m just there for support. She’ll need me to prop her up when

she faints from sheer amazement at his otherworldly presence.” I

rolled my eyes, knowing I was standing next to perhaps the one

person who cared even less than I did about celebrities.

His smile slackened, barely noticeable. “Carter Moon:

Celebrity Support. You should have T-shirts made. Even better,

you should come to the river.”

We stood for a minute, watching the idling trucks. I couldn’t

believe I’d agreed to go stand around staring at a film set when I

could be going to the river. Which is what I really wanted to do.

I wanted to sit in a pool of sunlight and read, my feet in the green

water.

“For the record,” he said, “I’m taking it personally.” His eyes

scanned a group of guys hauling equipment from the back of one

of the trucks. “Your choosing Chloe over me.”

16

I knew he was kidding, but I couldn’t help the snag in my belly.

I didn’t tell him I could pretty much say the same thing to him.

Not that Alien Drake and I could ever be more than friends. Chloe

knew this, which was why I could be a third wheel with them.

Alien Drake and I had tried that once in the winter of eighth grade,

a kiss on his roof bundled under his mom’s old paisley bedspread as

we watched the sky. It had been a total disaster that ended in a fit

of giggles (me) and a revolted body spasm (him) that almost pitched

him off the roof. Alien Drake was like a brother to me. A brother

who didn’t get defensive all the time.

Alien Drake rattled the ice in his cup. “Okay, sandwich scien-

tist. I’m off, then. Text me if you change your mind and you decide

to ditch Chloe and do something for yourself for once. Otherwise,

see you tonight.” Waving, he headed back up the street, leaving me

staring into the mess Hollywood was currently making of my town.

To Hollywood’s credit, they seemed to work a long day. When I

got to Little Eats at eight, they’d already staked out a side street

nearby for some filming and had built a wire-infested, camera-

ridden den of Christmas cheer: heaps of fake snow, sparkly garland

draped in windows, a horse harnessed with a cheery Christmas

wreath around its sweltering neck. People in shorts and T-shirts

hurried about, and I caught glimpses of several actors bundled in

wool coats and boots.

No sign of Adam Jakes, though.

All morning, Chloe kept casting her distracted gaze toward

the bustle down the street until finally, after three dropped salads,

17

Dad threw her into the kitchen on dish duty and pulled me off

sandwiches to take her place out front. We were busier than usual,

probably because people had come downtown to see the film set,

and I did my best to make up for Chloe’s sudden absence from the

patio. By noon, I was sweaty from racing around refilling iced teas

and listening to the general buzz about the “movie people.”

During a lull, I leaned against our fence and studied the trailer

parked along the street across from us where the film crew seemed

to go to get food, emerging with salads, drinks, and other snacks.

A man who must have been an actor in the film banged out the

trailer door, holding a can of Coke, wearing head-to-toe winter

wool as if it were thirty degrees out.

Did it ever throw them off, jumping so quickly between fan-

tasy and reality?

After my shift ended at three, Chloe almost pulled my arm

out of its socket dragging me down to the set. At the roped-off

corner of the side street leading to Main, we could see crew mem-

bers moving hurriedly about, actors standing around in Christmas

wear, and a few curious onlookers hanging around the edge of the

rope like new swimmers. A couple of scruffy-looking guys with

cameras slung around their necks checked their iPhones or smoked

cigarettes.

“Paparazzi,”
Chloe whispered. I could almost hear her heart

hammering in excitement.

We waited.

And waited. For what seemed like an hour. The crowd around

us ebbed and flowed as people grew weary and left, and then new

onlookers joined the line. All I could think about was how good

18

the river would feel after a day like this, the cool water tingling my

tired feet.

“Oh my God!” Chloe shrieked. “It’s
him
,” she hissed, marking

my arm with her viselike fingers. She pointed spastically, her body

having some sort of celebrity-related seizure.

The cameras all lifted in unison. The bystanders took a collec-

tive intake of breath.

And, yes. There he was, emerging from the door of a shop, in

a full wool coat, designer jeans tucked into Sorels, his hair the

same honeyed muss as in all those pictures on Chloe’s wall, his

eyes bright even from a hundred feet away.

Adam Jakes.

He turned toward us and gave a sort of half wave, half shrug.

Chloe let out the kind of squeal a five-year-old makes on Christmas

morning and tried to get the zoom function to work on her iPhone.

I studied him as he talked with the man Chloe claimed was his

manager, the British Pisces. Adam Jakes frowned at something

Parker Hill was saying and gave a little neck roll like he was prep-

ping for a boxing match.

“We love you, Adam!” screeched a woman far too old to be

screeching at teen actors; she leaned into the rope, waving madly.

Ignoring her, Adam Jakes disappeared back into the shop, like