I had to think fast. Dad would probably never let me visit him on set again while I was here. If I was going to try to meet George, it was now or never.
I turned to Jennica. “Back in a moment. I need to pee.”
I walked down the long corridor, passed the washrooms, and stepped outside. I pulled out the map to get my bearings. If Ben was right, it would take me fifteen minutes on foot to get to Lot 9 and fifteen minutes to get back. Plus I needed time to track down George and talk to him. I’d never get back before Dad’s hour-long lunch ended.
Then my gaze landed on Ben’s golf cart.
The keys were in the ignition.
I
t’s surprisingly easy to drive a golf cart,
I thought, as I cruised down the Tantamount Studios roads. Thankfully there was hardly any traffic, so it didn’t matter if I veered around a little when I looked down to double-check the map. I was pretty sure I was going the right way until I saw Lot 1 and realized I’d somehow wound up on the other side of the studio property.
I hadn’t figured out how to back up the golf cart, so I did a U-turn instead and headed back the way I’d come. I looked at my watch: I’d already wasted fifteen minutes. According to Ben, I could have walked to Lot 9 in that time. I gunned the engine, making it go at top speed, which, for the golf cart, was about twenty kilometers an hour.
And then, like a beacon in the distance, I saw it.
Lot 9! I sped down the road toward it, when suddenly, from out of nowhere, two live camels walked onto the road, right into my path.
Live camels!
I thought I was hallucinating. I swerved as hard as I could to the left – and almost careened into ten belly dancers, walking behind the camels. It was like being in a movie, but it wasn’t a movie, it was just stuff
for
a movie. I swerved as hard as I could to the right –
And smashed into a very expensive-looking sports car parked near the entrance to Lot 9.
The last thing I remembered was the golf cart tipping …
Me, tumbling out of the golf cart …
The sharp, searing sensation of my flesh, skidding across the asphalt …
And the golf cart, landing on top of me.
I
guess I must have passed out because the next thing I remembered, I was lying on a cot in a sterile white room. I could hear voices nearby.
“
This
is the person who hit my car?” It was a deep, masculine voice.
“Uh-huh.” A female voice. I opened my eyes. The female voice belonged to a woman in a white lab coat. I couldn’t see the owner of the male voice.
“With a golf cart?”
“Yup. A couple of extras in belly-dancing costumes saw it happen.”
“Is she going to be okay?”
“She’s got a twisted ankle and some nasty road burn, and we’ll have to watch for concussion, but other than that, she should be fine.”
“Who is she? Where did she come from?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
I turned my head left and right, trying to find the owner of the male voice, but he wasn’t in my immediate line of vision. I tried lifting myself up, but my head felt like a bowling ball.
“Her eyes are open, Doctor. Could I speak to her for a moment?”
“Be my guest.”
Suddenly a male face loomed over me. It was a very handsome face, even if it was a face that belonged to a man who was old enough to be my father. Correction: It was a
very, very, very
handsome face, with warm mischievous eyes and a killer smile.
It was George Clooney.
“Hi, there.”
“Hi.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Sore.”
“The doctor says you’ll be fine.”
I nodded.
“You hit my car.”
I winced. “That was your car?”
He nodded.
“I’m really sorry. I was trying to avoid the camels. And the belly dancers.”
“Well, better my car than the camels or the belly
dancers. But if you don’t mind my saying so, you look a little young to be driving.”
“I’ll be old enough soon.”
“How soon?”
I hesitated. “Three and a quarter years?”
“
Hmm.
So, let me ask you this: What on earth were you doing, driving one of the studio golf carts?”
“I was coming to visit you.”
“You were, were you.”
“I wrote you a letter. Two, in fact. You haven’t responded yet. I sent them to your manager’s address.”
“And what did these letters say?”
“I asked if you’d like to meet my mom.”
“Your mom?”
“You met her once before, years ago. Ingrid Gustafson?”
He looked at me blankly.
“You wrote on the picture you gave her that you hoped your paths would cross again. I was trying to make that happen.”
“Can I ask why?”
“I thought she’d be the type of woman who might change your mind about marriage.”
George thought about this for a moment. “I take it your dad isn’t in the picture.”
“Oh, he’s in the picture. Just not with my mom. He’s directing a pilot on Lot 18. He’s remarried.”
“Did your mom put you up to this?”
“No, no. She doesn’t know I wrote the letters. She thinks she’s perfectly happy dating this man named Dudley Wiener.”
“Wiener. Unfortunate name.”
“Yes.”
“But maybe she is. Happy, I mean.”
“No. She’s delusional.”
“Really.”
“Really. He’s not good enough for her.”
“Why not?”
“Because. He’s bland. And balding. And he’s a punster. And he’s got man-boobs.”
“Man-boobs, huh? Well, if you don’t mind my saying so, those don’t sound like very good reasons. Those sound like,
um,
superficial reasons.”
“It’s more than that. He’s not …” I struggled to put it into words. “He’s not …”
“He’s not your dad?”
I nodded, and suddenly my eyes welled up with tears. I was crying, right there in front of George Clooney, big fat tears rolling down my face. “I mean, I know my dad was a jerk in the end, leaving my mom for Wife Number Two and all … but when he was really our dad, he was great, you know? Dudley is so …”
“Not your dad.”
“Not even close.” I sniffed back a large snot-ball that had formed in my left nostril.
George handed me a Kleenex and patted my hand.
“See? You’re handsome
and
smart
and
kind. You’d be perfect for her.”
He shook his head. “I wouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“It sounds to me like your mom deserves someone who’d be there for her, always. I’m not that guy.”
“Maybe you are that guy, and you just haven’t met the right woman.”
“It’s possible. But I doubt it. A man tends to know himself pretty well when he reaches almost half a century.”
“Wow. You’re old.”
He smiled. “Ancient.” He picked up my hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Can I tell you something? No one is ever going to be able to replace your dad. Not even me.”
I nodded, and my head felt like it might explode.
“But let me ask you this. Does this Wiener guy make your mom happy?”
“It would seem so, yes.”
“So maybe you need to give him a chance.”
A wave of exhaustion washed over me. I suddenly felt like I could sleep forever.
“What’s your name?” asked George.
“Violet. Violet Gustafson.” And then, just like that, with the biggest movie star of all time standing over my bed, I fell back into a deep sleep.
W
hen I woke up again, it was pitch-dark, and Jennica was shaking me awake. It took me a full minute to realize I was in my bed at Dad and Jennica’s and that Rosie was sound asleep in the bed beside me.
“What are you doing?” I mumbled to Jennica, my voice thick with sleep. I could feel pain pulsing down the right side of my body.
“I have to wake you up once an hour and check your pupils to make sure you don’t have a concussion. Doctor’s orders.”
“Where’s Dad?”
“Still at work.” I glanced at the clock. It was almost 2:00 a.m. “They shut down production for a couple of hours when he found out you were in the Tantamount
infirmary…. Once we all realized you’d be okay, he had to rush back and play catch-up.”
I thought about the guy in the suit who was already giving my dad grief and groaned. “Dad’s gonna be furious.”
Jennica squeezed my hand, but she didn’t contradict me. “We’ll talk about all of this in the morning. In the meantime, I’m just glad you’re okay.” She stood up and walked to the door. “See you in an hour.”
“Jennica?” I said.
She turned back.
“Thanks.”
She gave me a small, tired smile before she walked away.
“George Clooney’s car!” Dad was pacing back and forth in the kitchen, clutching a mug of coffee.
Jennica and I were still in our pajamas. She had dark circles under her eyes, thanks to her once-an-hour vigil over yours truly the night before. I had a single crutch to help me move around on my twisted ankle. The right side of my body – leg, hip, and arm – was raw and red and starting to form scabs.
“You hit George Clooney’s car! With a studio golf cart! That you
stole!
And you’re
twelve!
”
“Almost thirteen. And I didn’t steal it, I borrowed it –”
“George Clooney’s car!”
This particular piece of information was clearly the worst part of it for Dad. “He must be furious.”
“Not really,” I said.
“What do you mean, ‘not really’?”
“I spoke with him. In the infirmary.”
My dad rubbed his temples. “Violet, don’t be ridiculous. George was shooting all day, he couldn’t have visited you in the infirmary.”
“But he did. Just ask the doctor. She was there.”
Jennica said gently, “The doctor wasn’t a
she
, Violet. His name was Bernard.”
Now I felt confused. “But I
did
talk to him –”
“You’d hit your head. You were hallucinating,” my dad said.
“If I was hallucinating, how come I already knew I’d hit his car?”
“Because the parking spot had RESERVED FOR GEORGE CLOONEY painted on the curbstone in enormous letters. You must have seen it while you were lying there on the pavement….” His voice broke. “Violet, you could have killed yourself. You had us worried half to death.”
Then he grabbed me and hugged me tightly for a few seconds before letting me go. “Dammit, why can’t we ever have a normal visit with you?” He gave Jennica
a quick kiss on the crown of her head. “I’m sorry, I have to go. Call time’s not for two hours, but I have to revise my storyboard, try to make up for lost time.” He shot me a look as he said this.
As he headed out of the room, he shouted over his shoulder, “And call your mother!”
Jennica and I were left alone in the kitchen. We could hear Rosie and the twins, playing happily in the family room. Jennica handed me a pill, something the doctor had given me for the pain. I drank it down with some apple juice.
“Do you really think you saw George Clooney?” she asked.
“Yes. At least, I thought I did. Now I’m not so sure.”
“Is he as good-looking in real life as he is in his movies?”
“Better.”
Jennica smiled, and the smile turned into a yawn.
“Why don’t you go back to bed?” I said.
“I can’t. It’s Anna Maria’s day off.”
“I can watch Rosie and the twins,” I told her.
She looked at me, and I knew she was trying to decide whether or not she could trust me.
“Just for an hour. And I won’t take them outside. We’ll stay in the family room.” Then I said what she really wanted to hear. “I won’t do anything mean. I promise.”
She studied my face for a moment. “Okay. Thanks, Violet, I appreciate it.” Then she handed me the portable phone. “But first, call your mother.”
“Violet, is everything okay?” my mom asked, when I got through to her on her cell phone. She was at work, and I could hear voices in the background.
“Everything’s great, Mom. Me and Rosie are fine.” I paused. “But I did have a bit of an accident yesterday.”
There was silence for a moment. “An accident?”
“I’m fine. I just have a twisted ankle. And I’m pretty scraped up. And they thought I might have a concussion, but I don’t.”
“What happened?” There was a hint of hysteria in her voice.
“
Um
… I kind of fell out of a golf cart. And it kind of landed on top of me.”
“What?”
“But, you know, it’s a pretty long story, and you’re at work and all, so it can wait till I get home –”
“No. No, it can’t wait till you get home. Karen, take over for me, will you?”
A moment later, the background noise died down, and I knew she’d stepped into the hall. “Okay, Violet. Tell me everything.”
So I did.
“R
osie, stop squirming.”
“The tag is itchy!”
“Fine, I’ll find someone with scissors.”
It was June. Rosie and I had been home from Los Angeles for three months. And now, here we were, wearing matching bridesmaids dresses. Only technically we weren’t bridesmaids, we were flower girls.
For someone who doesn’t like to wear dresses, I have to admit that these ones were okay. They were simple, with empire waists. The fabric was a silky pearl gray. They stopped just above the knee. My leg was completely healed, the scabs long gone. I remembered what Jennica had said about my legs, and for once in my life, I thought I didn’t look half-bad.
“Karen, do you have scissors?” I asked. She was
wearing the grown-up version of our dress, in the same fabric, but hers was long, form-fitting, and sleeveless. She’d toned down on the makeup, and she actually looked almost pretty.
“Yes, I think I do,” she said, rummaging through her handbag. “Here.”
I cut Rosie’s tag off, and she breathed a sigh of relief. “Better!”
“Here are your baskets,” said Karen, handing us each a straw basket full of rose petals. “Remember, and, Rosie, this goes especially for you, don’t throw them all at once. Just toss small handfuls as you walk down the aisle.”
I nodded, suddenly nervous. The church was packed, and we would be the first two people down the aisle.