Just One Wish

  “A professional?” Mr. Powell yelled. “I’ll give you a ten-minute break and then Samson will be a professional circus horse.” He said other things, but since they weren’t yelled into the bullhorn, I didn’t hear them. At the announcement of a break, dozens of murmured conversations started. Several of Sir Guy’s henchmen sat down on the floor. A few people wandered off the set and picked up water bottles. A makeup artist walked over to Esme and brushed powder across her forehead while another rearranged the hair on her shoulders.

  I unclenched my fists. Little red fingernail marks dotted my palms. The other nuns moved away from me, as though associating with me would make them look bad to the director.

  Well, the Hollywood life was already looking less glittery. In the half an hour I’d been an actress, I’d been insulted by the leading lady, yelled at by the director, and shunned by a group of nuns.

  “You can’t take it personally.”

  I looked up at the sound of Steve’s voice. I hadn’t heard him walk over, but now he stood in front of me. “Directors are just like that. They surgically remove all people skills from them during film school.” He leaned closer to me and lowered his voice. “Besides, Dean has obviously never been to Catholic school or he’d know that a lot of nuns can hold their own in a fight.”

  “Thanks,” I said, because I knew he was trying to make me feel better. “I didn’t mean to mess things up for everyone.”

  He shrugged, and I couldn’t help but notice the way his tunic emphasized his muscled physique. “If it hadn’t been you, he would have found some other reason to stop the scene. Just watch. He’ll make us do it a dozen times. By the time we’re through, there won’t be any water left in the fish pond. Sir Guy’s outfit will have soaked it all up.”

  Over Steve’s shoulder I noticed Esme approaching, and I knew I didn’t have time to waste on small talk. “Can I ask you a favor?”

  His eyes immediately clouded, and I wondered how many times strangers had asked him for favors. Still, he tilted his head and his voice took on a teasing tone. “Well, you can always ask.”

  Esme reached his side, disapproval making her face look hard and cold. I knew she was about to take him away from me. I felt it happening already.

  I reached out a hand toward Steve, nearly touching his sleeve. “Can I just have you alone for two minutes?”

  His head tilted back, and he raised an eyebrow at me, which is when I realized I had not phrased the question right. With eyebrow still raised, he said, “Oh?”

  Esme snorted in my direction. “Two minutes? Well, you must work fast.”

  “No, I—”

  Steve took a step away from me. “I’m sure you’ve heard all sorts of stories about celebrities, but I’m really not like that.”

  Esme smirked at him and crossed her arms across her chest. “That’s right. One woman is pretty much like the rest to him.”

  “Where do you come up with these things?” he asked her.

  I said, “I want to talk to you about my brother. He has cancer.”

  Steve’s attention returned to me, but he only looked mildly interested. None of the shock and sympathy most people showed me appeared on his face. “You want a donation? You’ll have to talk to my assistant. He takes care of that sort of thing.” Steve scanned the room. “He’s—where is Ron?”

  Esme looped her arm through Steve’s and slowly pulled him away from me. “He’s probably arranging a hostile takeover of some poor, hapless company. Isn’t that what you pay him to do?”

  I held up one hand. “I don’t want your money, just your time.”

  Steve let out a short laugh. “You’ll have better luck asking for money. I have more of that. Find Ron and talk to him.” Then Steve let himself be propelled away.

  I took a step to follow them, but Esme shot me a piercing look over her shoulder. “It’s unprofessional to bother celebrities during a shoot. And it’s absolutely unthinkable to ask for money.”

  I stared after them, at first numb, until the humiliation seeped in. Then I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment. I had never been so singularly dismissed in my life. And this after I’d told them my brother had cancer. I wasn’t a con man. I wasn’t some sort of free-loader. I’d asked for two minutes of his time, and he hadn’t been willing to give me that much. How did a person become so calloused to others’ suffering?

  Well, what had I expected from someone who sued his own family?

  I turned away from the sight of him and walked across the set. I meant to leave. I meant to walk back to Madison and tell her we were going home.

  The director yelled, “Places, people!”

  I kept walking.

  “Hey, pretty nun!” the director yelled at me. “Get with the other nuns!”

  I stopped as though pulled back by a leash. As much as I wanted to leave, I would draw too much attention to myself if I walked off the set now. The security guards, who were still prowling around the edges of the courtyard, would certainly notice me then. I gritted my teeth and stomped over to the other nuns.

  The director held up one hand in the air. “And don’t look so angry,” he yelled as though I were tormenting him. “You’re a nun, for heaven’s sake!”

  I took several deep breaths and stared at the ground, trying to regain composure. When I looked up, I saw Steve a few feet away, climbing his ladder but watching me. “You still look angry,” he said.

  “I’m just an extra,” I told him. “You don’t need to concern yourself with me.”

  “Listen, I’m sorry about your brother.”

  “Yeah.” I sent him a cold smile. “I’m going to tell Sir Guy where you’re hiding as soon as he arrives.”

  Steve tilted his head back and laughed. Which only made me want to throw something at him.

  “Atmosphere!” The director called. I knew I wasn’t supposed to look at the camera, so I gazed across the set to where Esme and her ladies-in-waiting sat by the fishpond. It was the first time I noticed the pale pink roses that surrounded it. Roses like the ones I’d seen in that box. When had those flowers been brought in?

  “Action!”

  Sir Guy and his men came on. I gulped and didn’t have to fake my worried expression. I did, however, find it hard to look at them when I really wanted to scan the set for a snake. My gaze kept darting around the scenery.

  This time when Sir Guy’s henchman grabbed me around the waist, I didn’t fight back. I let out a pitiful-sounding “Ahhh!” then craned my head around to check for anything slithering around the floor behind me.

  Sir Guy led the horse over to Maid Marion, let go of the reins, and pulled Marion to her feet. The horse shook its mane and took a step away from the roses, but the director either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

  “You’ve made me a fool long enough,” Sir Guy said. “What is your answer?”

  Maid Marion blinked up at him, a tearful expression on her face.

  Robin Hood stepped out on the tree limb. “My answer is that you are a fool and will always be one.”

  Robin Hood let two arrows fly in quick succession, although not the kind of arrows with tips that could actually hurt anyone. I supposed that was one of those parts they edited in later. Still, Steve managed to hit two of Guy’s men, including the man who held on to me. The henchman gave an impressive-sounding groan and dropped to the ground.

  The director must have been paying attention to the henchman’s performance and not Steve’s face, or he would have complained. Because Steve gazed at me—at first it was only a glance because I was in his line of vision—but then a questioning look flickered across his expression. He was trying to figure something out. After a moment, he seemed to remember he needed to go on with the scene and he took hold of the rope. He jumped, but midair his eyes swung back to find me.

  Recognition filled his face, and I knew he had placed me.

  Which is probably why, instead of dropping to the ground in front of Maid Marion, he actually plowed into her and sent her fly
ing into the fishpond.

  An impressive splash shot up, followed by an even more impressive scream. I could hardly hear the director call “Cut!” over it.

  Sir Guy burst out laughing, which didn’t help matters. As Maid Marion floundered around, trying to stand in a now waterlogged dress, he called out to her, “I’ve changed my mind. Robin can have you!”

  Steve stepped into the pool to help Esme, but she stood up and pushed him away. “Do you think this is funny? There are fish in this pond! A carp ran into me! I probably have carp crap in my hair now.”

  I’m not sure whether it was the yelling or the splash that convinced Herman to make a run—or rather slither—for it, but he shot out of the bushes, sweeping across the floor making giant S’s.

  The horse noticed this new event right away. He whinnied, reared on his back feet, and proved he was indeed a professional. Or at least could have been a professional tap dancer, since this is what it looked like as he stomped the floor in an effort to keep Herman away.

  Say what you will about snakes’ intelligence, Herman was smart enough to make a beeline, or in this case an S-line away from the horse, and into the group of ladies-in-waiting. They all screamed and jumped up on top of the benches, except for one who ran into the fishpond, pushing Esme down again as she did.

  More splashing. More screeching. All of this commotion spooked the horse further, and he galloped off the set, scattering nuns in his wake. The last I saw of him, several crew members and the handler were chasing him through the miniature thatched village.

  The director yelled things at the top of his lungs, most of which weren’t actually directions. However, in between a lot of cursing, he did tell us to “Clear the set!” and I intended to.

  I turned to follow my fellow nuns. I’d even taken several steps in that direction when Steve grabbed my arm and spun me around.

  “You’re that girl from the basketball game, aren’t you?” He gripped my arm harder, and his eyes grew cold. I couldn’t breathe. I stared back at him with my mouth forming a response that didn’t come.

  Two security guards appeared behind him, peering down at me. They didn’t say anything, just watched Steve speak with me.

  “You’re some sort of stalker, aren’t you?” he said.

  “No.” I tried to take a step away from him but couldn’t budge out of his grip. “See, a stalker would have known you had brown hair. I only wanted to talk to you.”

  “How did you get past security? How did you get a costume and a part on this series?”

  I glanced at the security guards, who looked more menacing by the moment. “Is that a rhetorical question or do you actually want to know?”

  “How about this—you can tell it to the police.” Steve let go of my arm, which was apparently the signal for the security guards to flank me on both sides.

  “You don’t need to do that,” I said.

  One of the security guards took hold of my elbow. “We’ll go ahead and contact the police for you, Mr. Raleigh.”

  I kept my eyes on Steve. “No. Please.”

  He stared at me, his expression unmoved, and didn’t reply.

  The other security guard nodded in Steve’s direction. “We’ll take her to the guard station until the police get here. You’ll need to come by and make a statement for them then.”

  I shook my head, looking for something besides anger in Steve’s face. I could barely speak. “Don’t make them take me to the guard station.”

  The guard’s grip tightened around my arm. For a second, Steve’s gaze traveled from my face to the guard’s hand. I could tell he’d decided something. “Take her to my trailer,” Steve told the men. “I’ll deal with her after I’m done here.”

  “To your trailer?” the first guard asked.

  “Yeah. And make sure she doesn’t leave.”

  The security guards looked at one another, and perhaps they would have said something else, but when they turned back, Steve had already left.

  The security guards looked at each other again, and the first—a Pacific Islander who probably ripped trucks apart in his spare time—grunted in disbelief. The second shrugged and said, “So we take her to his trailer.”

  The first guard pulled me by the arm, and we walked off the set. I tried to decide if it was a good thing that I was going to Steve’s trailer instead of the guard station. Probably not. Steve hadn’t looked like he wanted to sit down and have a friendly chat. He most likely just wanted to find out how I’d managed to find him twice so he could avoid future stalkers, and then he’d turn me over to the police.

  We went out of the building at a fast pace. I had no choice but to keep up. The guard never loosened his grip on my arm. The second security guard had gray streaks in his crew cut. He was probably at least forty, but his biceps were as big as my head, so he was still quite imposing. He didn’t say anything at all, just kept nodding and grunting in approval as the first guard lectured me about trespassing, privacy, and how celebrities had the right to live normal lives without worrying about fans who didn’t have the sense to know when not to cross the line.

  “I’ve learned my lesson,” I told them. “Really, you can let me leave now—”

  But they didn’t. Crew-cut guy led me to a large green trailer.

  So Steve’s was the green one. It figured. Robin Hood wore all green, and it hadn’t even occurred to me his trailer might be the green one.

  The Polynesian guard released his grip on my arm. “How many people came with you when you decided to invade the set today?”

  I was not about to turn Madison in. “Just me.”

  “You’re lying.” He said this with an assurance that surprised me. Usually people couldn’t tell when I lied. “How many of your little friends do we have to round up—the truth this time.”

  I didn’t answer him, even though he asked twice more.

  This led the guards to have a minute-long conversation about how they needed to split up and continue searching the grounds. They decided the Polynesian guy would search through the trailers while the older guy stayed with me. He would stand guard outside the trailer so he could keep an eye out for other teenage encroachers and still make sure I didn’t run off.

  Crew-cut opened the door and pointed inside. “Wait in there. And don’t touch anything. You don’t want to get yourself in more trouble than you’re already in.”

  I turned away from them and walked up the steps into the Winnebago. The door shut behind me with a determined thud.

  I guess I expected the inside of a star’s trailer to be glamorous. Maybe a hot tub, a fireplace, and a shelf full Of Oscars. Instead it looked like a cramped apartment.

  The living room had built-in couches and a TV that pulled down from the ceiling. Behind it, cabinets lined a small kitchenette. A door stood behind the kitchen—probably leading into a bedroom and not outside. Mini blinds let light in through windows on either side of the walls. There was nothing glamorous about it.

  The only really unusual thing about Steve Raleigh’s trailer was that it wasn’t empty. A middle-aged man sat on the couch directly in front of me.

  Chapter 9

  He looked nice enough, like a lot of people you’d walk by without giving much thought to. But he reminded me of a book: full of creativity inside. He stared down at his laptop, and I sensed him going through ideas like someone sorts madly through a laundry basket searching for a missing sock.

  He looked up at me, deemed me unworthy of attention, and went back to typing.

  “Um . . . who are you?” I asked.

  His gaze stayed on the computer while his fingers clicked over the keys. “Jim Blasingame, one of the show writers. I’m waiting to talk to Steve about the next script. Who are you?”

  “A nun who just got fired.”

  “Oh.” He didn’t stop typing. “What are you doing here?”

  “Don’t think I haven’t asked myself that question.” I sat down on the couch in front of him but glanced over my shoulder. I
could see the back of the security guard standing by the side of the door.

  When I returned my attention to Mr. Blasingame, he had stopped typing long enough to consider me, but then he shook his head. “Oh, never mind, I don’t really want to know. I need to finish this script. Will Steve be here soon?”

  “Yes.”

  He waved a hand in my direction. “Good. Then do whatever it is fired nuns do, quietly.”

  The sound of his typing—and then almost obsessively pushing the delete button—filled the room.

  I sat on the couch and pulled my knees up to my chin. I couldn’t believe it was going to end this way. I had worried I wouldn’t be able to speak to Steve Raleigh;

  I had even considered the possibility that he wouldn’t help me, but I had never imagined myself trapped in his trailer waiting for the police to haul me away.

  I wished I could cry. I might have even garnered some sympathy from the writer—or from Steve whenever he came back. I’m not sure where the body keeps its reservoir of tears, but as always mine wasn’t there. It had been dammed up, frozen over, drained. I only had a huge empty space I occasionally wandered around in, kicking up dust.

  I sat for a while longer listening to the tap of the keyboard while the feeling of doom penetrated down to my bones. I wanted to say a prayer, but I wouldn’t. My last official prayer had been before Jeremy’s first MRI. I’d said, God, if you love me at all, even a little, you’ll make it so the MRI shows everything is normal. When it came back as a tumor, I couldn’t pray anymore.

  Part of me knew I was being childish. Bad things happen to people sometimes. And everyone dies sooner or later. But things like this shouldn’t happen to six-year-olds. They just shouldn’t. It felt like God had tossed my family aside, like he didn’t care what happened to us.

  I got up, walked into the kitchenette, and leaned against the counter. I needed to call Madison and tell her what had happened. As I turned sideways for privacy I noticed a compound bow leaning against the wall. A Conquest Four. It was bigger and newer than mine but basically the same type. A quiver full of arrows sat on the counter. Steve must use them to practice with.