Catch a Falling Star (7 page)

reverse, one small ribbon of string or branch at a time unwoven

and carried away.

I stood now in the dim light of our night kitchen and poured

hot water over a mint tea bag in a blue ceramic mug. The clock

ticked on the wall. The crickets sounded through the open win-

dow of the kitchen. I stared out into the black of the backyard, at

the monster form of the maple tree, at the silhouette of our

garage. “Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“If T.J. doesn’t get his money, will he just keep throwing

bricks, or something worse?”

Dad hesitated. Occasionally, he and Mom talked about John’s

45

gambling in passing, the way you would about something you read

in the newspaper or overheard at the café. But they never really

talked to me about it. About the darker pieces. They hid it away, as

if it were contagious, so it didn’t infect me, their whole, function-

ing daughter. “Much worse, honey.”

“Why don’t you tell the police?” My hands felt cold, even hold-

ing the warm blue mug.

“It’s complicated.” Dad’s standard answer when he didn’t

know the answer. “Besides” — he pulled from his beer — “it

might be easier to just pay T.J. off — get John a fresh start.”

My stomach turned. I’d heard that before. How many fresh

starts was a person allowed? Two? Ten? As many as it took? “Maybe

we could get him back into treatment.” Six months ago, he’d

emerged from a place in Napa, his face smooth, his eyes two bright

spots of promise, a look I recognized from days when he and I

would lie in the grass and make shapes out of clouds. Like the time

when cloud watching seemed entirely enough to him.

“Yeah.” Dad sighed again, finishing his beer. He set the clear

bottle on the table, rolling it back and forth in his hand. “I’m afraid

that’s a bit out of our range right now.”

I pulled Parker’s paper from my pocket and pushed it across

the table to him, my stomach a fist. “Maybe not.”

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five

the next morning before we opened, Parker knocked again, and

Dad let him in. Dressed casually in jeans and a T-shirt, he smiled

eagerly at both of us. “All right, then? You’re a go?” He didn’t even

seem to notice the window, the huge piece of black plastic taped

over it.

“Guess you get to fill up your Prius,” I mumbled from behind

the counter, my hands cupped around a steaming cup of coffee.

Dad shot me a strange look, looking tired and rumpled in his

Little Eats T-shirt and khaki shorts. Dad wasn’t a small guy,

his broad shoulders still echoing his stint on the Little football

team in high school, but today he seemed like someone had taken

an eraser to all his edges, diminished him.

Last night, he’d said no right away. “It’s offensive.”

Was it? It had weirded me out, but I didn’t feel
offended
.

“They’re not asking me to do anything other than sell an image.”

Of course, I wasn’t totally sure how I felt about that part of it.

“That makes you sound like a Pepsi commercial.” Dad had

frowned at his empty beer bottle. “Your mother would flip out.”

She would. I thought about how I could explain it to Mom.

“What if I was just doing it as some sort of social experiment?”

47

Dad widened his eyes at me. “God, have we been such horrible

parents that you’d think there’s a way to spin this?” He tossed the

bottle into our recycle bin.

But I could feel his moral boundaries growing mutable like

gum, so I pulled my last card. “I’m a responsible person, Dad. I’ve

always been responsible. You have no reason not to trust me.”

“I know.” He studied a spot behind me on the wall, turning it

over in his mind. “It doesn’t sound like they’re asking you to do

anything other than hang out with the guy.” He sighed. “I mean,

it’s not something
I’d
want to do.”

“No offense, Dad, but I’m not sure that’s the angle they’re

going for.”

His gaze rested back on me. “Okay. But, before you say yes to

this, I need you to think about something. You’re a private girl. A

really
private girl. I’m not sure you’ll like getting wrapped up in

that world. It’ll be very intrusive, Carter. Not just to you. They’re

going to dig.”

“I know.”

“I’m not sure you do.”

“I’m not that interesting.”

“You’ll be who Adam Jakes is choosing, and for some sick cul-

tural reason we’d need your mother to explain, that will make you

interesting enough.” He stood, the chair scraping the floor. “But I

do trust you, so I’m going to let this be your call.”

Now, Parker stood near the drink cases of our café, calmly

reading our specials board still left over from yesterday. Catching

my eye, he said, “We’ll wait for Adam and go over the ground

rules.” He checked his phone.

48

“Adam’s coming here?”

“Yes.”

“Now?”

“Is that a problem?” Parker glanced up.

“Nope.” My voice came out a squeak. I moved from behind the

counter to one of the tables, sipping my coffee, the confidence I’d

felt last night draining from me.

Several minutes later, Parker let Adam Jakes in through our

kitchen door. Seeing him move into the café, sunglasses flashing

even though the morning light was still more the blue haze of dawn

than bright, anxiety flooded my body, and I wanted to take back

the phone call I’d made as soon as I had woken up at four thirty

this morning.

This was definitely not okay, social experiment or otherwise.

Adam Jakes stopped, pushed his glasses up into his tousled

hair, and, for the first time, looked at me, a look that clearly said

he’d rather be anywhere else in the world but here. I managed a

wobbly smile. What must this tabloid boy — this fast-car, fast-girl,

rehabed movie star — think of the brown-ponytailed small-town

girl standing in front of him? Me. Carter Moon. I had knobby

knees, an uneven tan, a slow car, and the hardest drug I’d ever

tried was an oregano cigarette in fifth grade that made me swear

off pizza for six weeks.

“Um, hey,” I mustered awkwardly. “I’m Carter.”

“Hi, Carter,” he purred, the lights from the drink cases reflect-

ing in the mirrored lenses perched in his hair. “Let’s get the basics

down; you should pay attention.” His eyes darted around our café.

“Do you need a minute?”

49

“Why would I need a minute?”

“Sometimes girls need a minute after they’ve met me. You

know, to get over the shock.” He flopped into a chair at a nearby

table, suddenly absorbed in his phone.

I glanced at Parker, who sort of half frowned at Adam. Maybe

I should tell him I needed a minute to get over the fact that I’d just

committed to spending a huge chunk of my summer with a guy

who seemed to have the social awareness of a two-year-old. Biting

that gem back, I asked instead, “Do either of you want something

to drink?” I shot a glance at Dad, who stood quietly behind the

counter, eyes narrowed, watching Adam with the same look he got

watching his 49ers botch an important football game. I could feel

his mind changing, too.

Adam didn’t look up from his phone. “Parker will hook me up.”

Parker hurried to order a drink so long and with so many

stipulations I lost track somewhere between “chai” and “soy” and

“nonfat” before I refocused on Adam. My
boyfriend
. I let out a laugh

that sounded like a parrot hiccupping.

This got his attention. “Something funny?”

“This.”

“What?”

I made a motion with my arms as if to say,
Everything
. “This whole

thing. It’s pretty funny.” He didn’t seem to think it was too funny.

I let my eyes wander the café, suddenly aware of how small it was,

how some of the pictures on the walls sat askew, how the trim

around the doorway leading to the bathrooms needed new paint.

Adam drummed his fingers on the table. “Are we going to do

this or what? I’m in makeup soon.” He motioned to the chair across

50

from him, his eyes already back on his phone, and mumbled, “Have

a seat. Don’t be nervous. I know it’s weird to finally meet someone

you’ve thought about but who has no idea who you are.” This was

clearly something he’d said before; it had the dry-edged tone of

rehearsal.

But I wasn’t
nervous
. That was
not
what I was feeling. More

nauseous
. I thought about telling him where he could put his fame

and his attitude; I thought about telling him I didn’t think about

him. The way I didn’t think about my dentist or the guy who

worked at the gas station. Not unless I was having my teeth cleaned

or filling up my car. I wanted to tell him that, but I couldn’t seem

to find my voice. Adam obviously thought I was just another stu-

pid, starstruck girl. Which made sense. Girls probably acted like

idiots in front of him. Probably tossed their panties at him or worse.

Well, my panties were staying on, thank you very much. “I’m

not nervous. It’s more just weird than anything else. You being

here. With me. This — whatever it is we’re doing.” I tried to laugh,

but it sounded like a balloon popping.

Adam looked up from his phone, a smile twitching his mouth.

“And what is it you think we’re doing?”

My cheeks burned. “Nothing! We’re doing nothing. We’re

totally PG.” Great, now I sounded like Parker.

Adam’s eyes flashed. “I mean, I’m open to ideas.”

Behind me, Dad dropped whatever drink he’d been making. I

heard the cup clatter to the counter. My tongue knotted up. Okay,

fine, I was nervous. Stupid, gorgeous, stuck-up movie star. I

wanted to telepathically suggest to Dad that he make Adam Jakes

a nonfat-soy-chai-cyanide latte.

51

Parker handed Adam a white mug. Apparently, that hadn’t

been what Dad had dropped. “Charming banter, you two, but we

really need to talk ground rules.” His voice was smooth, low, like

talking to a kitten. I nodded in what I hoped was a reassuring,

confident manner. Most likely, my head bobbed like a chicken. As

much as I hated to admit it, I couldn’t seem to find my confidence.

Adam Jakes, jerk or not, was still a movie star, and he just seemed

to take up all the space in the room.

“Let’s talk,” I managed, my chest tight.

Fifteen minutes later, Parker had done all the talking, and

Adam hadn’t looked up from his phone. Not once. Finally, Dad

showed them both out through the kitchen door, where the black

Range Rover sat idling in our back lot. After closing the door

behind them, Dad sat down next to me at the table, his face worried.

“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”

I hoped my face didn’t reflect his worry right back at him. “It’s

a little late now, don’t you think?”

He hooked a thumb in the direction of their retreat. “I don’t

like that guy.”

“Which one?”

“Both of them.”

“They certainly love themselves.” I sipped my coffee, almost

cold now, and put my hand on his arm. “It’ll be fine, I promise. I’ll

back out if I need to.” I glanced at the clock. We needed to start

getting ready to open. I stood. “We need more mango iced tea if

you want to make it.”

His gray eyes followed me. “Mom’s coming home.”

I brought out a stack of clean mugs for the top of the espresso

52

machine. “She doesn’t need to do that.” I squinted at one to see if

it was too chipped to use, decided it was fine, and added it to the

stack. “It might be easier if she didn’t.”

He bent to pick at something in the hardwood. Smashed gum.

Lovely. Using a napkin to pull it up, he said, “She’s a mama bear,

for sure.”

“More like Mama Militia Coordinator.” Only that wasn’t

totally fair. On the phone last night, I told Mom that I was going to

pose as Adam’s girlfriend, and I’d expected a lecture on the moral

vacuum that was young Hollywood, but instead she heard me out,

heard my reasons, especially after what had happened with John

last night. She’d been quiet for a second, then said, “You sure you

want to do this?” I could see her, curled on the bed of the van

somewhere in central California, legs bare, hand covering her

non-phone ear like she always did, even when it wasn’t noisy.

I told her I knew what I was doing.

She pretended we both thought this was true.

Dad started making the mango tea. “She still gets to worry

about you.”

“She’s worried about the whole world. And I mean, seriously,

why should she be here babysitting me and some guy when she’s

making sure farmers get the support they need?” I checked that the

garbage had a fresh bag in it.

He watched me the way he sometimes looked at pictures of

toddler me, of first-day-at-school me, that dreamy sadness, then

said, “She can’t possibly wonder where you get it from.”

I studied Dad’s back as he went out through the front door to