Catch a Falling Star (8 page)

set the tea in the sun. It wasn’t always easy when Mom was gone.

53

He would never admit it, but I think he sort of wished she’d pick a

cause closer to home.

I plucked a slippery blue windbreaker from the back of a chair.

It belonged to Mr. Michaels, who should be rolling in in about

twenty minutes, wearing another jacket just like it over his flannel

shirt. He’d been leaving a jacket on one of our chairs for as long as

I could remember. I hung it on the coatrack and studied Dad’s face

as he came through the door. The creases were back. I asked him,

“You’re sure
you’re
okay with all this? You can tell me if you’re not.”

He leaned forward, splaying his palms on the counter. “I think

you can handle this, I do. It’s just that you’re so private. And you’re

not one of those kids who cares about this stuff. Like Chloe. No

offense, she’s a great kid, but she’s a nut about all that celebrity and

fame stuff. And you’re not. You’re going to have a bunch of cam-

eras in your face, a bunch of people in your business. I’m not sure

you know what you’re getting into.”

I started writing out the special sandwich for the day on the

board while Dad unwrapped the fresh pastries we had delivered

each morning by a local bakery. “Dad, I’m not sure people ever

really know what they’re getting into. And you know why I’m

doing this.” I met his eyes.

Sighing, he shrugged his large shoulders, but his eyes smiled.

“Are you sure you’re seventeen and not forty?”

“You claim you were there.” I breathed in the opening of the

day. I loved the time when Little Eats was just about to open,

everything bright and clean, the coffee-infused air, the slight glow

of the refrigerated drink cases, the smell of the pastries, the early

morning light coming through the tall windows running the

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length of the outside patio. Dad had laid all the wheat-colored

hardwood on the floors himself ten years ago, and each year they

got more scuffed and worn. All the scratches from the chairs, the

feet of our customers, dropped plates. Each scratch, a tiny piece of

history.

Dad sighed again, bringing me back.

“What?” I capped the dry erase marker.

His eyes rested on me, sad and tired from last night. “I just

wish he didn’t seem like such a jerk.”

“I know.” I flipped the sign to opeN, Come iN! “But it’s only a

few weeks. Besides, it’ll be easier that way. Just a job.”

Dad set out the last of the pastries in the glass case by the front

counter. “I hope your brother appreciates this.”

His voice told us we both knew he wouldn’t.

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yesterday’s sightings

Things Are Looking Up in Little, CA

Morning, sky watchers. This week, we sat on the roof talking

about atmosphere. The layers of protection it al ows, the

energy it absorbs, why all of us crave being a part of it, and it

got us thinking about another sort of star. Movie stars.

Celebrities. This is a hot topic in Little right now because (just

in case you’ve been living under a rock and don’t know

this already) we’ve got a star burning bright in our town this

week. Adam Jakes. James Bond Jr. Child wonder. Sports-car-

crasher. He’s here shooting a Christmas movie (in June . . .

because Hol ywood makes its own sort of sense). No matter,

he’s here, creating an atmosphere. And (for better or for

worse) we’re all absorbing some of his energy.

Maybe that’s why we like looking up at night. For a

moment, our immediate atmosphere shifts on us and reminds

us we’re all part of something wide and far.

See you tonight, under the sky.

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six

after work, I drove to pick up some groceries so Dad didn’t end

up eating Wheat Thins for dinner. Again. You’d think he’d just eat

at the café, but he never seemed to make the time. Turning onto

Sixth Street, I saw the light on at Stagelights. Mom’s words before

she left tugged at me. Had it really been over a year? Funny how

time could pass so quickly but leave you feeling like it had been

decades.

Impulsively, I pulled my dust-colored Jetta into one of the slots

in front of the studio, got out, and peered through the glass, my

stomach buzzing with nerves. Nicky Fritz, my former teacher and

the owner of Stagelights, was dancing in one of the back studios. I

could see flashes of him through its open door, wearing a tank top

and black shorts. Nicky didn’t seem to age, his black hair still

cropped in the same short buzz, his face unlined. At forty-five, he

was as lithe and muscular as when I used to stare up at him, a

dazzled five-year-old.

When I could tell he’d come to a pause, I tapped on the glass.

He hurried into the lobby of the studio, mopping his face with a

hand towel. He unlocked the glass door and pushed it open, letting

me in. “Well, well, if it isn’t our prodigal daughter.”

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He let the door swing shut behind us.

“I saw the lights on.” The familiar smell stabbed me, that

strange combination of lotion, sweat, leotards, and feet. It sounded

gross, but it wasn’t. The perfume of my childhood. “Am I inter-

rupting you?”

Nicky dabbed his forehead with the white towel. “Never, dar-

ling. Just surprised to see you.” He squinted at me. “You okay?”

I shrugged. “I just pulled in, didn’t really even think about it.”

For years, I didn’t go more than a few days without being here and

then I just stopped, like sealing off the door to another universe.

He disappeared behind the counter, emerging with a white

paper shopping bag marked
Carter — do not throw out!
“Here, I’m

not running a storage facility.”

Flushing, I took the bag. Inside, a few pairs of tights, a pair of

trashed jazz shoes, and a wrap hibernated. “Thanks.” I nodded

toward the studio. “You working on something?”

He shook his head. “Just trying to get some exercise. We got

so crazed with Spring Showcase, but that’s done. Just trying to

catch up on some workouts before summer session starts. We had

fourteen in Beginning Combo this year. I don’t know how Lisa

does it. They’re lunatics.”

I laughed at his expression of horror. “They’re four years old!”

My body relaxed, easing into the comfort of this place, its wood

ceilings, the hum of the air-conditioning, the photos of past shows

lining the pale pink hallways. If I tried to count all the pictures

with me in them, I’d lose track. My eyes pricked in that itchy way

that meant tears, and I tried not to look at the photos.

“Right,” he said with a shiver. “Lunatics.” He came out from

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behind the counter and leaned against it, studying me. “You danc-

ing at all?”

“I’m teaching at Snow Ridge, but I wouldn’t call it dancing.” I

dropped my gaze, knowing he’d seen the gloss in my eyes. I knew

where this line of questioning was heading.

He nodded slowly, his dark eyes hard to read. “I heard that.

That’s great. Those old folks keeping you on your toes, I hope?”

I fiddled with the handles of the bag. “Oh, they’re fun.” It

wouldn’t be long before he drove down Carter’s-Messing-Up-

Her-Life Lane.

But surprisingly, he didn’t say anything at all. Outside, the late

afternoon sun turned the windows of the restaurant across the

street into bright sheets of light. I couldn’t look at them. After a

moment, Nicky began to say something, then hesitated. Finally, he

said, “You want to dance a bit?”

“Now?”

“Why not? You can help me with a bit of choreography for the

intermediate jazz summer session. Want to work out some kinks with

me?” Without waiting for an answer, he headed toward the back studio.

Soon, music permeated the space, a song Dad would have recognized

but I couldn’t place, a rock bal ad from the eighties. I leaned through

the open door. “Actual y, I have to run — I’m meeting someone.”

“Suit yourself.” He was already working out some steps, his

eyes on the mirror, but I couldn’t help but notice a flicker of con-

cern cross his face.

I’d been seeing that look a lot for the last year.

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I waited on a cement bench in the green backyard of The Hotel on

Main. Out on the street, a film crew broke down all sorts of

equipment, their faint voices and movements echoing in the lush

cloak of the garden. Tucked under the shade of a low-hanging tree,

I checked my special Adam phone for the tenth time. Parker had

told me to have it with me at all times just in case they needed to

contact me. Tonight, Parker said they’d
go public
about Adam’s

relationship with me, whatever that meant, but first we’d meet to

get our game faces on
.

Their game faces were both late.

I fiddled with the frayed hem of my cutoff Levi’s and won-

dered if I should have washed my hair. I pulled the end of my

ponytail in front of my eyes, frowning. My hair matched my eyes

almost perfectly. Mom referred to it as auburn probably because

she thought boring brown (which it actually was) would hurt my

feelings. Dad liked to say I was the sort of girl who made men hum

“Brown Eyed Girl.” I liked to tell him that fifty-year-old men

humming an ancient Van Morrison song gave me the creeps. But

having matching brown eyes and hair was its own sort of invisibil-

ity cloak. I could blend into ordinary surroundings like one of

those leaf butterflies I once saw at the zoo.

Which was probably why Adam Jakes just walked right past me.

Watching him, my breath caught. Even though he wore real-

people clothes — a pair of skinny jeans, a faded maroon T-shirt,

flip-flops, and the mirrored glasses he’d been wearing at the

café — he really did seem otherworldly. He ran his hand casually

through his hair (leaving it perfectly tousled, of course) and checked

his iPhone. In that moment, as if he knew to position himself

60

perfectly in a fading slant of early evening light that cast a pale rosy

glow, bronzing him, he laughed at something he read on the screen,

his smile like flash lightning in a purple storm sky.

He was beautiful.

I should have washed my hair.

“Adam?”

He jerked his head toward me, his hand coming over his heart,

the smile vanishing, leaving just a dark sky. “Why are you lurking

in the shadows?”

Lurking? I glanced down at the smooth bench. “I was just sit-

ting here. Weren’t we supposed to meet?”

“I didn’t see you.”

“Obviously.” I didn’t get up. “I hope your tardiness is not an

indication of how you plan to treat me during our courtship.”

He tilted his head, no trace of smile at my joke. I assumed he

was studying me, though I couldn’t see his eyes behind those

mirrors, just flashes of green from the garden. It was a bit late in

the evening to be wearing sunglasses. He didn’t respond to my

comment.

We listened for a bit to the sound of a hidden fountain. Finally,

he asked, “Where’s Parker?” Annoyed, he typed into his phone.

Clearly, Adam Jakes wasn’t used to waiting.

I squirmed on the bench. “I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”

“He should be here now, Cary.”

Cary? Was he giving me a nickname? He didn’t get to do that.

“It’s Carter.”

He nodded as if that was what he’d said the first time. “Inter-

esting name.”

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I fiddled with the strap of my bag. “My mom named my brother

and me after presidents she admired, who she thought made real

social change.”

“What’s your brother’s name?”

“John.”

“As in Kennedy?”

“Yes.”

“Why isn’t his name Kennedy?”

“My dad thinks Kennedy sounds like a girl’s name.”

“That’s true.” He smirked. “Funny choices, though.”

“Why?”

“Well, one was shot and the other had a one-term presidency.”

He stretched his arms over his head.

“That’s not a very respectful way to talk about our former pres-

idents.” I meant it as a joke, but it came out just as flat as my earlier

one. He didn’t seem to notice anyway, barely disguising a yawn.

This wasn’t going well. “What can I say? Mom’s an idealist.” I stared

at his mirrors. “So, are you staying here? Bonnie’s a sweetheart.”

“Who?” He’d started fiddling with his phone again.

“Bonnie, who runs this hotel.” I had the feeling I had maybe

three percent of his listening capacity at the moment.

He glanced up. “What? No, I’m not here. They got Parker and

me a house. Some of the crew’s here, though.” He typed furiously

into his phone. “Where is he?”

As if on cue, Parker materialized into the garden out of a back

door of the hotel. “Shooting go all right today?” he asked Adam,

ignoring the beeping of his phone, clearly texts from Adam.

Adam stopped accosting his phone. “Where were you?”

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Sidestepping the attitude, Parker asked, “You two getting to