Someone Else's Fairytale (15 page)

The next morning I woke up to a knock on my bedroom door. “Chloe!” snapped my housemate. “Care to tell me why there's a picture of you hugging Jason Vanderholt in front of our house on TMZ?”

I rolled out of bed and yanked open my door. Lori stood there with her hair still up in its messy bun, her laptop in one hand, the screen angled towards me. Sure enough, there it was, a big picture of me and Jason locked in an embrace.

“This is who you had two dates with yesterday?” she said.

“They weren't dates.”

“Um, sure they weren't.”

I spun around and hunted for some clothes to put on.

“Where are you going?” Lori asked.

“I wanted to go to the library today.”

“There are, like, fifty million reporters on our doorstep.”

“What?” I turned to her again.

“Okay, more like four, but they're staked out, waiting for you. They keep knocking.”

“Oh no...”

“Chloe, you bring a movie star here and engage in PDA, what do you think is going to happen?”

“We are just friends. This is all a misunderstanding.”

“Does he think you're just friends?”

“Yes! We talked about it.”

“You had a DTR?”

“A what?”

“A Define The Relationship talk? Lemme guess, he was the one who started it?”

"Sure. Something like that.”

“And you told him you want to be friends?”

I pushed past her and went into the front room. Sure enough, there were shadows moving across the front windows. The curtains were drawn, so the room was dim. Sitting on our couch, one leg up, was Charles. He had the television on and wore sweats and a v-neck t shirt. Two nights in a row. He and Lori weren't wasting time.

He twisted around to look at me. “Hey. You want me to go out there dressed like this? Say I was here for the night?”

“I don't think that'd make them go away,” I said. “I think that'd do the opposite.”

He shrugged. “Offer's open.”

I made straight for the coffeemaker and poured myself a mug.

“Okay, Chloe, let's talk,” said Lori. “Jason Vanderholt wants to go out with you.”

“I don't care. How many people on campus are going to recognize me in that picture?”

Lori shrugged. “No one. But some people might recognize the house.”

“This is a disaster.”

“You don't want people to know-”

“No!”

“Why not?”

“Because why would I? You want people camped out in our front yard all the time?”

“You're being pursued by
Jason Vanderholt.”

“Whom you barely even know. Just lay off, all right? There's more to life than fame and money.”

“If you say so.”

Charles cleared his throat.

“I mean, right. Totally true,” said Lori. “But he's also hot.”

“Not to me he isn't. He looks like a Ken doll.”

Charles burst out laughing. “That's a good one.”

I looked at the clock. It was eight, plenty of time to get started on my homework and be done by mid-afternoon. I downed my hot coffee just as my phone rang.

I tore down the hall to my room to answer it. “Mom” flashed on the display. Oh great.

“Mom,” I said.

“Honey?”

“It's all a misunderstanding. I am not involved with Jason Vanderholt.”

“That's not you in the picture?”

“It is me, but we're just hugging. He's a friend. That's all. Okay?”

“There's a reporter here-”

“You aren't talking
to him are you?”

“Her.”

“Send her away. Seriously. Do not give any information about me to the press.”

“But she's such a lovely-”

“Put her on the phone now! Or send her away,
now!
How did she even find you?”

“I don't know.”

“We don't even have the same last name! How on Earth-”

“Are you okay, honey?”

“No. Get rid of that reporter now and don't talk to any more of them.”

“Okay. Okay. One second.”

I heard the muffled sound of voices, then my mother saying, “No comment. No comment. You have to leave now.” I breathed a sigh of relief. Mom could have a backbone. That was good.

“She's gone, honey. What happened?”

“I hung out with Jason this weekend and hugged him. That's it.”

“Were you really out with his family last night?”

“As a friend, Mom.”

“The Vanderholts were always so nice. She was so well dressed and her nails-”

“Mom!”

“I used to see them at the office every six months. Even Jason. Did you know that?”

“I could guess, given you worked for their dentist. But keep perspective here. He's a friend. Yes he's famous. No, we don't let the media invade our lives over this.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Sure, honey.”

“Really? You're okay with that?”

There was a long silence on the phone. When she spoke, it was clear she chose her words carefully. “I do know how to keep quiet about who I'm with and when. I know that's how it is sometimes. Attention can be a bad thing.”

I never thought I'd have this in common with her. “Thanks,” was all I could manage in response. We said our goodbyes and I then downed another mug of coffee and tried to think of how to pass the time until the paparazzi went away. I still had to write my weekly Media Studies report. That, I figured, would be easy. I got out my netbook, opened a new document, and launched into a diatribe about how many stupid, irrelevant facts people tried to collect on celebrities.

At
noon
, I got a Skype request. A “jvan3872” wanted to talk to me. “It's Jason” the little text message said. I was skeptical, but I added him and the chime went off, indicating I had a video call. I accepted, but didn't turn on my own video.

“Chlo?” It was Jason. He was sitting on a leather couch somewhere, blank white wall behind him. From the angle of the webcam, I guessed he was talking to me through that sleek, hi-tech phone of his.

My netbook could only just run Skype, and the video was choppy and grainy. I turned around to neaten up my bed a little before I switched my webcam on. “Hi,” I said.

“My publicist just called. Told me about TMZ.”

“I've got a front yard full of reporters.”

“Oh man, I'm sorry.” He rubbed his face. “How long?”

“Since at least eight this morning.”

“So they're being persistent. They been knocking and ringing the doorbell?”

“Oh yeah.”

“I am so sorry. I should've gotten Jen or someone to give you a ride.”

“No, it was nice of you to drive me. You didn't do this.”

“Not on purpose. Glamorous life I have, huh?”

“Strange life. Why do people care so much?”

“I'm not sure care is the right word. Feel entitled? And I don't know.”

“This must be awful for you, to get this all the time.”

“It's my career. It comes with the territory. You on the other hand, didn't do anything to ask for this.”

“They'll go away eventually, right?”

“Right. Yeah. And how many are there? In
Albuquerque
, you don't usually get a crowd unless they followed someone big into town.”

“Four.”

“Yeah, okay... that's kind of a crowd... They'll leave when they figure out you're not going to give them a picture or a soundbyte, or when someone else does something that interests them more.”

“What lovely people they are.”

“Aren't they, though? You know the type. We all went to high school with them.”

I chuckled at that. “I'll just stay indoors then. There's nowhere I have to go.”

 
“Well, that's good, I guess. Anyway, I've gotta hit the gym. I just wanted to call and see if everything was okay, and again, I'm sorry.”

I waved that away and we signed off.

By four, our front yard was empty. I stole out to my car and had my key in the lock, when someone said, “Miss?”

I pivoted on my heel and looked towards the house. Standing right next to the wall was a short, blond guy. He had a camera around his neck, which was all I needed to know. I unlocked my car.

“No, I'm not trying to interview you. Can I just tell you something?”

I paused and wondered if that were a ploy.

“You've got some guy driving past your house every hour or so. Goes real slow, looks at your front door. You know what that's about?”

There was no way I'd utter a single word. Who knew how this guy would use anything I said?

“He's in a little sedan. Driver's wearing sunglasses, has a buzz cut. Brown hair. That ring any bells?”

Sure, I thought, brown hair. That's so distinctive. My guess was that this guy was lying to make me talk to him.

“I just wanted to let you know, in case you didn't. It just doesn't look good. But enough about that. I don't suppose you'd let me-” He reached for his camera.

I ducked into my car, slammed the door, and started the engine. When I saw the guy again in my rearview mirror, it looked to me like he was laughing.

The drive to Matthew's was short. Soon I pulled into a space in his building's parking lot. It didn't look like the photographer had followed me, but I darted across to the stairs anyway. Seconds later I was at the top landing and knocking on Matthew's door.

He tugged it open, a microwaved Evol burrito in his free hand. “Hey,” he said to me.