Starry-Eyed (54 page)

Trish hangs up the phone. “Destiny Jean Sparrow, downstairs!”

Dad's eyes widen. “Downstairs where? Here?”

Trish nods. “I'll get the Diet Coke and the organic almonds; you meet her at the elevator,” she says, already in motion running down the hallway toward the kitchen.

“Monica.” Dad looks to me, fixing his tie. “A very important client is on her way up. Come sit in my office; we'll have to put her in the conference room.”

“Her? You mean Destiny Sparrow?”

“Yes.” Dad pops a few breath mints into his mouth.

I can't help myself. “‘I'll go to the moon and back for just one of your sweet alien kisses,'” I say, quoting a line from Destiny's latest movie.

“Monica, not now.” Dad shakes his head. “Besides,” he whispers, “that's a terrible movie.”

“Speak for yourself.” I go back into the conference room to grab my book bag off the floor and algebra textbook from the table. “I thought
Smooches from Saturn
was brilliant. Two thumbs up!” I actually give him two thumbs up.

Dad immediately gives me the you-know-better look.

“Can you introduce me?” I ask. “You know how much I love her. I mean, we even
look
alike, it's creepy.”

More than once I've gotten stopped at the mall or while walking down Santa Monica Boulevard, and have been asked for my autograph. After awhile I stopped trying to explain that I wasn't really Destiny Sparrow and just started signing her name.

We're both fifteen and born just a month apart from each other. Last year, while having my birthday dinner with Dad, our waiter mistook me for Destiny and brought a big cake to our table, candles and all, and proceeded to have the whole waitstaff sing happy birthday . . . to “Destiny.” Dad wanted to correct their mistake and send the cake back. It was chocolate with butter-cream icing, my favorite, so I told Dad to zip it and we didn't say a word.

“You're more beautiful, but don't tell Destiny I said that. See you later, back at home!” Dad says, ignoring my question, buttoning his suit jacket, and heading down the hall toward the elevators.

INT.—IAA OFFICES, WOMEN'S BATHROOM—AFTERNOON

I wish the part of the story where we met happened in a more glamorous setting.

I'm standing at the sink, briefly admiring how the hand soap in the bathrooms at Dad's office always smells really good. I'm singing the song of the summer, a little ditty by Marci Fresno.

“‘Oh boy you look so fine, I wish I would make you mine,'” I sing to myself in the mirror. Not to sound too pretentious, but I sound pretty darn good. (I've been a professional shower-singer since I was old enough to shower.) “‘Walk with me, talk with me, be my teenage fantasy—'”

“Ahem,” a voice says from the bathroom door.

I turn, startled.

In an instant I am in awe.

Standing in front of me is one of the biggest stars in the world: Destiny Sparrow.

It's just me and her. Alone.

She locks the bathroom door behind her. A second later, there's a knock at the door; it's aggressive, someone wants in.

“Just leave me alone! Can't a girl get a little privacy once in a while?” she says.

Destiny is wearing a white baseball cap, ripped denim jeans, and a baggy T-shirt that's hanging off one of her shoulders. She's dressed so simply, and on anyone else it might look messy and tragic, but on Destiny it looks chic.

We stare at each other.

I've seen Destiny on TV and in the movies, but seeing her in person is weird. We really
do
look alike. Her features are fair, with deep brown eyes
and dirty-blond hair. Her eyebrows are perfectly arched and manicured. Her lips are covered in soft pink gloss. Same shade as mine.

I try to act casual, like I don't care that I'm five feet away from a girl I was just reading about in
Us Weekly
. I glance back into the bathroom mirror and return to washing my hands. I can feel her eyes on me—her red, teary eyes. She's been crying.

“I was hoping that no one would be in here,” she says. “So much for that!”

I turn to look at her just as she rolls her eyes.

“Sorry for living,” I say instinctively.

I hear a chuckle. I look up into the mirror. She walks to me and wipes underneath her eyes.

“Hey, I'm Destiny,” she says in a softer voice than before, extending her hand to me.

She wants to shake my hand? No way!

“Hi.” I am practically quivering with nerves. “I'm Monica.” Our fingers touch.
I'm never washing that hand again
.

“And you're sassy!” Destiny flashes me a bright white, perfectly straight smile. I can't help but smile back. “It's just been one of those days. Sorry for getting all crazy.”

“I'm sorry too,” I say, even though I'm not. “I've just never had anyone try to kick me out of a bathroom before. You caught me off-guard.”

“I guess we're
both
having one of those days.” Destiny lifts herself up onto the edge of the countertop, letting her feet dangle above the floor. For a second I forget that she's famous, that she has everything I've ever wanted.

“Tell me about it.” I try to find some familiar ground for a conversation. “All I want is to be in a movie and make out with Danny Roberts, but it doesn't look like that's going to happen, so whatever. What's wrong with your day?”

This is, of course, a rhetorical question. Destiny Sparrow is one of the biggest celebrities on the planet. She has a famous, gorgeous boyfriend and the number one song on the radio, is starring in a big new movie, and has
people waiting on her hand and foot. Obviously, she's having a good day.

“Do you want a list?” she says, much to my surprise.

“A list? Of what?”

“Of all the things wrong with my day.” She wipes another tear from her eye while simultaneously blowing a bubble with her gum. It's a strange move, but one that I immediately want to copy.

“Sure,” I say almost too enthusiastically. It's exciting enough to be stuck in a bathroom with a celebrity, but to be stuck with a celebrity going through a crisis is almost too much for me to handle.

“Well, for starters, did you read
People
this morning?” Destiny punctuates her question with a question mark
and
a pouty face.

“Are you kidding?” I am almost insulted. “I read it
twice
cover to cover this morning and once again this afternoon.”

“So you already know that he's cheating on me,” Destiny sobs. “Can you believe it?” She pulls a paper towel from the dispenser to wipe her nose. I have to admit I'm sort of shocked; I always thought Destiny would be a little more . . . glamorous. “With that evil witch Marci Fresno. I mean, she's not even that pretty.”

I was so blinded by Destiny's Hollywood aura that I temporarily forgot she's dating Tyler Potter. I almost feel bad about Destiny walking in on my singing a Marci Fresno song earlier. Whatever, though. I sounded fierce.

“There are pictures of them everywhere—smiling, holding hands, feeding each other sushi. It's disgusting,” Destiny scoffs. “Come to think of it, he's not really that cute up close.”

She takes off her cap and runs her fingers through her hair. “They make a good couple, I guess. Dumb and ugly. Dugly!”

“Sounds like you're better off without him,” I say, trying to comfort her. “Besides, don't you have a million other things going on? How do you even have time for hand-holding or sushi?”

“The million other things I have going on . . . You mean all those other problems?”

“But isn't that your, um, job? And don't you love it? Making movies
and wearing expensive clothes and getting your picture taken?”

Destiny is looking down at the ground, gently shaking her head.

“World hunger is a problem,” I continue. “Global warming is a problem. AP Social Studies?
Major
problem. I wouldn't have ever thought being famous is a problem.” I lower my voice just slightly. “For real, it's all I've ever wanted!”

“It's not all it's cracked up to be,” Destiny says with a heavy sigh. “I mean, this movie I'm about to do—”

“
Tidal Wave
? The summer movie that everyone is talking about?”

“That's the one.” Destiny cringes. “Are you an actress?”

I shake my head. “I wish! I just want to audition for a movie, or be on a TV show. I mean, it doesn't look hard. But my dad says I have to study acting and join the drama club. Who has time for that?”

“You do have a great voice,” Destiny says with a hint of a smile. “Even though you were singing that dugly girl's song earlier.”

We both laugh. “Yeah, sorry about that,” I say, happy for the compliment.

“Can you act?”

“Totally,” I reply with confidence, even though I've never really thought about it. I've just assumed everyone will love me and, like I said, it doesn't look that hard. I've never really “acted” before, but . . . why couldn't I?

And then, it happens.

“Well,” Destiny asks, “do you want to give it a try?”

“What do you mean?” I am stunned at the prospect of being a real actress. “Do you think I could be an extra in
Tidal Wave
?”

Destiny's lips curl into a smirk. “I'm not talking about you being an extra.”

Slowly, she reaches up and takes off her hat, placing it on my head. It fits perfectly. She tilts her head, examining me for a second. Then she strolls over to one of the bathroom stalls and opens the door. “In here.” She motions toward the stall.

Truth be told, this is getting a little weird—but I think that Destiny is
about to cast me as an extra in her movie. So I oblige.

She closes the stall door behind me. I hear her walk into the stall next to mine. The next thing I know she throws a T-shirt over the divider. It's the shirt she was wearing.

“Here, put this on,” Destiny says, “and throw over your jeans!”

“Huh?” I mutter, unsure exactly what is going on.

“Do you want to be a star or not?” Destiny doesn't even give me time to answer—not that she needs to. “Then throw over your jeans!”

Minutes later, Destiny Sparrow and I emerge from our respective stalls, dressed just as the other was minutes ago. She gives me a good look up and down, and pulls down one shoulder of my T-shirt.

“Always do something a little different, a little quirky. That's sure to get you in the fashion blogs,” Destiny says, not realizing, of course, that I will never be featured on a fashion blog. “I think this is going to work for sure. They'll never know. You really look just like me. It's uncanny.”

“What?
Who
?” I am not able to form a complete sentence.

Destiny takes a tube of lip gloss from the small purse she's carrying. “Here, put some of this on.”

We stand in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at the girls before us. We look like twin sisters. Identical.

Only I look differently than I normally do in these new clothes. A little quirky. A little hip. Like I could show up in a photograph on a fashion blog. Like Destiny Sparrow. Like a star.

EXT.—GLOBALPIC STUDIOS—AFTERNOON

“Destiny, look this way!” someone shouts as soon as the car door opens.

“Over here, please, Ms. Sparrow!”

A line of photographers waits outside the studio. A hand reaches through the door of the black sedan and into the backseat where I'm sitting. It's Jacques, my—I mean
Destiny's
—driver. He's been driving Destiny around Hollywood for a while now, since her big break as an actor in
some awful television movie about being different and special or something, but he doesn't seem to suspect that his cargo isn't the real thing.

I grab his hand, step onto the sidewalk and, in an instant, I'm the only thing anyone is looking at.

The photographers keep shouting. I let go of Jacques's hand, which I instantly place on my hip—it makes you look nice and thin, and I've seen it a million times in magazines—and smile the most dazzling smile I can muster. I switch hands and make a pouty face, turning my attention to the photographers on the other side of the car.

“What's going on with you and Tyler?” someone shouts. “Is it over?”

I didn't know I'd be taking questions! I have to think fast.

“No comment,” shouts a voice from down the sidewalk.

High-heeled boots, ponytail, bright blue nail polish, clipboard—it's Stacy, Destiny's assistant.

Stacy whisks me past the photographers, avoiding the questions and the flashes. She moves fast. I have no time to think; she seems to be doing the thinking for me.

INT.—GLOBALPIC STUDIOS, DRESSING ROOM—AFTERNOON