Authors: Allison Rushby
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out by his publicity machine would have been Photoshopped like crazy.
In front of me, Ned shrugged. “The camera’s your problem. I’m just saying you’re different, but you’re not using that difference to your advantage. Not that I think there should be paparazzi at all, of course.”
I rolled my eyes at this one. Nice try, Ned. He knew full well that without the paparazzi, the stars wouldn’t be as
famous and important as they are. The public are constantly duped into thinking the paparazzi are evil when in reality it’s a symbiotic relationship. The stars need the paparazzi and the paparazzi need the stars. It’s always amusing to see an actor, desperate for attention on the way up, supposedly “hate” all the fuss when they get there, then seek it out again with sad stunts on the way down.
And on the “all paps are evil” subject, let’s not forget the public. Because that’s the thing about papping— it is completely, utterly, and totally market driven. If the public didn’t want the photos, we wouldn’t be taking them. The day they stop throwing their copy of Us Weekly into their shopping cart is the day we stop taking these so- called invasive photos.
“What on earth are you doing?” Someone barreled up behind us. Ned’s dad, Matthew Hartnett.
“I guess that explains where your parents are!” I said cheekily and took off before Matthew Hartnett could lay into me like he was famous for laying into his son. Though, to be 37
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fair, I’d heard he had two sons. It’s just that the other one was smart enough to live in NYC with his mother, which meant that he probably escaped the wrath of his father. At least on a daily basis.
I hadn’t made any money at all that night. I’d ended up spending some of Dad’s instead, having X-rays taken in the emergency room (a hairline fracture . . . no big deal). But despite the eve ning’s injuries, that night had turned out to be more than a worthwhile investment. I soon realized Ned was right. I was different. And I wasn’t using that difference to my advantage.
I thought about it for a bit, then made a few trips out to surveillance shops. A lot of what they were selling just wasn’t going to cut it for me. An ugly watch camera, a pen camera and a calculator camera? Yeah . . . not unless the nerds were suddenly going to make an assault on Hollywood. After I shopped around a bit more and browsed what was available on the net, I started to think laterally. Maybe I could buy a few objects that people would believe a kid would have on them, gut them and install cameras inside? Dad fi xed me up with some contacts, and over the next couple weeks, I had several devices custom- made. Then I set about doing exactly what Ned had told me to do.
At fi rst, taking my devices out and about with me was a bit painful. There was no denying it was easier and the shots were better when I used my camera. The fi rst couple hundred pictures I got off my fauxPod were pathetic— shots of 38
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stars’ legs (not in a good way), tiles, car wheels, the sky, and so on. But as I kept going, I got better at it. Pretty soon, I ditched most of the other items and used the fauxPod almost exclusively. And I started to realize it was worth trying to hone my picture- taking skills, because I was getting into some pretty neat places. Not just restaurants, but poolside at hotels, onto golf greens, and even into spas and hairdressing salons.
I drew the line at following stars to the bathroom. There was invading privacy and invading privacy.
As I used my fauxPod more and more over the following weeks and months, I thought about Ned a lot. I told myself it was because he’d been the start of what I’d become, but the truth was, I knew that wasn’t really true. And every night that I went to work, I’d look out for him. I wondered if he’d be there. If I’d see him again.
But I didn’t see him after that night, because Ned Hartnett kind of disappeared. He made that one appearance, then a few more, just enough so that all the rumors died down. And then he retreated back to his house, saying he was busy working on a new album and would “see everyone soon.” Which, of course, led everyone (especially Melissa) to work themselves into a frenzy wondering just what he was up to.
Was he planning to tour with this new album? The media went crazy. When in doubt, speculate.
That was just over a year ago and the new album was set to be released within the next few months. So far, there hadn’t been news of a tour, but you never knew. Maybe there really 39
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would be if he was out and about on the town again. But what was with him going to a retreat? You just never knew with Ned Hartnett.
Back at the apartment, I park my bike and lock it up, all the while trying to convince myself that the job I’m taking on isn’t as bad as it seems. After all, Ned Hartnett can hardly whine about me taking covert shots of him, considering my taking covert shots was all his idea in the fi rst place.
Right?
Right?!?!?!
Try as I might, I just can’t seem to convince myself.
The other thing I can’t seem to convince myself of is that Ned isn’t going to recognize me. There are a couple things in my favor— the night he’d picked me up off the ground and scolded me, it was dark. I was wearing a hoodie. I still had my braces on back then. And my hair was covered by my baseball cap. Still . . . you never know. I probably should have told Melissa. But I didn’t.
I fi sh my cell out of my pocket again and start texting.
Not Melissa, but Mannie.
You busy? Have news. Taken on big job.
Leaving late to night.
And then I start packing.
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4
“What’s the job?” Mannie greets me at the front door, breathless, only minutes later.
“Do come in,” I tell him with a laugh. “Can I offer you any refreshment? Please, make yourself at home.”
“I will,” he says, loping into my apartment and fl opping on the couch, his long legs hanging over one end and his scruffy mop of hair over the other. Mannie is only two years older than me, but at six feet two inches, he was never going to be into the covert papping thing. He kind of stands out a bit.
It took me a long time to trust Mannie, but after months of him giving me tips when he didn’t have to and making me laugh by making stupid faces from across the other side of a star’s driveway or on the red carpet, I couldn’t help myself.
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He wore me down. Even my dad likes him, which is saying something. When Dad’s home, he lets Mannie hang around and eat all our food.
“So? Who’s it for?” is Mannie’s fi rst question.
“Can’t say.” I smirk.
“Who’s the target?”
“Gee, I can’t say that, either.”
“Okay then, what can you say?”
“Sixty thousand, half up front and half on delivery, plus a seven and a half percent cut if they sell any of the shots elsewhere. Including foreign and online media.” Mannie almost hits the ceiling, which is an interesting sight. He’s kind of an expend- as- low- an- amount- of- energy-as- possible sort of person. Mannie “hitting the ceiling” really means he puts in the effort to sit upright on the couch. “Are you serious? You’re serious. It must be dirty. Really dirty.” His mouth hangs open.
I sigh. “It is.”
“Too dirty?”
I nod. “Too dirty.”
“But you’re still doing it? For the money?” I perch on an arm of the couch. “Let’s just say I’m doing it for school.”
“Ooohhh, yeah. I forgot,” Mannie says, and nods. “You’d be way closer with your savings then, right?”
“Right.”
He clocks my unexcited expression. “But it’s still dirty.” 42
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“Yep.”
There’s a pause. “Maybe you’ll be able to do it cleaner than someone else?” he tries.
“I seriously doubt it.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, oh.”
There’s another pause. “So you’re considering not doing it?”
I think for a second. “Yes. No. I don’t know.” I look at the time. “It’s just that I’m not sure I’m being told the whole truth.
What do you think I should do?”
Mannie looks more than slightly scared that I’m asking him for advice. “Man, I don’t know. I guess . . . if you do this job, it means you’d be able to cut back a bit, yeah? You told me you thought you’d have to. That’s a pretty big incentive.”
“I know.”
Mannie checks out my expression. “But it’s really dirty.”
“Still really dirty, Mannie. Really, really dirty.”
“Wait. You’d be safe and everything, right?” I nod. “Perfectly safe. It’s not sex or drugs or alcohol or violence dirty. Just low- down dirty, you know? Sneaky dirty.”
“Yeah, I know.” I don’t need to tell Mannie about sneaky dirty. He’s been there and done that. He’s been papping a whole year longer than me.
“Anything I can do?”
I shake my head. “Nothing. But thanks for the offer.”
“You’re welcome.”
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We sit in silence for a moment or two until a knock on the door makes us both jump.
“Just me!” Wendy comes in. “I heard your voice. Hey, you should lock this, you know. What would your dad say?”
“Probably that I should be out working and not sitting here on my butt,” I tell her. I stop perching and stand up.
“Very funny. So, what’s going on? Hey, Mannie!”
“Guh,” Mannie answers, and I give him a look. Mannie has a thing for Wendy. Let’s face it, any male who’s breathing has a thing for Wendy.
“I’m going away for a while. On a job,” I say. “Late to night.” I cross my arms ner vous ly and then realize it and uncross them.
Wendy’s eyes fi x onto me. “A job, huh?”
“Yep,” I try to act nonchalant. “Up to nine days, depending on how things go. At a sanctuary. Should be nice!”
“Oh, like a wildlife sanctuary?” Wendy asks.
“Um, sure!” I nod. If you count stars as wildlife and me as a big game hunter, I guess it could be just like a wildlife sanctuary.
Mannie snorts.
“It’s not a wildlife sanctuary, is it?” Wendy looks from one of us to the other.
I sigh. “Look, it’s not dangerous. I’ll be fi ne. Dad would approve.”
“That’s not saying very much,” Wendy huffs.
“It’s fi ne, really. I’ll give you a number to call so you can 44
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check up on me.” I move over to the computer and grab a Post- it, scribbling down Melissa’s cell. I only change the last two digits. I pass it to Wendy.
She looks at it for a second. “Okay, and now can I have the real number?” She passes it back to me. “I know you always change the last two digits.”
Busted.
I scribble the real number down this time and pass it over.
“Thanks. And this better be real.”
I look her in the eye. “It is.”
“Good.” She comes over to give me a hug. “I don’t like this. Not one bit. But I know you’re smart. And I also know I can’t stop you. If you need me to bail you out, you know where I am.”
“Thanks, Wendy,” I say. And I mean it. She really would bail me out. Even fl y over to Boston to do so.
“I’ve really got to get packing and get some sleep,” I tell them, and they both take it as their cue to leave.
“Okay. Well, I’m headed to the movies,” Wendy says.
“What are you up to, Mannie?”
“Guh,” Mannie says.
“Uh- huh. Sounds good!” Wendy gives me a wink. She’s used to the “guhs.” At least it’s endearing under the age of twenty. At fi fty- fi ve and in fi rst class? Not so much, she tells me. “See you. And be good.” She loads up the word with a whole lot of meaning.
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“I will.”
“Come on, Mannie, I’ll help you down the stairs,” are Wendy’s last words as she leads him, silent and stunned, out of the room.
★ ★ ★
I manage to get to the airport on time, and it’s only after I’ve checked in (and learned Melissa has booked me on a fl ight that also stops in Chicago— wouldn’t be surprised if she’d done it on purpose) and am waiting at the gate for my plane that I start to worry again that Ned Hartnett is going to recognize me. I remind myself about the oversized clothes, braces, and baseball cap once more. I also know that he’s a celebrity; he’s probably met a million people in the time since he ran into me. Maybe he lectured them all?
Still, I made sure that I’ve packed my bag accordingly. No caps, and the girliest clothes I have in my wardrobe. I don’t have a lot, but I managed to dig out a couple shirts and jackets and skirts and even locate a pair of pearl earrings that my dad gave me for my thirteenth birthday. It’s not what I’d usually wear, but a job is a job. I’m not going to look cool or be comfortable.
My cell rings. Melissa.
“Hi,” I say warily.
“You’re at the airport?”
“All checked in,” I tell her. “I didn’t realize I’d be stopping in Chicago.”
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Melissa doesn’t skip a beat. “Ah, yes. Unfortunately that was the only fl ight available soon enough.” I note that there’s no “Sorry, Jo” before she continues. “One of the retreat’s staff members will meet you at the other end. You’re allowed a maximum of two numbers that you can call out to, but they need to be vetted by your parent or guardian. I’ve given them mine, but if you give me another number, I can add that as well. Do you have one?”