Spin (21 page)

This is probably why people run in the park, right? Isn’t that what Henry said? “Maybe I’ll see you around the park sometime?” That was a clue. Only Henry’s still in rehab, so maybe he was speaking generically? Or maybe he was warning me? Telling me he runs in the park so I could avoid it if I didn’t want to see him. And I don’t want to see him, right? That’s what the whole Confessions of a Thirty-Year-Old Drama Queen was all about, wasn’t it?

Argh! So glad I’ve brought my spinning brain home with me, intact.

I loop around the block and head back to the apartment, finally falling into a good, mindless rhythm. I sprint the last block, feeling exhilarated. I check my watch. Nineteen minutes, thirty seconds. I shaved half a minute off on my way back. I rock!

I bound up the stairs to the apartment. Back in my room, I find a piece of paper on my bed with Joanne’s scrawl across it.
Bob says show up at his office ASAP or else.

Time to face the music.

“W
hat the fuck is that?” Bob says, shoving a picture of a black SUV in my face an hour later.

“A picture of a black SUV?”

“Don’t play cute with me, Kate. Who’s in the fucking SUV?”

I take the picture. It’s the SUV Amber and I left rehab in yesterday. And just visible through the tinted windows are Amber and . . . me.

“Amber’s in the SUV.”

Bob folds his arms across his expensive blue business shirt. “That’s right. And what’s wrong with this picture?”

I notice the white logo in the corner. “It’s on TMZ’s website?”

“Right again. And what I want to know is why it’s not on
my
website?”

I expel a long breath. I was worried about this briefly yesterday when we were attacked by the paparazzi who’d waited patiently for Amber for thirty-five days.

“I didn’t want to blow my cover.”

He looks down at me in a way that’s almost menacing. “
I see.
You didn’t want to blow your
cover.
”

Uh-oh.

“There were only a few people who knew Amber was leaving, and they aren’t the type who’d alert the paparazzi. She would’ve known it was me.”

“So?”

“So . . . I thought it was a good idea to maintain my cover as long as possible.”

“No. You had to maintain your cover as long as you were in rehab. Now that you’re out, I don’t give a fuck.”

“But I’m still gathering stuff for my article . . .”

Bob’s eyes narrow in anger. “Kate, I have a Pavlovian response to bullshit. And let me tell you, my salivary glands are working overtime right now.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to tell me that everything is on track, and that your article is going to be on my desk by next Friday.”

“Or what?”

Whoops.

Bob’s face gets red. “Or I’m invoking clause seven of your contract, and you owe us $30,000. I may even sue you for damages if I can stomach talking to our lawyers more than I already have to.”

Clause seven? $30,000? Shit. I really should’ve read that thing more closely. Or, you know, not made such a major life decision in the time it takes for words to travel through the space between two people.

“You’re not going to have to do that.”

“You’ll deliver?”

“Yes.”

“Everything?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

He walks behind his desk, his mind clearly already onto the next thing. I rise to leave, my shoulders slouched, my head down.

Fuck, fuck, fuck! This is by far the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. Why the hell did I ever agree to this? Oh, right . . . wait a minute . . .

“Um, Bob.”

He barely looks up from the papers he’s shuffling through. “Yes?”

“What about the job at
The Line
?”

“It’s still available.”

“Available for me?”

“Maybe. If you deliver.”

His eyes meet mine, but I can’t read his expression. I wish my salivary glands could tell me whether he’s being truthful, or whether he’s simply keeping this possibility alive to get what he needs from me.

“I’ll deliver.”

He smiles that same slightly perverted smile he gave me a month ago in this very office. “You’d better.”

Chapter 21

Detritus

D
ay One: Operation Write Killer Exposé about TGND.

I’m sitting at my computer looking for a way into the story I have nine days to write. And that sounds like a long time, right? It sounds like . . . 216 hours. But I have to sleep, so it’s really like . . . 144 hours, if I get a good night’s sleep. Which I’m probably not going to, so it’s probably more like 171 hours. But then I need to eat at least three times a day (20 hours), and take showers (4.5 hours), and take breaks (10 hours), leaving me 136.5 hours. Shit, I forgot running. Not that that takes much time, but still. OK, minus another five hours for running (let’s be optimistic), which makes 131.5 hours.

And now I’ve just wasted at least ten minutes figuring that out. Great time management.

OK, focus. What am I going to write? What have I learned? What am I trying to say?

I have no frickin’ idea.

I can’t even pick a title.

All I can think of are silly variations on existing titles like
Amber, Interrupted
and
Amber Doesn’t Live Here Anymore.
It’s all derivative and boring.

Maybe I’m derivative and boring, and I’ll only be able to write a derivative and boring article? Maybe if it sucks they won’t run it, and I can get myself out of a sticky spot without any collateral damage? Yeah, that might work. But then, of course, no job at
The Line,
either. And really, who cares if it’s badly written? Was the piece that made
Gossip Central
famous actually well written? Did anyone read it and think, now there’s a nice turn of phrase, or, what a little gem of alliteration? Hell, no. The only important thing was, is, the information, and so long as it makes it from my brain to the page, it won’t matter if it’s written in the passive voice or full of dangling participles. It won’t matter to anyone but me.

So, what do I write? What leaves my brain and what stays behind?

My mental state is not being helped by the fact that I received a text from Amber as I walked home from Bob’s office. (Writer’s procrastination tip number one: Walk everywhere.) We’d exchanged phone numbers on the ride home, but I didn’t really expect her to keep in touch.

But
beep, beep
went my phone, and there it was, a text from TGND.

Where RU?

Walking. U?

Luxuriating.

Big word.

Big soft bed.

Alone?

Course!

What’s up?

Hiding from the paps. U?

Trying to get a job.

Good luck.

Thx.

Did I really just solicit Amber’s luck to get a job at her expense? What the hell is wrong with me?

Fuck, this is depressing. You’d think that after having sat around doing essentially nothing for the last month I’d be full of get-up-and-go. Full of vim and vigor. Full of . . . shit, I’m all out of aphorisms. Wait, is that the right term? No, I don’t think so. Argh. OK, OK, it’ll come to me . . . idiom? Right, idioms. Anyway, I’m all out of idioms, or stupid phrases that mean I should be full of energy.

My stomach rumbles as my phone
beep, beeps.
I stretch my arms over my head. My entire body creaks and pops from sitting in one spot for so long. (OK, it was just a couple of hours, but it felt really long.) I dig my phone out of my purse and read Greer’s text.

Party 2nite?

Party?

Oops.

It’s OK.

How bout dins @ the pub?

? time.

Any.

CU soon.

:)

Perfect. Exactly what I need. (Writer’s procrastination tip number two: Have long meals with friends.) I’ll distract myself for a few hours having dinner with Greer, get to bed early, and work a solid eight hours tomorrow. I’ll be wasting a few hours, but that will still leave me at least a hundred if I start bright and early.

Plenty of time.

M
eeting Greer at the pub starts to feel like a bad idea about thirty seconds after I enter the place. That’s as long as it takes to shift my attention from the smell of stale beer to the pretty rows of bottles behind Steve’s head.

The problem is, I haven’t fully decided if I’m really giving up drinking for good, or just until I turn in my article and secure my future. Either way, it means I’m not drinking right now, and that feels harder than I thought it would in this environment.

I slide into the red vinyl booth across from Greer. She’s wearing a white peasant blouse and her long curly hair cascades past her shoulders. She looks striking, as always, though I notice that the whites of her eyes are bloodshot.

“Rough night?”

She takes a sip of her Bloody Mary. “You don’t even want to know.”

She’s probably right, but I can’t help feeling a little jealous.

“Anyone I know?”

She waves her hand dismissively. The smell of alcohol wafts toward me. “Just another scrounger. Say, did anything ever happen with that guy?”

“What guy?”

“The one passing the football with Connor Parks.”

“Oh, him. Henry.”

Henry. The guy I’ve spent absolutely no time thinking about since I left rehab.

“Yeah, him. Give.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“Bollocks.”

“Really, there isn’t.”

And there never will be, thanks to me.

A waitress comes to our table and Greer taps the edge of her drink and raises two fingers. After a moment’s hesitation, I order a Diet Coke and try to feel virtuous.

Greer smiles. “Still not drinking, I see?”

“I did just get out of rehab.”

“When I got out of rehab I celebrated for three days.” She looks thoughtful. “I think that’s how I ended up in the city, come to think of it.”

“Well, I’m not you,” I say a little stiffly.

“Whoa, lass, you don’t have to go all
Joanne
on me.”

I start to laugh. “You really know how to cut a girl to the quick.”

“Just trying to make sure my friend’s still in there.”

Oh, she’s still in here. And I’m sure she’ll come out soon enough.

“Seriously, though, lass, if my drinking bothers you, just say the word.”

“Thanks. But I’m OK for now.”

The waitress brings our drinks and Greer pulls out the celery stalk, raises her glass to her lips, and takes a large sip. She leans back against the booth, giving me the once over.

“So, tell me, what was that cloak-and-danger stuff all about?”

I nearly choke on my Diet Coke. Somehow in all the chaos, I forgot about Greer’s involvement in the password fiasco.

“Oh, that. Thanks, by the way.”

“No problem. You ready to tell me about it, then?”

I suddenly want to. I want to tell someone all about everything I’ve done and been through. And not in the way Bob wants me to. Or in the way that Saundra would, either. I don’t want to go to a meeting. I don’t want to confess. I just want someone to squeal and say, “Oh my God!” and hold me if I have to cry (which, given my recent track record, is fairly likely), and forgive me at the end of it all.

And so, I warn Greer that something big is coming, and tell her all about it.

D
ay Two: Actually Have to Write Something Today.

The day begins with a run along the waterfront (twenty-two minutes), the healthiest breakfast ever (yogurt and fresh fruit), and a text from Amber wondering if I want to go shopping with her later.

Shit. Doesn’t this woman have any friends? It’s like she has some sixth sense that she should be bugging me about something.

No, Katie, that’s just your conscience bugging you.

I wish it wouldn’t.

’Tsha, right.

While I try to decide how to answer Amber, I tear the pages out of my journal and spread them out on the floor. My careful notes from the first few weeks gave way to random scrawls and keywords, which I’m now having trouble deciphering.

Like this one:
Fight Club & Fireflies.
What the hell does that mean?

I remember our conversation about fireflies . . . we went for a walk after the movie one night (
27 Dresses
—skip it), and we came upon a swarm of fireflies, all flashing on and off. It was just like that Andrew Ryan song “Lay You Down” except that Amber and I aren’t, you know, romantically
involved. Anyway, Amber exclaimed in surprise; she’d never seen live fireflies before.

But
Fight Club
? I scan the movie in my head. Tyler Durden? Brad Pitt? Edward Norton? Nope, nope, nope. Making soap from human fat? No. Punching each other in the face? Not that either . . . wait a sec . . . OK, she was saying she wished they showed good movies, and we started talking about rehab movies, and one of us brought up
Fight Club,
and how Edward Norton’s character met his girlfriend in a support group. She told me that she did that sometimes when she was bored. She’d put on a disguise and sit in on twelve-step meetings. AA. Overeaters Anonymous (though she was asked to leave that one, and none too politely). Anger management. People obsessed with being obsessed.

Was this note supposed to remind me to write something about her attending twelve-step meetings as an analogy for our celebrity-focused culture? Was I really being that deep? Somehow I doubt it.

I toss the page aside and pick up another, and another, but nothing good comes of it. Around five, I give up in disgust and hunker down under a blanket on the couch. I pop season one of
The Wire
into the DVD player. (Writer’s procrastination tip number three: Get engrossed in a serialized television series, preferably one with many seasons available on DVD.) I watch half the season, and write nothing. Better luck tomorrow.

D
ays Three and Four: Really Need to Write Anything Now or Tight Feeling in Chest Is Going to Require Medical Attention.

More running (twenty and nineteen minutes—backsliding, I know, but I’m distracted, and barely sleeping), more healthy food. More texts from Amber that I dodge. Many hours spent pondering my dilemma, and the advice Greer gave me a few nights ago.

“Don’t write the article,” she said matter-of-factly when I asked her what I should do.

“But it’s the only way I’ll get the job at
The Line.
”

“So? There’ll be other jobs.”

“But I’m already thirty. Writing about music is a young person’s job.”

“You’re thirty?”

Ah, shit.

“Right, that’s another thing I forgot to tell you. I’m not twenty-five. And, um, I’m not a university student, at least not anymore.”

She looked at me like I was a stranger as the pub music pounded around us. “You’re not in grad school?”

“No.”

“Why did you say you were?”

“It’s just the way I get, I mean got, free food and alcohol . . . hanging out on the university wine-and-cheese circuit.”

“OK. But why lie to me once we became friends?”

Good question.

“I don’t know. It seemed easier, I guess.”

She popped a tomato-flavored ice cube into her mouth. “Interesting.”

“Are you mad?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Would you be mad if you were Amber?”

“Oh yeah.”

“So, what do I do?”

“I told you already, don’t write it.”

“But if I don’t, Bob is going to make me pay back the rehab fees, and probably sue me. I don’t have that kind of money. I’m totally broke.”

“You’re in a bit of a pickle, then.”

“Gee, thanks for stating the obvious.”

“Sorry, lass.”

“You wouldn’t happen to have a spare thirty thou sitting around, would you?”

She laughs. “What? For the likes of your lying arse?”

“Not a chance, right?”

“Too bloody right.”

So, find a way to get $30,000, or write the article. The two choices loom over me until neither seems desirable or even feasible. Quite the pickle, indeed.

Eighty hours and counting.

D
ay Five: Surprised to Learn That I Don’t Actually Function Better Under Pressure.

After another nearly sleepless night (eight potential work hours recovered, but totally wasted), and more staring at the blank page, I break down and tell Rory. (Writer’s procrastination tip number four, just discovered: Confessing to friends takes a lot of time.)

I’m not sure why I choose this exact moment to tell Rory. Is it because I want her to absolve me? Do I think she’ll write me a check for $30,000? Am I the worst person in the world if the second possibility is equally likely as the first?

Yes.

OK, OK, I know.

So, I bring Rory takeout to her office and tell her the whole story while our lunch gets cold.

After several minutes of silence, she finally speaks in a tightly controlled voice. “Are you only telling me this because you know I’ll find out when the article gets published?”

No. The right answer to this question is no.

“I don’t know, Rory. I’m telling you for lots of reasons.”

“Like what?”

“Well, I haven’t liked lying to you all this time. And because I need your help.”

Her sarcastic snort bounces around the room. “My help? To do what?”

“To figure out what I’m supposed to do.”

She closes the takeout container and tosses it in the trash. She hasn’t eaten a bite.

“It’s simple. Don’t write the article.”

“But then Bob’s going to sue me.”

“I doubt it.”

“No, you don’t know this guy. He will.”

“Well, then tough shit, right?”

“But I could lose everything.”

“Haven’t you already lost everything?”

“I didn’t think so,” I say, hoping to soften the hard lines her face has settled into. It doesn’t, and so I leave before she says something irretrievable and irreparable.

Sixty-seven hours left.

D
ay Six: Crunch Time.

I wake early. I finally slept last night out of utter exhaustion, but it was a bad-dream sleep. Amber, Henry, Connor, Rory, Greer, Scott, my parents, Chrissie all took their turns accusing me of things I’ve never done, a Ring-Around-the-Rosie of “You Suck, Katie, You’re an Awful Person.”