Just One Wish (5 page)

I put the DVD into the laptop and watched a few minutes of an episode—mostly ignoring the story and looking at the background. The sheriff’s men rode horses over hills, and there was also a river. I hadn’t seen a river anywhere near the studio. Had the TV show makers faked the river? Was that possible? I’d just have to hope the cast was working at the set right now—either that or that the locals knew where the outdoor location was.

My attention, however, kept leaving the background and resting on Robin Hood. Well, how could I help staring at him? They had all those close-up shots. Shots that showed his square jaw, penetrating brown eyes, and impossible smirk. His hair hung to his shoulders in messy blond waves, and he even made that ridiculous feathered hat look good.

He moved effortlessly, frozen in time and space on the laptop, but he was really out there somewhere right now. I wondered what he was doing this very instant.

Eventually I tore my attention away from his grin, skipped to the end of the episode, and wrote down all the names of the people it listed working on the set. From the director, Dean Powell, all the way down to the best boy—I had no idea what that actually was. Ditto for the gaffer. I always thought a gaffer was a really old guy, but apparently not.

I had hoped to memorize some of the names so when I got to the set I’d seem like someone who belonged, but the sheer number of them overwhelmed me. What did all of these people do? You could invade a country with fewer people.

I ran an internet search on Dean Powell so I’d be able to recognize him if I saw him. I came up with an interview and a picture of a man who, despite his casual attire and shoulder-length hair, still managed to seem stern, temperamental, and not at all like the sort who would appreciate two teenage girls sneaking onto his set. I didn’t share this impression with Madison, though.

As I studied studio links, another thing became apparent: Movie people had a language all their own. I repeated the vocabulary out loud:
dailies, dolly, dubbing, dunning
. . . committing the words to memory in a way that would have amazed my Spanish teacher.

At the same time, I sifted through ideas to get onto the set. I could pretend to be a reporter from a teen magazine or perhaps someone delivering something for wardrobe, maybe an agent’s assistant. I shut my eyes trying to consider all the possibilities. The hum of the wheels mixed in with my thoughts, turning and turning, and the next thing I knew it was five-thirty and Madison had pulled into a gas station in Burbank. The studio was just down the road.

 

While Madison filled up the car, I walked into the convenience store and bought drinks. I stood at the cash register, still trying to shake off the last dull feelings of sleep, and eyed over the elderly clerk. I could tell he was lonely.

Sometimes being able to read people makes me sad. At first it upset me to realize how many people are, at heart, selfish. Now I take that in stride, but people’s loneliness still gets to me.

I knew he wouldn’t mind talking to me, though. All I’d have to do was ask and he would tell me everything he knew about the studio.

Trying to sound like a tourist, I asked, “Do they give tours of that studio down the street?”

He shook his head. “Not when they’re shooting the series. You could check with them in the summer, though.”

It hadn’t even occurred to me that they might not be filming now, and I breathed a sigh of relief. What would I have done if they’d been on hiatus?

I fingered the gum sitting by the register as though trying to decide on a flavor. “They’re filming right now, this very minute?”

“Nah, I’m sure they’re done for the day. They always quit early when the Lakers have a basketball game, what with Mr. Powell being a big fan, and all.” He took the pack of gum from my hands and ran it across the scanner. “The studio even has its own box at the sports arena. A luxury suite. One of the perks of fame.”

I handed him my money. “They all go up there?”

He opened the register and nodded. “
Entertainment Tonight
is always reporting on who took who there. That guy who plays Robin Hood is a regular.”

“Really?” The word came out of my mouth too eager, and the man chuckled at me.

“Yeah, the young ones always go for him. The older ladies take a liking to the Sheriff of Nottingham.” He gave me the change. “I should have been an actor. Think of the money I wasted on cologne, when all along I just had to spout something off on TV with an English accent.”

He would have said more, but I’d picked up my stuff and was already moving to the door. “Thanks,” I called back, then hurried across the parking lot to the van.

It meant we didn’t have to wait until tomorrow. We could try and find him tonight. The thought made me feel both nervous and keyed up. I could hardly sit still. Could I do this? I had to, didn’t I? Why else had I come all this way?

While we ate a rushed dinner, I used MapQuest to get directions for the Staples Sports Center in LA.

“It’s worth a try,” I said, my mind clicking through options, processing a plan.

“Where are we going to get tickets?” Madison asked. “I didn’t bring a lot of money.”

I popped a piece of sandwich into my mouth and didn’t answer.

Madison lowered the apple she was eating, her face tense. She sent me an incredulous look. “You want to sneak into the game, don’t you?”

“No. We’ll wait until after halftime to show up. By that time security isn’t so tight.”

Madison relaxed enough to take another bite of her apple. “Okay, that might work.”

“Of course, we’ll still have to sneak into the box.”

She gripped her apple. “My stomach suddenly hurts.”

“You said you wanted to come with me,” I reminded her.

“Yeah, because I thought I could stop you from doing something stupid. I’m beginning to wonder if that’s possible.”

I fingered the crust of my sandwich and didn’t say anything. It did seem stupid, but what did it matter if it didn’t work? We wouldn’t be any worse off than we were now. And it might work. Really, all of that positive thinking stuff I’ve read must be having an effect on me.

I smiled at Madison to show her I was confident. “It will be fine. We’ll just need to stop at a thrift shop first and see if we can pick up something that looks like a uniform. Maybe some smocks or vests.” I grabbed the laptop again and went back to the MapQuest site.

She didn’t stop clutching her apple. “You know, all of this subterfuge is bad karma. It will come back to bite you someday. And even if it doesn’t,” she said, anticipating my total lack of worry in the karma department, “our parents will kill us if we get arrested.”

“We’re not going to get arrested. God owes me that much.”

Madison scooted over and looked at the computer screen, where I’d pulled up a listing of secondhand stores. “I thought you didn’t believe in God anymore.”

“I never said that. I said I wasn’t speaking to him anymore.”

Madison let out a sigh. “Oh, great. We’re about to do something risky, and you’re going to tick off God beforehand.” Madison turned her face upward and called, “She doesn’t mean it.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said. “When you’re in jail and I’m not, we’ll see who’s rolling their eyes.”

I handed Madison the laptop and started the van. “There’s a Goodwill a couple miles away.”

Chapter
4

The problem with internet directions is that they’re not always clear. That is the only reason it took us half an hour to get to the store and not, as Madison claimed, because I drive too fast, pass by streets, and then recklessly make U-turns in the middle of four lanes of traffic. But we got there safely which, I told Madison, proved I had not ticked off God after all.

We bought a couple pairs of black pants and white buttoned-down shirts, which is pretty much a typical waiter uniform. Then we went to a beauty supply store for the crowning touch: hairnets. Hairnets scream food service, because no sane person would wear them otherwise. We changed at a McDonald’s, drove to LA, and made it to the Staples Center as halftime ended.

I put money, keys, and my picture of Jeremy into my pocket, then we shoved our purses underneath the seats to discourage thieves. We couldn’t carry anything with us, because we had to look like we were working at one of the food booths.

We hurried across the parking lot and strode into the building. None of the ushers questioned us. That part, at least, couldn’t have been easier. We weaved in and out of the crowds who were returning to their seats, until we found a food booth. I bought two bags of popcorn, three hot dogs, a pretzel, and six drinks. They gave us a flat to carry the drinks in, but it was still enough food that both our hands were full. That was the important thing.

As we walked away, I told Madison, “Now we’ve just got to find the right box.”

We would know it was the right one because any box the stars frequented would have a security guard by the entrance. The plan was to walk up and say that Mr. Raleigh had ordered the food. The security guard would either look at us oddly and say “Who’s Mr. Raleigh?” or he’d let us go up.

We walked around the stadium, past security guards standing and milling around, but I didn’t see anyone guarding the stairwell entrances or the elevators. I began to think I’d guessed wrong. Maybe the security guards were on the other side of the door. Maybe none of the cast of
Robin Hood
had come to the game this time. Maybe the guy at the gas station was just spinning tales to impress the tourists.

And then I saw him. A guy so big he belonged on a football field. He wore an earpiece and a serious look. His hands were folded in front of him like a neon ON DUTY sign. Standing next to the elevator door, he reminded me of a bull in a pasture. I could tell right away he wasn’t just a security guard, he was actually guarding something.

“This is it,” I whispered to Madison. “Remember to look the part.” My pace slowed involuntarily. I had to force myself to keep taking steps in the guy’s direction. I tried to appear confident.

I walked up to the man, nodding. “Hey, this is the food Mr. Raleigh ordered. You want to hit the elevator button for me? My hands are full.”

He gave me an unimpressed stare. “You got a pass?”

I jutted my hip out and rested the drinks on it. “No, but I got real sore feet. Are you going to get the button for me?”

“Can’t let anyone through without a VIP pass, but I’ll call someone to come down and get this stuff.” He reached for a button on his earpiece.

I adjusted the tray on my hip, moving it further away from him. “I can’t just give the food away. It hasn’t been paid for yet.”

Now the guy’s eyes narrowed. “Didn’t they put it on their account?”

“Oh, right. Their account.” I knew I’d been beaten, but I tried one last time. “Look, would it really be a big deal to let us deliver it? I’ve never been up to a luxury suite.”

He shrugged dismissively. “Sorry. Without a pass I couldn’t let my mother up there. Someone will be here in a minute.”

And so we waited, trapped by our lie. Madison stood at my side, shivering enough that every once in a while a piece of popcorn fell out of her container onto the ground. I wondered if whoever came down would know we were lying and would yell at us or turn us in. But then again, maybe it would be Steve Raleigh.

The doors might open and I’d see his shaggy blond hair and arrogant smile. Maybe he’d even say something in that irresistible English accent. Oh, wait, the accent was probably fake. I tried to imagine Steve Raleigh sounding like an American, but only for a moment. I had to think of something to say to him. How does one throw herself at someone’s mercy while delivering soda?

Finally, the elevator door opened and a guy I didn’t recognize stepped out. A cord with a pale blue name tag that read BALLARD PRODUCTIONS dangled around his neck. Just a simple blue piece of paper was keeping me down here.

The guy looked over at the food. “Man, they’ve got prime rib upstairs and somebody ordered hot dogs? ”He shook his head. “That’s how you know you’re overfeeding the talent—when they’re sick of prime rib.”

He held out his hands for my tray, and I grudgingly handed it to him. Altogether it had cost forty-five dollars. Stadium food is way overpriced. Not only had I blown the money, I wouldn’t even be able to eat any of it.

The guy glanced over at Madison. “I’ll have to make two trips to get this.”

“That’s fine,” she said. Her voice came out as a croak. The elevator door shut, and we all stood silently staring at one another.

The guard asked, “Do you guys need to get back to work?” and he held out his hands for the popcorn.

Madison glanced at me. “I guess we’d better.”

I nodded, and she handed over the food. We took slow steps away from the elevator. Madison whispered, “We were so close.”

Yes, so close. If I could just talk to Steve Raleigh, if I could explain. . . .

I looked over my shoulder at the security guard. He wasn’t watching us anymore—in fact, he was eating some of the popcorn. I took a few more steps away to make sure he couldn’t hear us talk. “Do you think there’s any way we could forge one of those VIP passes?”

“Not really,” she said.

I looked beyond her, my gaze drifting in the direction of the bleachers. “It would take some time. We’d have to find an office store that sells light blue paper and those name tag holders, then we’d have to get access to a computer printer with the right font. I’d also need to totally change my appearance. How much time do you suppose is left in the game?”

She didn’t answer, but it didn’t matter because right then I noticed a guy walking in our direction. He was tall, probably six-two, and wore a Lakers team jacket and ski cap so only wisps of brown hair showed across his forehead. Black-rim glasses perched above his nose, which gave him the look of a jock trying to pass himself off as an intellectual.