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He pretends to tell the flight attendant that the plane has to wait because he has to say goodbye to his daughter. He sets his hands on my shoulders and looks into my eyes as fuel-infused wind blows all around us. To be honest, even if he was saying goodbye, I wouldn’t be able to hear him over the sound of the jet engines. Nigel blinks hard as if he’s crying and pulls me close. Then he steps back to take one last look at me. He acts all remorseful, as if he’s thinking he just doesn’t deserve a daughter like me.

I swear to God, Nigel Adams could be an actor. He
could win an Academy Award for this performance.

He starts talking to me—no doubt the paparazzi are supposed to think he’s apologizing, explaining how long he’ll be gone and how it’ll be different once he’s back. Telling me he’ll miss me. But really he’s saying this: “Have you heard about that new Chinese place over on Chapman? The egg rolls are supposed to be incredible.” Then he looks out at the horizon and shakes his head, so sad. “Let’s have Eddie pick some up on the way home, what do you say?”

I wrap my arms around him and bury my face in his sweatshirt. “Sounds good. Can we get egg drop soup? And cashew chicken?”

He backs away, gives me a wave. “For sure. I’ve invited Clara and Sue back to the house. We’ll make a party out of it.” After blowing me a kiss, he disappears into the plane and the flight attendant bangs the door shut.

The walk down the rickety metal steps is rough with all those photographers pointing their cameras at me. I keep my head down as if I’m sad—which is fairly easy since I’m terrified—and make my way to where Clara and Sue wait in the town car with its tinted windows. Then I turn to watch the plane begin to move and I wave and wave and wave until the jet has pulled out of sight.

When I climb into the backseat, Clara and Sue turn around and smile. “You did great. Just great,” says Clara.

“Absolutely. A flawless performance.” Sue stuffs a couple of tortilla chips into her mouth and passes me the bag. “I’m starved, what about you guys? Shall we order a round of pizzas to meet us back at the house?”

“Chinese,” I say, taking a handful of chips.

“What’s that?” Sue asks as she pulls the car down a lane that will lead us out of LAX. A plane is taking off and the roar has rushed through the open windows. “What’d you say?”

“I said Nigel wants Chinese,” I shout.

“Decision made, then,” says Clara. “What Nigel needs, Nigel gets.”

I stare out the window at the passing cars, pedestrians, baggage carts full of luggage, palm trees, fuchsia flowers, white buildings. It isn’t true, what Clara said about Nigel. I wish it was true, but it isn’t.

M
onday morning my face is everywhere. On the front page of the
L.A. Times,
on covers of gossip magazines, even
People,
it’s the same photo: a zoom-in close-up of Joules’s face as Nigel hugs me on the roll-away steps beside the plane. I must have looked devastated as Nigel was talking about egg rolls because that’s the shot every paper and magazine chose, and it doesn’t even show his face.

If I thought life was weird as Joules before, it’s completely insane now.

The house is surrounded by photographers, some of whom I recognize from the airport. And since Nigel is supposed to be in rehab we’ve had to keep the curtains shut tight all weekend. Clara and Sue have been bringing in food, as well as booze disguised in cartons meant for paper towels and macaroni. The neighbors are unimpressed and have called the cops about a zillion times because they can’t get in and out of their driveways, and because they keep finding photographers peeing in their azaleas or off the side of the canyon across the street.

I tried to leave the house twice on Sunday, but both times someone shouted, “It’s her!” and cameras started clicking like mad. One photographer hopped on his
motorcycle and got ready to chase me, most likely in hopes I would lead him to Nigel’s secret hideaway. Little did anyone know the great one was about fifteen feet away, in the den watching baseball, flicking beer caps and eating Cheetos. Both times, I ducked back inside and slammed the door. Where could I possibly go with these guys following me?

So today, there is even more excitement, I guess because they figure Joules has to leave the house to go to school. Sue, who might actually be getting used to the attention, and who is probably hoping someone will snap
her
picture and slap it on a magazine cover, volunteers to drive me. It’s scary, sitting in the backseat as she navigates through the crowd in the driveway—in reverse. These guys don’t clear out of the way. They lean right over the trunk of the car and start taking pictures of me with no concern whatsoever about the car rolling over their feet.

As we cruise along State College, a great thing happens. There’s another roadblock that takes traffic down to one lane. The police are looking at every car as it passes between two cop cars, and the paparazzi behind us are forced to let other cars in ahead of them.

“Is this for the black SUV?” I ask.

“It’s happening all across Orange County. They’re calling it a registration check but yes. You know, they’re looking for the person who hit that couple over by Disneyland.”

We cruise past the police, who are uninterested in our sedan but give a throwaway glance at our front license plate for good measure.

“I guess they haven’t caught the person yet?”

“Nope. I’m sure the driver is long gone anyway. Too much media attention in this state.”

“I guess so.”

“Sad about those parents,” she says, switching lanes. “I heard on the radio this morning they’re still in the hospital.”

It feels like a boulder has dropped into my stomach. I picture Michaela, wrapped around Mom’s neck the first night. “Are they going to live?”

Sue shrugs. “Report just said they’re in ICU.” Then she guns the engine and the car shoots forward. “Say goodbye to our photographer friends, Joules.”

I look back to see the first of them, sure enough in a dark SUV, being forced to roll down his window and answer a few questions. Which gives us plenty of time to lose them.

It’s weird … when you look at celebrities, you think it must be so amazing to live their lifestyles. But honestly, if this is what it’s like, count me out. It’s scary to have these people chasing after you. Their cars and motorcycles follow so close you’d swear you’re about to be rear-ended. Plus, forget about scratching your nose or adjusting your underwear. You’re on display.

I’m glad they’re gone.

Sadly, I guess it wasn’t too hard for them to figure out where Joules goes to school since there’s just the one high school for the district. More photographers are waiting on Orange Road outside the school. As Sue pulls into the parking lot she says, “Remember, your dad isn’t at home. He’s in a very exclusive facility that you are not at liberty to reveal.”

“Got it.”

“If anyone asks if he’s in the country, say no. And feel free to play with the paparazzi. Be coy. Tell them Nige may or may not be in Europe, or northern Canada, something like that. Or say this rehab facility is so exclusive they only take a few patients at a time.”

The principal and Mr. Mansouri are in the parking lot now, shooing away the photographers. I start to open the door. “I don’t think I’ll actually talk to them, if that’s okay.”

Sue spins around to look at me, clearly surprised. “Really? Okay, whatever you want. But enjoy all the attention, sweetie. You’re on top of the world today. You’re the girl the rest of us want to be.”

I climb out and try to ignore the photographers, who are moving closer and chattering excitedly. Some of them call out questions: “Where’s your dad, Joules?” and “When’s Nigel coming home, darlin’?”

I lean into Sue’s window and look at her and say sadly, “I’m not.”

“What?”

“I’m not the girl I want to be.”

Then—what choice do I have?—with Mr. Mansouri and the principal yelling at the photographers and threatening to call the police if they don’t step off school property, I hurry past the crowd and duck my head as they shout out questions: “Where’s your father?” “Do you miss Nigel?” “Do you think he can get sober?”

If I thought the situation was scary before, from within the safety of a locked vehicle, it’s about fifty times more terrifying on foot. My shoulders actually rub against one
guy he gets so close—what is he trying to do, get a shot right up my nose? And I can’t escape them. Even if they get kicked off school property, I can see them with their telephoto lenses from across the street.

As I rush toward Leighton Auditorium, I notice Will waving me toward him.

“Follow me.” He grabs my hand and we run along an outdoor hallway that stretches the length of the auditorium. He leads me down some steps and motions toward a huge grouping of piney bushes with twisted, crippled trunks and plenty of bare space beneath for us to climb inside. We both fall to the bare earth and peek out beneath the greenery to see what’s going on over on Chapman.

He grins, leaning on his elbows. “So, what, you’re telling me this new and improved Joules Adams lies down in dirt now?” He pokes me in the side. “What happened to that girlish aversion to things that go bump in the mud? You used to be petrified of insects.”

I shrug. What’s a little pill bug when you’ve changed hundreds—and I do mean hundreds—of diapers? Please. At least bugs aren’t covered in human excrement. “What can I say, William Benjamin Hugo Sherwood? I’m an enigma.”

His brows shoot skyward. “An enigma who knows my terrible second middle name?”

I laugh a little and roll onto my side to face him. “Seriously. What were your parents thinking?”

“I’ve never told you that. I’ve never told
anyone
that. How did you find out?”

When I was over at his house that day working on our school project, it was kind of cold and we were making
hot chocolate—those little packets that you mix with boiling water. I had finished my work so I volunteered to heat the water and do the mixing. While I waited, I looked around the room and tried to commit to memory every detail of the place he grew up in. There was a little stack of mail on the counter that had spilled over, and right there on the top was a letter from the school to William Benjamin Hugo Sherwood. A girl obsessed doesn’t forget a detail like that, not even three years later. “I have my ways.”

“Sneak.”

“Hugo.”

He laughs, but his cheeks are tomato red and it makes me feel bad for teasing him.

“Come on, I’m serious,” he says, growing more anxious. “I don’t want that to get around.”

The expression on his face is starting to resemble fear now. It makes me realize something. Even with things going well between us—or between Will and Joules—he is still afraid to fully trust her. He isn’t quite sure what his girlfriend will do with this information. I lean closer to poke him playfully in the arm. “I swear, I won’t tell anyone.”

And the fear melts away from his features. He shoots me this super-appreciative half-grin that says he really does see me—Joules—as someone he could care about. It sends a gush of warmth from my chest to my toes. “Thanks, Joules,” he says.

I smile and look down. The pressure of this moment is mammoth. Here we are, hidden away, our faces not even twelve inches apart, and the kiss I’ve imagined sits
all around us like a glass bubble. One false move and I shatter it. The urge to babble idiotic nonsense is rising up my esophagus and onto my tongue but I clamp my lips shut so I don’t start yammering on about the lumpiness of the root beneath my stomach and how we’ll need to get late slips and what sort of excuse we can use for why we’re late because we can’t exactly say we were lying in the bushes. Believe me, if I open my mouth right now, that’s what will come out.

So I say nothing at all.

The silence I hope will inspire the kiss starts to fester and stink instead. Will blows hair out of his eyes and changes the subject. “So, yeah. You sure know how to stir up a Monday morning with all those photographers.”

I nod, disappointed. “I had to shower with the bathroom curtains shut in case these guys were crawling down the hillside with telephoto lenses.”

“Good thing you’re semi used to it. Anybody else would be a wreck.”

I am anybody else,
I want to say.
I am a wreck.

“Who do you have staying with you at the house while Nigel is away?” he asks. “You’re not alone, I hope.”

I roll my eyes, grinning. “Who do you think?”

“Seriously? All of this is fake?”

“Yup. He watched baseball all day yesterday, drank beer, ate leftover Chinese.”

“Are you kidding?”

“Nope.”

“He’s been at home all this time? So, the getting on the plane thing, the sad expressions, the waving goodbye—that was all pretend?”

“A hundred percent.”

He shakes his head in disbelief. “Wow. He put on quite a show. You did too.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not proud of it, believe me.”

We stare at each other in silence for a moment. Then he looks away and blushes. “I can’t believe you know about Hugo. I can never look you in the face again.”

I shimmy a bit closer and let my chin drop onto his shoulder. “Don’t look away, WBHC. I think it’s cute.”

This mischievous smile spreads across his face and he rolls me onto my back and tackles me, trapping me with a knee across my lower half. The weight of his leg, the umbrella of leaves, the feel of his breath on my cheek, it’s so intense I could burst. My skin is hot and tingles shoot through my body.

He pushes my hair off my cheek and I could faint from his touch.
Kiss me,
I want to scream.
Kiss me!

Suddenly, I don’t care what I’ve promised Joules. Will and I are hidden. No one will ever know it happened. Joules will never find out. It’s the chance of a lifetime, to kiss the one boy I’ve crushed on for years. I’m Joules, it’s not even cheating. Besides, wouldn’t it all be in the interests of securing him for her?

He trails one finger along my hip and shakes his head as if he too is floored by what’s happening. “Joules …”

I let my lips brush against his jawline. “I know.”

He closes his eyes and groans softly.

There’s no going back now. I wouldn’t stop what is about to happen even if it meant being Joules forever. It would be an even trade. I push my body against his and feel his hand move under my shirt and slide up my back.

Then it happens.

There’s a grunt or a gasp outside of the bushes, I’m aware someone is there, and suddenly the weight and warmth of Will’s thigh is gone and my legs are cold. We’re being pushed apart. I look up just in time to see Joules dive down between us and get her shoulder in my ribs as she drops.

Will stares, shocked, as Andrea Birch props herself up on her elbows and shoots each of us an angry grin. “Aren’t you guys way late for class?”

“Hey, we’re, uh, we were kind of in the middle of something here,” says Will, eyeing me as if to ask if I invited her.

“Yeah? Cool, I’m bored. That’s what it’s like to be Andie Birch,” she says. “B-O-R-I-N-G.”

I see what she’s doing here. She’s trying to make me look like an idiot for when we switch back. I snort. “Then maybe
you
should get to class. Isn’t Mrs. Leonard passing back the tests today?”

“I’m thinking it’ll be more fun if you walk me there.
Joules.
“

She wants to separate me from Will, I get that. But she destroyed what was quite possibly the greatest moment of my life, and part of me wants her to pay. “Nah. I’m good.”

“She’ll see you in class, Andrea,” Will says. “We just need a minute.”

Her head snaps around to face me. The look in her eyes is pure wickedness. “Walk me there, now.
Joules.”

“Walk there yourself.
Andrea.”

Will watches me, confused.

Joules rolls onto her back between us and lets one of her hands caress her belly. “Guys, how do you know if you’re pregnant? And is it bad for the baby if you do it a few more times once you’ve conceived?”

“You are NOT pregnant, Andrea. You’re not that kind of girl.”

“I don’t know. These days I think I kind of am. I’ve been in the bushes with Shane so many times, you know? And little Stewie Mercer. And Alan King. And what’s-his-name from the cafeteria—you know, the one who can’t work the cash machine so they make him stack boxes in the back? The one who pulls his hairnet right down over his eyebrows?”

I grab her arm, haul her out of the bushes and, after an apologetic glance back at Will, I march her toward English. “I was just getting him back for you, you idiot. Nothing happened yet.”

“Looked like lots was happening. A deal’s a deal, Birch Tree.”

“I’ve been going through hell all weekend. Excuse me if I actually enjoy getting your boyfriend back. You have no idea how much good I’m doing for your life.”