Fame, Fate, and the First Kiss(25)

“What kind of demands?” I asked.

As if he realized he had said more than he should’ve, he shook his head and said, “No, it’s not a big deal. Things most agents ask for.”

I wondered if my agent had made any demands for me aside from all the things my dad had wanted added into the contract, like extra breaks and no working after 10:00 p.m.

We made it all the way to the food table, where Peter looked up with our arrival. He nodded at Aaron, then gave me the once-over like he didn’t realize who I was without the zombie makeup on. I just smiled.

“I’ll be right back,” Aaron said, then walked over to a metal box on wheels. He opened a hatch at the front of it but then looked around, probably realizing he had nothing to put the ice in. He held up his finger to me and then ran off.

Feeling a bit awkward standing there next to Grant’s agent in silence, I began surveying the food table. And even though I wasn’t hungry, I picked up a yogurt cup and took a spoonful.

“Do you have a publicist?” Peter asked me. Of course he knew who I was.

“Um . . .” I actually wasn’t sure. My agent may have mentioned one before.

“You need a publicist,” he said. “To work on your image.” He grabbed a chocolate-drizzled strawberry off the table, and then he and his tan legs and flip-flops walked away.

Aaron came back a few minutes later holding a gallon-size ziplock bag full of ice that I hadn’t heard him get. “You okay?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“What’s this for, then?” He shook the bag.

I took it from him. “My knees are sore. Benches are hard.” I pointed over my shoulder. “I better get to homework. Thanks for your help.”

Back in my trailer, ice on my knees, I worked on my homework for a while before I became distracted with a thought. I tapped my pencil over and over again on the paper. My phone sat beside me on the couch. Why had Peter asked me about a publicist? Was there more than the original horrible picture and caption that I had seen the other day? I picked up my phone and googled my name. I held my breath as my phone worked. Nothing new came up, and the original post I had seen had fizzled out, not turning into anything viral. I let out my breath in relief and sent a text to my dad: Do I have a publicist?

He responded back almost immediately: No. Too expensive for how little money you make.

That was probably true. But I sent off an email to my agent anyway. Do I need a publicist?

No matter how much I stared at my inbox, she didn’t answer back. I’d survive without a publicist for now. I’d done it up to this point.





Eleven


“This is all you got done last night?” Dad said when I walked into the kitchen the next morning. I had tried to sleep in, but my body was used to waking up early now.

“What?” I asked, rubbing at my eyes, then searching the pantry for something to eat. I pulled a granola bar from the box and unwrapped it.

“Your schoolwork. You answered like two problems.”

“Oh, right. I’ll finish—that’s why I brought it home. I have the next two days off,” I said through granola.

He set my work on the table. “Yes, you will finish. Right now. And then you will take this to the school today and turn it into your mentor teacher. It’s about time you met her.”

“Dad, this is my first day off since we started.”

“If you did your work when you were supposed to, you could actually have a day off. But you don’t. So have a seat. It shouldn’t take you very long.”

I groaned. Why were we always having the same argument over and over? “Dad, do you hear that?”

He went still and listened for a moment. “Hear what?”

“The sound of your blades whirling above me as you hover.”

“Are you saying I’m one of those helicopter parents?”

“So you do hear it?”

“It is my job to make sure you don’t get behind in school. So get to work.”

“Fine.” I sat down hard in the chair, biting back the ouch. Maybe it was because I was mad, or maybe it was because I really wanted to leave the house, but I finished the rest of my independent study homework faster than any I had before. Half the answers were probably wrong, but that wasn’t the point. The point was I was free from my prison guard.

School had been in session for over four weeks. But I, personally, hadn’t been on a high school campus since before summer break. And I had never been on this high school campus. It felt different than my old school. Bigger, for one. But in some ways it felt exactly the same.

I stopped in the middle of the walkway and took a deep breath. High school. I couldn’t decide if I missed it.

One day I’d walk around a place like this and people would recognize me. That thought made me smile. Today wasn’t that day. The late bell had just rung, so there were only a few students walking the halls, but nobody gave me a second glance. I wondered if even Donavan would recognize me today without my zombie makeup on. I’d washed my hair the night before too, something I hadn’t done in a while per instructions and I couldn’t help pulling on the silky ends.

I’d parked in a visitor spot and was now trying to find the office. Shouldn’t it be clearly marked? There were four buildings surrounding me, each multiple stories, none with the words This is the office on them.