Wrong About the Guy(78)

We were hanging out in the family room one day when he called out, “Mom. Look!” and we both jumped to our feet—it was the first time he’d ever said her name just to get her attention.

He pointed to the floor, where he’d been busily arranging some plastic letters. Most of them were in a long row.

“What’s a jacobellie?” Mom said, studying it. Then, with a delighted laugh: “Oh, it’s his name and yours put together!”

“Did you know he could spell?” I asked, dumbfounded.

“I had no idea.”

“He’s a total genius!”

“There’s definitely a lot more going on in that little head than we realize.” She called Luke to tell him and I could hear him shouting with excitement at the other end of the line.

Thanks to Luke and Michael, in May, George finally landed a job—as the assistant to the vice president of development at a TV studio. It wasn’t the writing job he’d hoped for, but he had reached a point where he was just happy to have full-time work. His hours were long, and he always had scripts to read on the weekends. I complained that he wasn’t paying me enough attention, and he came up with a solution: that I stop complaining.

We’ll Make You a Star had gone on hiatus in April, so Luke was desperately trying to write and record a new batch of songs for the album he wanted to release the following fall. It kept him busy, but the Luke who was being creative was always happier than the one who was the TV star. He didn’t love that job, but it paid the bills and—he would have been the first to admit—gave him the leverage and power to put out the kind of music he wanted to.

My grandmother started dating some senior citizen and informed me soon after that their relationship had become “physically intimate.” I jokingly reminded her to use condoms, and she said seriously, “Well, of course pregnancy isn’t an issue for me, but STDs are. You know what those are, right? STDs?” I told her I did and got off the phone quickly, before she could give me more information about that than I wanted, which was really any information at all.

I didn’t want George to go with me to my prom. “You’re too old,” I explained. “It would be incredibly awkward for you to be around all those high school kids, and I’d feel guilty dragging you around, making you meet people who just want to see who Luke Weston’s stepdaughter is dating. You’d hate it. Aaron’s up for it and he’s used to all the fame-whore weirdness.”

“I’m all in favor of not going,” he said, “but couldn’t you not go, too? Especially not with him?”

“It’s the only high school prom I’ll ever have. And who would you rather I went with? You know you don’t have to worry about Aaron.”

“Can’t you go with a gay friend?”

“The gay guys in my grade all have dates,” I said. “All the girls who don’t have boyfriends were fighting over them. Anyway, I’ve already asked Aaron and he’s already said yes.”

“Fine,” he said. “Just come over to my place after. No flying around all night on Aladdin’s magic carpet.”

I promised. Mom knew I was planning to be out all night anyway—everyone stayed up on prom night.

She and Luke took a ridiculous number of photos of us when Aaron came to pick me up for prom. As we posed, his arm around my shoulder, he reminded me that he was going to put me through all of this again in a week, at his school’s prom.

He clutched me a little too tightly during the last dance of the night, so I pulled away and said, “Let’s sit this one out.”

The limousine dropped us off at my house and I walked him to his car. He leaned against it and said, “Sometimes I think I made a mistake, missing my chance with you.”

And I said cheerfully, “You never had one.”

I don’t think he believed me, but I didn’t care. I quickly pecked him on the cheek and ran inside to get my stuff.

It was past midnight by the time I got to George’s apartment.

“Wow,” he said when he opened the door to me. I was still wearing my ivory-colored prom dress, which was very tight in the bodice with a long, flowing skirt. It had, as Mom pointed out, cost more than a month’s rent at our old apartment. I’d brought a change of clothes in a bag, but wanted George to see me all done up. “Your mother sent me a photo but it didn’t do you justice.”


“Do you like my hair?” Mom had hired Roger to style me, and he’d straightened my hair with a flat iron, then pinned half of it up, and let the rest of it fall to my waist, which it did when it was completely straight.

“It’s pretty,” George said, and touched it lightly with his fingertips. “But I wouldn’t want you to straighten it all the time. I’d miss your curls.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “It took three hours to get it like this. I may never do it again.”

We went inside and he said, “Will you hate me if I do a tiny bit of work? I just finished reading a script and I need to write down a few notes before I forget.”

I pouted. “If you’d rather work than be with me . . .”

“Not fair,” he said. “I’d rather work and be with you. Come sit next to me.” He led me over to the tiny table where he worked and ate. And did everything else that could be done on a table. His apartment was small, narrow, and dark. It was my favorite place in the world.