Famous (12 page)

In the middle of that thought my cell phone vibrated. Trying not to be obvious, I checked and saw that it was Carla. I glanced over at Nasim, whose head was bent over
the keys, then slid off the windowsill. Nasim immediately glanced up and gave me a look of displeasure, but he continued playing. I went into the kitchen, closed the door, and called her back.

“What's up?” I asked.

“Are you sitting down?” she asked with the nearly breathless excitement that almost always signaled good news. “I just got a call from Roxanne Pena, Alicia Howard's publicist. Alicia's going to be in New York next week to tape the
Late Show
. She also wants to do some shopping and take a break from LA . . . and she wants you to shoot her.”

Goose bumps rose on my arms. “Why me?”

“According to Roxanne, Alicia saw you on the
Tonight Show
last fall and decided that you would ‘get' her. I think she meant you'd understand her. You know, because you're around the same age.”

“They want me to shadow her?” I asked.

“Not quite. They'll set up the times and places. You know the drill. ‘See Alicia shop. See Alicia at the zoo. See Alicia have a pillow fight.'”

“But what'll keep all the other photogs from taking those shots?”

“They'll be able to get some, but they're not going to be allowed in stores where she shops, and they're definitely
not
getting in on the pillow fight.”

“So these will be staged photos?”

Carla heard the disappointment in my voice. “Honey, if you want to be a celebrity photographer, you'll have to get used to staged photos.”

I knew that, of course. Celebrities posed for Annie Leibovitz. I just needed to get over the surprise. “You said next week?”

“She's scheduled to come in Tuesday night. The
Late Show
tapes Wednesday afternoon. My guess is, you'll be shooting from Wednesday night until Friday night. She's flying back early Saturday morning.”

“What about school?” I asked.

The phone line was silent. I wondered if Carla was considering how to answer that question. Or perhaps she was just trying to recover from the shock of being asked. Then she said, “My dear, you've just gone through a six-month dry spell. Now one of the hottest new stars on the planet has asked for
you.
She didn't ask for Annie. She didn't ask for Bruno or Howard. School, schmool. If this is what you want to do in life, make it happen.”

She was so totally right. What was I thinking? This was the kind of gig I'd been dreaming about!

“I'm sorry,” I stammered. “I don't know why I said that. I think I'm just so totally shocked that I don't know what to ask.”

“How about, how much are they paying you?”

“They're
paying
me?” I blurted.

Carla chuckled. “Yes, Jamie, that's what people do
when they hire photographers. They pay them.”

The phone call ended and I stood in Nasim's kitchen in a daze. It was a miracle! Just when I thought my career was on the autopsy table, someone had breathed life into the corpse! Had luck struck yet again, or was there some other explanation? I really didn't care. All I felt was relief. A weight had lifted. I was still in the ball game. This potential has-been had just been promoted to now-is.

That's when I noticed how quiet it had become. Nasim was no longer playing. I went back into the living room. He was sitting at the piano, staring at the sheet music. I had the feeling he was purposefully not looking at me. He said, “I was going to ask you what you thought.”

In the silence that followed, his words reverberated around the room like a crescendo.

“I'm sorry,” I began to say. “It was—”

“Business,” Nasim ended the sentence for me with the same sarcastic bite my mother used to put on the word “career.” For someone who hardly ever let his emotions show, it was obvious that he was fuming.

“Am I, like, being totally obnoxious?” I asked, hoping that he'd say no, that he understood how long it had been since I'd felt productive, and how important this was to me.

But he didn't say anything.

Nasim bid me a chilly farewell at his front door, standing just far enough away that I knew a good-bye kiss was out
of the question. I left with a queasy, foreboding sensation in my stomach, hoping this wasn't some kind of momentous turning point in our relationship from which there was no going back. I didn't think he was being completely fair. Not only did he not understand how important this was to me, but I doubted he was aware of how the stress of the upcoming recital affected him. I decided to wait and talk to him about it after some time had passed and he'd had a chance to calm down.

My thoughts turned to the Alicia Howard gig. How amazing was this? Once again, my star was on the rise. I was going to meet and shoot Alicia Howard when she came to New York. Wait till Avy and the rest of the school found out!

“ARE YOU OKAY, MISS GORDON?” MARIA ASKS IN WILLOW'S
kitchen after Rex departs. Realizing that I've been staring at the camera display with my mouth agape, I jerk my head up, at the same time flipping the camera, display down, on the counter. Maria scowls.

“Oh, yes,” I stammer. “Fine, thanks.” But a second later I pick up the camera with both hands, pressing it against my stomach, and hurry out of the kitchen. I feel like a duck at the pond who gets a big piece of bread and scurries off before the other ducks can take it away. But then I realize that if anyone sees me hurrying around holding my camera like this, they'll know in an instant that something is up.

To my left is a powder room, and I quickly slip inside and lock the door. I sit down and once again go through the shots that I didn't take. There are six altogether. Badly lit, awkwardly framed, and taken from odd angles—obviously candids taken by an amateur. But the subject matter more than makes up for the technical imperfections. These shots are what the media would call
explosive
and
ruinous
. If any of them ever gets out, Willow Twine's career is absolutely over. No questions asked. She couldn't possibly have known someone was taking them.

So now what? In my hands is the power to destroy one of the most famous celebrities on the planet. This is dynamite stuff. The ultimate money shot times ten. My
People
cover of Naomi Fine preggers would pale in comparison. I take a deep breath and try to convince myself that there is no rush. The pictures won't go anywhere without me. I have time to think. . . .

But all I do is stare down at the camera in my hands, questions racing through my head:
Are you making too much of this? Either erase or don't erase, right?

Erasing is easy. Simple. Damage control completed. After all, Willow is now a friend. But if it's so easy, why won't my fingers move? I gaze down at the screen again and know why. In my hands, at my fingertips, is everything a paparazzo works for: the Ginormous Money Shot. Even though their quality is poor and I didn't take them, these photos are in my camera and that makes them mine.

My hands tremble slightly. With these shots, I would not only
make
news, I would
be
news.

Again.

I would be famous.

Again.

YOU WILL SIT ON THE BED WITH THE MACBOOK ON YOUR LAP,
gazing sadly at the last recorded images of your best friend. You've heard people say they hated their parents, but never with the vehemence with which Avy announces it.

You will dab the dampness from your cheeks and use the cuff of your shirt to blot the tears that have fallen onto the MacBook's keyboard. From the hall will come the sound of Alex's garbled voice, then a knock on your door. “Jamie?” your mother will say. “Can you come out here and help me with Alex?”

“In a minute, Mom.” You just need to watch a little more.

On the screen, several moments will pass while Avy sits there, silent, brooding as if once again experiencing all that anger toward his parents. Then he will shake his head as if trying to get out of that rut, and ask, “Did you ever have any doubts about a career as an actor?”

He will brighten and pause, as if pleased at having been asked this question. After taking a sip from a glass of water on a table beside the chair, he'll answer, “Of course I did. But that almost didn't matter, because all I ever wanted was to be famous. I don't mind admitting it. No one just accidentally stumbles into stardom, and anyone who says they did is just a big fat Botoxed liar. You fight, you sweat, you claw your way up. No one gets to the top without having the flesh of a thousand other actors under their fingernails. Dog eat dog, baby. And as hard as it is getting up there, staying up there is even harder. Everybody wants to take you down. Everybody wants to be the next you. The pressure is enormous.”

Having given this answer, he will purse his lips, furrow his forehead, and nod as if satisfied, then lean forward again and ask, “What do you think set you apart from the rest?”

You will feel a sad, wistful smile cross your lips. How poignantly ironic is this? On the MacBook screen, Avy will sit back and again prepare his answer. This time he will add gestures with his hands. “Honestly, it's hard to say. Everyone knows it takes hard work and persistence. You
always feel like the odds are against you. Luck definitely plays a part. You just have to be in the right place at the right time.”

Again, he will appear pleased with his answer and will lean forward to ask, “Does it ever get easier?”

He will answer, “Maybe when you go mega like Depp or Clooney. But for every Brad Pitt there are a ton of guys who had it in the palm of their hands and let it slip through their fingers. They had that one big hit. They made the cover of
People
. Maybe even an Oscar nomination for best supporting actor. But two flops later they were done. Gone. Not bankable. That's the scariest part.”

You will pause the interview and wonder who Avy was practicing this for. Clearly someone had prepared questions ahead of time for him. But why ask Avy these questions? How would he know if it ever got any easier?