Just Like Me, Only Better (5 page)

“Why did you want to meet here rather than in L.A.?” I asked.

He rolled his eyes. “In L.A. the paparazzi are everywhere. Except, it’s not just the paparazzi anymore. Any guy with a camera phone can take a snapshot and sell it to the tabloids for one of those ‘Stars Are Just Like Us’ spreads.”

“Are stars really just like the rest of us?” I asked.

He laughed and was about to say something but thought better of it.

“So what if someone took my picture in a restaurant?” I asked. “It’s happened before. I just tell them that I’m not Haley Rush. It’s no big deal.”

He smiled. “But I don’t want you telling people you’re not Haley Rush.”

“Why don’t you just tell me what this is about?”

He shook his head and tapped his finger on the legal document.

“I won’t do nude scenes,” I blurted.

His eyes bugged out. “What?”

“Isn’t that what you want me for? Because Haley’s too big a star to take off her clothes?”

“I don’t want you to be in her
movies
!” He didn’t need to say it like that: as if it were so ridiculous to think that someone might pay me to take off my clothes.

He held up the paper. “All this says is that you won’t tell anyone anything you learn about Haley Rush.”

I took the sheet. “And what if I do?”

He folded his arms. “Then we sue you for everything you’re worth. Seize all your assets. Which sounds bad, I know, but it’s really standard for anyone who works with the stars—the nannies, the assistants, the hair and makeup people. It’s to prevent them from selling their stories to the press. As long as you keep your nose clean, there’s no danger to you whatsoever.”

I brightened. “You got a pen?”

He blinked with surprise at my sudden willingness and pulled a black pen out of his pocket. I held back my Sharpie jokes.

When I handed him the signed document, he said, “That was easy.”

I grinned. “I don’t have any assets. So I’ve got nothing to lose.”

He checked my signature, nodded, and put the paper in a file. Then he crossed his hands on the table in front of him, leaned forward and announced, “I want you to be Haley’s double.”

“But you just said—”

“Not in the movies. In real life.”

“I don’t follow.” The movies sounded like more fun than real life.

“I will pay you to pretend to be Haley. In public. For very short, tiny, little bits of time. At least to start.”

The more he said, the less this made sense. “But . . . why?”

The waitress came with the food. Jay said, “I asked for dressing on the side,” and handed back the plate.

I let my Caesar wrap sit.

He cleared his throat. “Haley’s fame has exploded in the last year. You can’t walk past a newsstand or turn on the television without seeing her face.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“Haley wants to be available to her fans—she loves her fans, they’re the ones who’ve made her who she is. And they want to know about her, which means she has to stay in the public eye. But at the same time—and here’s the conflict—she needs the time and space to allow her creativity to flourish.”

“So, she writes her own music?”

He blinked several times, in quick succession. “Haley is very involved in all aspects of her career.” He licked his lips. “But the point is, Haley needs downtime. Who doesn’t? Sometimes it would work better for her—better for everyone—if someone else smiled for the cameras and signed the autographs.”

I tried to imagine myself smiling and signing. This was surreal.

He motioned to my food. “Don’t wait for me.”

I cut my Caesar wrap in half: now I was set for dinner. Did Haley bring home restaurant leftovers? Somehow, I doubted it.

I said, “Well, Haley’s hardly the only starlet getting her picture in magazines.”

“She’s not a starlet. She’s a star.”

I nibbled on a fry and kept my expression neutral. The grease and salt calmed me, somehow.

“You’d just be giving people what they want,” Jay said. “Casual shots of Haley looking wholesome and happy.”

I reached for the ketchup. “Is Haley wholesome and happy?”

He hesitated for just a moment. “Fundamentally she is. But she’s just . . . under a lot of stress.”

“Where would I go on these outings?”

“For coffee, shopping, manicures—the usual stuff.” It didn’t sound like the usual stuff of my life, but aside from Ben, my life was pretty crappy.

“And you’d pay for all of these expenses,” I clarified.

“Of course. Plus you’d be well compensated: a hundred dollars an hour.”

I was so stunned that I barely even noticed the waitress delivering Jay’s salad. A hundred dollars an hour to go shopping? I could get my computer fixed and buy Ben a bike. Maybe I could even save up enough money to move out of Deborah Mott’s backyard.

“So, what do you say?” he asked.

I nodded, too overwhelmed to speak.

He pulled out his BlackBerry. “Let’s set up a time for you to meet Haley. Tomorrow’s Friday. How does two o’clock sound?”

I shook my head. “My son gets out of school at three.”

He froze. “You didn’t mention a son.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“This complicates things.”

“I have shared custody!” I said. (A hundred dollars an hour—!) “I’m free every other weekend, plus Wednesdays and Thursdays. And also, I’m available whenever he’s in school.”

“You cannot tell anybody about this job,” he said. “Anybody.”

“But what am I supposed to tell people?”

He poked at his salad. “Whatever you want. What is it you do, again?”

“I’m a substitute teacher.”

He glared at his bowl of greens. “I think they just took off the top layer, with the most dressing, and stuck some fresh lettuce on it.” He returned his attention to me. “So say you’re a private tutor. To some Hollywood executive—nobody famous, just some guy with a lot of money. And his kid needs extra help, and you sent your resume into an agency in L.A. because you figured the money would be better than here.”

“That’s very creative,” I said. (Nicer, I thought, than saying, “You’re a really good liar.”)

“It’s a creative business,” he said without irony. He put down his fork, salad still untouched, and punched the BlackBerry with his thumb. “A week from Monday work?”

“As long is it’s early. Say, between ten and one. There’s traffic . . .”

“Eleven o’clock.” He pushed a few more buttons and then slid the gizmo into his pocket. “I’ll have Haley’s assistant call you with directions.”

 

 

 

I
ran into Ken Drucker on Friday night as Ben and I were checking out a pile of videos and DVDs at Morningside Video.

“
Kitty and the Katz
, huh?” He stuck his hands into the pockets of his Columbia Polartec fleece and leaned over to get a better view of the cover. “My boys watch that sometimes.”

“It’s a girl show. Mommy picked it out,” Ben said, lest he be mistaken for a pansy. “We got
Ninja Turtles
, too.”

“Where are your boys?” I asked Ken to avoid talking about Haley’s show.

“Just dropped them at Pamela’s.”

Pamela Drucker left her family the year before Hank walked out. Ken and their three boys, Brice, Powell, and Arches, had spent spring break camping in the Sierras. When they returned, Pamela was gone, claiming she needed some time alone. For Pamela, “alone” meant sharing a ten-thousand-square-foot house in Newport Beach with an “older gentleman” who owned a Hyundai dealership.

“Well, at least this gives you some time to relax,” I told Ken. If the rumors were true (and they usually were), Pamela only saw her boys every couple of months for the first year; now Ken drove them to Newport Beach every other weekend.

Ken shrugged. “I figure I’ll just, you know, watch a movie tonight, maybe listen to my John Denver CD’s. Then tomorrow morning I’ll head up to Mount San Jacinto, build a snow cave if the snow pack’s heavy enough, and come back on Sunday.”

“That sounds fun,” I said with no conviction whatsoever.

“You like camping?” he asked.

“It’s been a while,” I said. “I like hiking.” (That was just like walking, right?)

“Yeah?” His light eyes brightened. “Where do you like to go?”

“Um . . . in the woods?” I dropped my gaze to Ken’s brown hiking boots, which he swapped for Teva sandals in the summer.

“Ha,” he said without actually laughing. “Funny.”

If possible, Ken was even less interested in me than I was in him.

 

 

Ben and I made a deal. He could watch
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles
until eight o’clock, at which point he would go to bed
with no argument whatsoever
, and I could begin my Haley Rush marathon. It wasn’t the first time we’d made this kind of a bargain. I couldn’t afford cable, and my television reception was so lousy that we rented or borrowed (thank you, Nina) DVDs and videos with exhausting regularity.

Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on your perspective), both of the
Ninja Turtles
videos were defective, so we launched straight into our Haley Rush marathon. In addition to selected
Kitty and the Katz
episodes, I’d rented
Beverly Hills Bling
, a made-for-TV romantic comedy starring Haley and Brady Ellis. That one would have to wait until Ben was asleep.

I put the first
Kitty and the Katz
DVD into the machine and sat on the couch next to Ben, who snuggled against me like a puppy, his head warm underneath my chin. This was nice.

Some bubblegum music began to play, and Haley appeared on the screen in hip huggers and a halter top, a guitar slung over her shoulder.

“She looks like you, Mommy! Mommy, she looks like you!”

Ben’s head shot up, whacking against my chin. “Ow!”

“Sorry, Mommy—Mommy, are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Benji.” My teeth hurt. “Let’s just watch, okay?”

He snuggled back under my aching chin, holding his position even as he continued to yell at the screen: “That’s so funny! Everyone says she looks like you, and she does! Do you think there’s anyone on TV who looks like me? ’Cause it would be so funny if that kid were on a show with this lady! It would be just like you and me being on TV!”

“Yeah, funny. Benji, let’s watch.”

A young man joined Haley on the screen. He wore a white medical coat, a stethoscope dangling from his neck. His hair was sandy-colored and curly, his glasses thick and dark. This would be the Katz, who, according to the DVD liner, was played by an actor named Jason Price.

“Tomorrow can we go back to the video store?” Ben asked. “And get a different
Ninja Turtles
video?”

“Yes.
Shh
.”

Without meaning to, I thought:
Next week I’ll be alone and I can watch in peace.
And then I thought:
No, wait—Hank had him for two weeks in a row, which means I get him for two weeks.
And then I felt really, really guilty for wishing I were alone.

I kissed Ben’s blond head. “I love you, buddy.”

By the time eight o’clock rolled around, I was an expert on
Kitty and the Katz
, the Betwixt Channel show that had catapulted Haley Rush to fame. Haley played Kitty Kilpatrick, a perky farm girl who moves to California to attend medical school. Her first week in Los Angeles, Kitty goes to a restaurant with some fellow students, all of whom order cheeseburgers and root beer, and, what do you know? It’s karaoke night! Modest, down-to-earth Kitty wouldn’t have even gone up on the stage to sing, but everyone else, with the exception of sober, eye-on-the-ball Jason Katz, takes a turn at the microphone, one performer more awful than the next, and Kitty doesn’t want to seem like a poor sport.

Kitty can actually sing! (Apparently, her astonished fellow med students missed the show’s opening credits.) She acts like it is nothing, only to confess later on to her new BFF, zany red-headed Liza (who is on a fast track to become a heart surgeon), that she once dreamed of a career in music, but . . .

But, guess what? It is that simple! When Kitty and Liza get up to leave the restaurant (not a bar—they are very clear about that), a hardened punk girl in black leather (who in real life would never be caught dead watching karaoke) saunters over.

As luck would have it, the punk girl (whose name is Cassandra) is in a band (which isn’t punk at all) and the band is looking for a singer.