Famous

  He will pause here, his face tightening with anger at the memory, and light a cigarette, snapping the Zippo closed. “Of course, there was no way I could miss two months of school without my parents knowing, so I had to talk to them. I tried to reason with them, but that didn’t work. Then I begged, I cried, I screamed, I slammed doors. I mean, this went on for days. They just didn’t understand. Their son, an actor? No freaking way. Their son, a TV reality show actor? Even worse! Like most stuck-up snobs, they just assumed reality TV was crap. How in the world would that help me get into a good college? What about the so-called career they envisioned for me? You have to understand who my parents are. Typical upwardly mobile, social-climbing uptight white corporate straight arrows. Both lawyers. The types who truly believe that the first eighteen years of life are nothing more than a prelude to a college application.”

  His hands will be fists, eyes narrowed, jaw jutting forward. For Avy, his parents stopping him from being on the show was the ultimate act of betrayal. It didn’t matter that there is no real way to know what would have happened had they let him take the part. For every Brad Cox who goes on to a successful career in TV, there have been hundreds, maybe by this point even thousands, of eager, starstruck wanna-bes whose brief bursts of fame on reality TV shows led nowhere.

  “How did you feel about that?” he will ask himself on the screen.

  Avy will sit back, cross his arms, and lower his forehead. “You want to know the truth? I’ve never forgiven them. I hate them.”

  MARCH OF TENTH GRADE, SEVENTH DAY OF SPRING VACATION IN LA

  WHEN I SUGGEST THE SHOT I WANT FOR MY PRIVATE COLLECTION, Rex’s face goes stony.

  “Oh, come on, Rex, you looked so cute,” I beseech him. “I told you it’s just for my private collection. I’m already sworn to secrecy about you being here.”

  But Rex doesn’t hear me. He’s gone to a different place entirely. He stares at the camera and cringes as if it’s bad ju-ju. “Damn, damn, damn!”

  “What?” I ask, wondering what’s suddenly bothering him so much.

  He doesn’t answer. Instead he runs his fingers through his hair again. Maria slides a mug of steaming coffee in front of him. He takes a sip and looks off toward the glimmering surface of the pool. I wait uncertainly.

  “God, I hate this place,” he grumbles.

  I can’t get a grip on what he’s talking about or why his mood has shifted so abruptly. “This house?”

  He shakes his head, and the long ends of his hair wave against his jawline. “This whole stupid town. This whole stupid scene. Sometimes I wish I’d just stayed in Kilgore.”

  “But then you . . . you wouldn’t have become famous.”

  Rex’s facial expression morphs from puzzlement . . . to recognition . . . to derision. He stares at the camera again, then reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a thin wallet, counts out four Franklins, a Grant, and a bunch of twenties. “How about you sell it to me?”

  “My camera? Why?” This makes no sense.

  “I don’t know. Just feel like taking a few shots myself today.”

  “Rex, what are you talking about? What’s going on?”

  Mr. Dobro is experienced in the multiple uses of silence. He stares out at the pool, and once again it’s obvious his thoughts are light years away. Or, he just wants me to think that. He takes another sip of coffee and sets the mug down on the counter with a clink loud enough that Maria turns to look at him.

  He places a hand on my shoulder, and I can’t help but think, Oh my God, he’s touching me! Rex Dobro is touching me! “Don’t go anywhere, okay?” he says. “I’ll be right back.” He pushes away from the counter and leaves the kitchen. I give Maria a puzzled look, but she just shrugs. And why not? She’s probably witnessed far stranger things.

  But I’m left to wonder what that scene with Rex was all about. I pick up the camera, turn the viewer on, and begin to peruse the previous day’s shots. Willow holding the red Manolos she bought me for the party. Willow hanging out by the pool with her best friend, Anne-Marie. Willow and Anne-Marie trying on clothes for the party. I get to the last shot I remember taking the night before—Willow in a slinky pink dress by the pool, welcoming guests. But the camera’s counter indicates that there are six more shots. How weird is this? I think. First I wake up and my camera isn’t where I’m certain I left it. And now I discover I took pictures I don’t remember taking.

  I flip to the first one . . . and freeze. I am staring at a shot I definitely don’t remember taking. And for good reason. I didn’t take it.

  But that hardly matters now. I’ve stopped breathing. My heart is thudding. Goose bumps race up my arms, and it might be my imagination, but I think I can feel tiny beads of cold sweat seep out of my pores.

  In my camera is a shot that changes everything.

  OCTOBER OF NINTH GRADE, NYC

  AFTER SCHOOL I WENT STRAIGHT TO THE STAKEOUT AT 63 FIFTH. Heaven forbid Naomi Fine strolled out the front doors looking like a whale and I wasn’t there to get the shot. Carla would have my head.

  “The baby’s here!” a videographer named David Axelrod yelled when I arrived. About a dozen photogs were hanging around in front of the tall brick building. Davy was one of the nicer ones. There were others in that crowd who would break your face if you got in the way of one of their shots.

  “Go home and do your homework,” Davy said in a good-natured jibe. “Leave this business to people who really need to make a living.”

  A woman named Lynn who always wore a khaki vest and had two or three cameras hanging from her neck strolled over and took a rapid-fire series of shots of Davy and me.

  “What’s this about?” Davy asked her.

  “Didn’t you see that article in New York Weekly?” Lynn asked, then pointed at me. “She’s news. The baby paparazzo. I want these for my files.”

  She went back to the others waiting on the sidewalk for Naomi to appear. But for me it was an oddly strange and gratifying moment to be on the other side of the camera—continued evidence that I was still news. My fifteen minutes weren’t over yet.

  “How’s it feel to be famous?” Davy asked, only half-kidding.

  I knew that he was partly teasing. And yet the idea that I might be famous—just the possibility of it—felt undeniably satisfying. “Better than not being famous.”

  “So, what’s your next move?”

  That caught me off guard. “Sorry?”

  “The next step,” Davy said. “You’re not gonna drop the ball now, are you? You’ve got some recognition. Momentum. That gives you a window of what? A month? Maybe two? After that, people are gonna forget who you are, and you’ll go back to being just another paparazzo.”

  It wasn’t something I’d thought about. The whole idea of being famous was still too new for me to be concerned about the possibility of it vanishing. “I’ll let you know.”

  “Hey, here’s something else.” Davy opened a copy of Teen Seen, a sort of cheap Cosmo for the training-bra set, and showed me a photo of a gorgeous young woman with straight black hair and striking features. “The future.”

  I read the caption. “Alicia Howard?”

  “My eleven-year-old niece says she’s the real deal,” Davy said. “The next Willow Twine.”

  “Don’t tell Willow that,” I quipped.

  Davy shook his head dismissively. “Willow’s on her way out. Once you start running with guys like Rex Dobro, it’s only a matter of time.”

  “You can’t say that for certain. She might be an exception.”

  Davy gave me a dubious look. “Sorry, kid, they lose that sheen of girlish innocence and poof! The glass slipper never fits again.”

  Shutters began clicking rapidly, and Davy and I spun around. Marco was coming down the sidewalk. He was tall and skinny, wore tight black leather pants, and had his hair pulled back into a ponytail. With those lanky legs he took long strides, making it hard for the crowd of photogs to keep up with him and still frame their shots.

&nbs
p; “Over here, Marco!”

  “Hey, Marco, this way!”

  “Is Naomi pregnant?”

  “When’s she due?”

  “Is it a boy or a girl, Marco?”

  The famous hairdresser ignored them and kept walking. It was the smartest thing he could do, but it was also exactly what some of the more aggressive paps wanted.

  “So how’s it feel to be a father, Marco?”

  “You gonna do the right thing and tie the knot?”

  “Or are you gonna dump her as soon as she gets fat?”

  “Hey, Marco, you sure the kid’s even yours?”

  Ouch!

  It was then that Marco went from smart to stupid. He did two of the three worst things you can do when in the paparrazzi’s sights: (1) He stopped, and (2) he reacted. Once you stop, you’re surrounded. The photogs move in shoulder to shoulder and make it hard for you to start moving again. And I don’t have to tell you why reacting is a mistake. Look at any tabloid or celebrity website and you can see for yourself.

  Marco started growling in English and Italian, and the clicking shutters around him hit that crescendo that screams Money Shot! Most of what Marco said in English was unprintable, and the photogs loved it.

  “Looks like we hit a sore spot, huh, Marco?”

  “Yeah, just where was Naomi about three months ago?”

  “Hey, wasn’t she shooting that rodeo movie out in Montana with Anthony Impalino?”

  “Maybe she’s having Tony junior!”

  Marco’s eyes bulged and his hands balled into fists. It looked like he was on the verge of making the numero uno biggest mistake of all. One that would cost him big-time. The more brazen photogs moved in closer and kept shooting, mostly for the annoyance factor. I could feel my heart banging in anticipation. Would Marco take the bait and swing at one of them? Didn’t he know he could be sued for millions?

  Yes, it appeared he did. At the very last second he seemed to get a grip on himself, then slid through the crowd of photographers and strode through the doors and into the building, where none of us could follow.

  Ready . . . set . . . go!

  Photogs scattered in every direction to get to their cars, studios, apartments—wherever they could download their shots and videos into laptops and transmit them to agents and websites. For me, that meant running down Fifth Avenue and making a right on Eleventh Street.

  At home Elena was spooning Alex dinner. My brother wears a bib. The soft foods protect him from choking, but they also drip off his chin and onto the bib despite Elena’s best efforts to wipe them away. Alex saw me and made sounds as I flew into the apartment. “Hey, Elena. Hey, Axy Waxy,” I called as I passed. Usually, when I wasn’t in a rush, I’d rub my brother’s head. He has the finest, softest hair you’ve ever felt. A long time ago the specialists told us physical contact was really important. But right then I had to get on the computer fast, download my shots, and blast them off through broadband to Carla. Strapped in his chair, Alex lurched and grimaced and made deeper grunting sounds. It was his way of saying he was unhappy that I hadn’t paused to greet him properly.

  In my room I downloaded my shots onto the MacBook, narrowed the selection to a few dozen, and sent them to Carla. I’d already called her from the street and alerted her that I had the goods: Marco nearly pitching a fit. (While I personally didn’t go in for the stalkerazzi technique of taunting and harassing, I wasn’t above reaping the benefits.)

  I doubt half a minute passed between the time I e-mailed the photos and when Carla called. “You did good, girl. I’ve definitely got clients who’ll want these. We may even sell enough to get you that long lens you want. Later.” She was gone. There were editors to call, deals to make. I logged in to the private client website where she displayed all the photos she had for sale. To prevent anyone from stealing the photos without paying, the agents all had computer programs designed to make our shots look lo-res blurry and grainy, and the word COPYRIGHTED was printed across them, obscuring key details.

  It was too soon for the celebrity websites to have the videographers’ stuff up—their raw footage would have to be edited first—but I checked anyway, always curious to see if I’d show up in the crowd of photogs in the background. When you’re a pap you’re on TV and in magazines all the time, only no one ever notices, because they’re always too busy looking at the celebs.

  Since the videos weren’t up yet, I got on Facebook. Nasim was on, so we shot some IMs back and forth.

  Jamie Gordan Got some good shots of Naomi’s boyfriend freaking out.

  Nasim Pahlavi What about the pregnant actress?

  Jamie Gordan No sign of her.

  Nasim Pahlavi So instead you use the boyfriend to make up for the photos you couldn’t get?

  Jamie Gordan Try not to be so perceptive, okay? ;-)

  Nasim Pahlavi I thought that’s what you like about me ;-)

  Jamie Gordan It is!!! So . . . what do you like about me?

  Nasim didn’t answer right away, and I felt my spirits start to sink. Sometimes it seemed like there was something missing from our relationship. Like on some level we weren’t as intimate as we should have been. I told myself that maybe it was just a cultural thing, that Nasim wasn’t used to expressing his feelings out loud. But I wasn’t sure. I waited a while, then began to feel a little bit anxious, so I wrote:

  Jamie Gordan I hope your silence means there are so many things you like about me that you don’t know where to begin ;-0 ???

  Nasim Pahlavi Try not to be so perceptive, okay? ;-)

  Jamie Gordan LOL.

  Nasim Pahlavi I like that you are caring and honest and don’t worry so much about things like grades (which proves that for us opposites attract) or popularity. I like that you are pretty and soft and smart.

  Jamie Gordan Thank you! XOXOX!

  I loved what he wrote, even though I had a feeling that “soft” was just a really sweet way of saying I could lose ten pounds.

  Elena knocked on my door. “Alex is watching TV. Not alone too long, okay?”

  “You bet,” I said, and looked back at the screen.

  In the time I’d been turned away, a new IM had come on the screen.

  Shelby Winston Having some people over on Sat night around 10. Hope you can join us. Bring the BF.—SW

  “Thanks for agreeing to go to the party with me,” I said to Nasim the next morning as we walked to school through a slight gray mist. It was the sort of gauzy light that had posed interesting possibilities to me back when I’d been taking more “artistic” pictures.

  “You already thanked me last night,” he said. As soon as I’d seen the invitation I’d IM’d him, and he’d agreed to go. But now I wondered if maybe he wasn’t thrilled by the idea.

  “You think it’s dumb, right?” I asked.

  “To be excited about going to a party? Why would that be dumb?”

  “Because it’s Shelby Winston’s party.”

  “Wouldn’t you be as excited if it were Avy’s party?” he asked.

  “Honestly? Not really. I mean, I’d be happy that he invited me and happy to go, but I can’t say I’d be as excited.”

  Nasim put his arm around my shoulder and gave me a squeeze. “If it’s important to you, then it’s important to me.”

  I slid my arm under his jacket and around his waist, thinking that one could hardly ask for a better boyfriend, and about how lucky I was.

  By then we’d passed through the front doors and entered the hallowed halls of Herrin. It didn’t occur to me that the blond-haired kid blocking my path actually wanted to talk to me. I started to walk around him.

  Nasim took my arm. “Wait. It’s your fifth-grade spy.”

  Ethan Taylor handed me a piece of paper with a name and address written on it. Then he rubbed his thumb against his fingers—the universal “Show me the money” gesture.

  “You get paid when I get paid,” I said in a low voice, folding the piece of paper and sliding it into my pocket. I glanced back d
own the hall at the school entrance and started to zip my jacket.

  “Where are you going?” Nasim asked with a frown.

  “To the doctor’s,” I said.

  It’s the strangest sensation when you’re the only photog on a stakeout. It felt like there’d been a mistake and that Ethan must have gotten it wrong. I was standing on a sidewalk beside a tall sand-colored building. But the doctor’s office had its own entrance—a black door a dozen feet from the building’s main entrance—and a well-polished bronze plate next to the door said very clearly,

  DR. EMILY CLARKSON

  OBSTETRICS AND GYNECOLOGY

  A woman wearing a fur-lined raincoat passed, walking a pug wearing its own bright red raincoat. The street was filled with cars and yellow taxis, wipers swishing the mist off their windshields.

  For better or worse I was committed to this plan. The damage was done. I’d left school without permission and was bound to get grief for it. All I could do was wait and hope this gamble paid off. Women carrying umbrellas came down the sidewalk and went into the office. Cabs pulled up to the curb and dropped people off. After about an hour a limo slid up, and the driver ran around to the passenger door. My heart started to race. Was it Naomi? But out stepped an elegant older woman wearing a Burberry taffeta trench coat and a hat. False alarm.

  I waited in the mist, my hair practically soaked. Lunch time came and went. My stomach growled and my feet throbbed from standing so long, but I couldn’t give up now. What if I left and Naomi showed up a minute later? Another hour passed. More women came and went. At the building’s main entrance, a doorman wearing a brown uniform noticed me and scowled, but I hid my camera under my jacket so he wouldn’t know why I was there.

  The longer I waited, the more doubts plagued me. Maybe Ethan was right about the address and doctor, but Naomi’s appointment was yesterday and I’d missed it. Or maybe it wasn’t until tomorrow. Was this worth ditching another day of school for? How much trouble would I get into?