#famous(47)

It was just me, in the basement, alone with my crazy.

I couldn’t really text him, could I? First? What would I even say?

After all, I couldn’t figure out what his standing up for me to Jessie even meant. Was it really as amazing as it seemed? It could have just been pity. Or did it not mean anything at all? Kyle always seemed so sure of himself, so confident. He might have stood up for anyone so obviously drowning in that tidal wave of evil.

And how did he do that, anyway? How could anyone face gale-force Jessie and not want to curl up into a little ball and disappear?

Halfway through the third episode of the home remodeling show I’d been zoning out to, the house phone rang. I heard Mom shuffle across the kitchen to pick it up. I don’t know why we even still had a landline. Only telemarketers and Grandpa Parker called on it, and even Grandpa had a cell now, one the salesperson had programmed so the text appeared in one-thousand-point font.

“Rachel.” My mom’s voice floated down the basement stairs. “Telephone.”

Oh for Christ’s sake.

I ran up the stairs and grabbed the phone from Mom. She looked at me so hopefully, almost pleadingly. Something about it made me sad. She wanted so badly for me to have this—anything that would make me happy, really—and she had no idea I was lying to her.

“This is Rachel,” I said.

“Rachel, hi, it’s Mary.” The producer sounded the same way she looked in person: like she was tending to multiple pots on multiple stoves, all of them a second from boiling over.

“Oh, hi.”

I heard a shuffling sound and a behind-the-hand whisper. I wondered if Mary ever stopped multitasking people.

“Sorry, this place is falling to pieces. Anyway, your mom texted to let us know you’re on board. Which is great. Fabulous. We are going to have an absolute blast with this series, I promise you.”

“Oh. Um, great.” Now I really couldn’t back out. I was briefly pissed with Mom for cornering me, till I remembered I was the one who had just made such a huge effort to convince her this was what I wanted.

“I had an idea for your first segment on the flight back, and I wanted to see if you had any thoughts.”

“All right.” I couldn’t imagine what kind of input I could possibly give a professional television producer. I’d never even taken a film class. It was flattering, though, even if Mary was just trying to butter me up.

“First off, where do girls near you buy homecoming dresses?”

“I mean, there are a few places by me . . .”

“Assume they had no spending limit and wanted the biggest selection possible.”

I blinked a few times, then, still uncertain, pinched my arm.

It hurt more than I expected.

So this wasn’t a dream . . . or a nightmare. It was really happening.





chapter thirty-two


KYLE

SATURDAY, 9:45 A.M.

I’d gone to bed feeling kinda good.

I woke up remembering the look on Emma’s face as she ran down the stairs. Hurt, and angry, and teary.

I did that.

Oof.

I headed downstairs. There was a note on the counter; apparently Mom was at some farmer’s market downtown. Dad would still be asleep. He’d been pulling ridiculous hours lately, traveling at least once a week to meet clients whose portfolios he was managing. Saturday mornings, if he was in town, he usually stayed in bed till noon.

I was glad. He and I hadn’t really talked yet about what had happened, except for one quick phone call when I was in L.A. and he was in Chicago. The idea of going through it in detail for him was kinda tiring. My ability to play the part Mom wanted (me: thrilled at this, totally on board, raring to go) was starting to wear thin. Emma was pissed, Rachel was getting attacked, and Ollie thought I was a tool. Being famous was supposed to be fun. Or at least less stressful. Was I really doing all this just to maybe get into a school I didn’t want to go to?

I filled a soup bowl with Cap’n Crunch and headed back to my bedroom, plopping onto a gaming chair to eat.

I had to text her.

But I didn’t really want to.

Maybe she wouldn’t be up. I kind of hoped she wouldn’t.

(To Emma): Just wanted to check to see how you’re holding up



She responded immediately.

(From Emma): Why? It’s not like you actually care how I’m feeling.



Awesome. This: why I’d been dreading talking to Emma.

(To Emma): You know that’s not true



(From Emma): I know you decided to defend her. Jessie told me what happened.



(From Emma): Maybe you’re into her. Not the type I’d expect you to go for, but what do I know?



I hated when Emma did this. I’d never cheated. I’d never even looked at another girl since we’d gotten together, not seriously. Why would I? But every so often she’d get worked up over nothing as some sort of, like, power play. Usually I just gave in and said what she wanted me to: how could I be interested in anyone else when I have you?

I didn’t want to do that, though. I’d played Emma’s game for a year now, and where had it gotten me? We weren’t together. She’d kicked me out of her house, then ignored me all day, then kissed me in the parking lot, then freaked out about a homecoming date she knew was just for TV. And now: fake jealousy. Was I really supposed to apologize for trying to keep Jessie from drawing blood?