The Mistaken Masterpiece (5 page)

“It doesn’t look that bad, Soph,” Leigh Ann says. “Let me put a little makeup on those circles—I’ll bet I could make them almost invisible.”

“How ’bout that big ol’ bandage?” Becca says. “Can you make that disappear, too?”

“C’mon, Becca. We need to be supportive,” lectures Margaret, who then turns to me. “Okay, Sophie, what is
this big news you have? Some kind of secret plan for Friday, you said.”

“All right, I’ll tell you, but, guys, you have to promise: no screaming. I almost fainted when my dad told me, but I did
not
scream.”

It’s a self-improvement thing. Ever since that now-famous incident when I looked out the window in Mr. Eliot’s room, saw that face staring back at me, and screamed bloody murder—right in the middle of English class—I’ve been working on keeping my emotions under control. How am I doing? For now, let’s just say it’s … a work in progress.

“Promise?”

“We promise. Get on with it,” Becca nags.

So I tell them.

They scream. Like banshees—whatever those are.

I mean, jeez! Suddenly everyone in the cafeteria is looking right at us, and believe me, in my current condition, that is just about the last thing I want. I bury my head in my hands as the three of them work through the first stage (shock and disbelief) of Acute Celebrity Encounter Disorder (ACED) and progress directly into the second: eternal gratitude to yours truly for having a dad with the proper connections. When I finally lift my head to acknowledge their vows of lifelong devotion to me, however, I see a couple of eighth graders hovering over our table.
Not
a promising situation. As seventh graders, we know all too well that we rank only slightly above cockroaches in the upper-school hierarchy, but the occasional
eighth grader loves to remind us of our lowly place in the world.

These two are not trying to bully us out of our table, though.

“Um, aren’t you the girls who are, like, detectives or something?” the tall one asks, catching us off guard.

“Uh-huh,” Becca growls. “What about it?”

Margaret elbows her. “Don’t provoke the natives,” she whispers.

I recognize the other one as the snooty, headset-wearing wannabe producer from the Dickens of a Banquet, which took place back when we were looking for the Ring of Rocamadour.

She looks right at me. “We were, like, wondering, um, if you, like, had a nose job. You know, the bandage. And, like, you used to have kind of a … well, you know.”

“No, I
don’t
know,” I say, glaring at her. “
What
did I used to have?”

“Never mind,” she says with an embarrassed giggle.

“I
told
you,” her dim friend says, dragging her away. “Those stupid doctors won’t touch you till you’re sixteen at least. You’re just gonna have to wait to get yours done.”

I continue to give them the death-ray stare as they make their way across the cafeteria. “There’s
nothing
wrong with my nose,” I insist. “I mean, usually. Today doesn’t count. I do
not
need a nose job.” I look at Margaret. “Do I?”

“Of course not,” Margaret replies. “Don’t listen to those idiots. You have a classic Gallic profile. And what
is it they say? Fifty million Frenchmen can’t be wrong, right? Plenty of people would kill for your nose.”

“Speaking of your nose, there goes its worst enemy,” says Leigh Ann.

It’s Livvy Klack and the rest of the Clique de Klack strutting in like they own the joint. Beth Aronson, who is Livvy’s first lieutenant, spots me and points right at my nose. She practically falls on the floor laughing. The lower-ranking minions all do the same, but Livvy, oddly enough, does not join in these reindeer games.

“Could you
be
bigger losers?” she says—to her disciples, not to us.

Which leaves everyone involved speechless, at least for a few seconds.

“What just happened?” I finally ask as they move on to their usual table across the cafeteria.

“Make a note of the time,” Margaret says. “I think we have just seen the first evidence that Livvy Klack has human DNA after all.”

“Shoot. There goes my hyena theory,” says Becca.

“You don’t think she actually feels bad about yesterday, do you?” I ask. “She didn’t exactly apologize after she whacked me.”

Leigh Ann laughs. “Hey, anything’s possible. Since I started hanging out with you guys, I’ve seen all
kinds
of stuff that I wouldn’t have believed.”

It does make me wonder. Call me naive if you must, but I don’t
think
Livvy crashed into me on purpose.
Sure, she was annoyed that I’d beaten her in that 400 IM, and was trying to show me up, but for now, at least, I choose to believe it was an accident.

Friday, 6:30 a.m. I’m standing in front of the mirror in my bedroom, waiting for Margaret. We’re supposed to meet Becca and Leigh Ann in an hour near the carousel in Central Park, which is where the day’s filming is scheduled to take place. As excited as I am to be spending the day with an honest-to-God movie star, I’m feeling a little guilty, broken nose and all. At this very moment, all my teammates are in the midst of whatever torture Michelle has conjured up for the morning practice. And here I am, putting on makeup and debating whether to take off the bandage. I start peeling up around the edges of the tape, trying to see how it looks underneath. So far, so good. I’m about to give it a good yank when Mom stops just outside my door.

“Oh, good—I was making sure you were up. I should have known you’d be dressed and ready to go. I’m so excited for you girls!”

“Um, Mom? I know the doctor said to keep it on till Monday, but do you think I could take this thing off? I’ll put a new one on tonight, I promise.”

She gives me a look of pure pity and nods. “Go ahead. Just take it easy, okay? No soccer. Or fistfights.”

I hug her. “Can you help me get it off? I think that doctor used superglue or something.”

When the bandage is finally off, I get my first look at my nose in what seems like weeks. It’s not too bad; the swelling has gone down, and it doesn’t look any more crooked than before. The exact spot where Livvy clocked me with that big ol’ paw of hers is clearly visible as a purple line across the middle.

Mom cringes as she wipes away the bits of glue and schmutz with her thumb and a little spit. “I’m not hurting you, am I? There—good as new. Well, almost.”

The doorbell rings, and Mom lets Margaret in.

“Hey, the nose looks pretty good. And your black eyes are fading, too.”

“Well, I got a little, um, artificial help.”

“Makeup? You? Why, Sophie St. Pierre!” She spins me around in the light to get the full effect and to check out the chic-but-not-trying-too-hard-to-look-chic look I put together (with a little help from a late-night consultation with Leigh Ann, my fashion guru).

“Are you going to be warm enough in that?” Mom asks, eyeing my denim jacket. “It’s not going to get much above forty today.”

“Ah, but I have a secret,” I say. “Layers. I have my long underwear on under everything. That way, I can stay warm while still looking cool. Leigh Ann is a genius when it comes to fashion.”

“Humph,” says Mom. “We’ll see if you change your tune when you have pneumonia.”

“That is
such
a mom thing to say,” I retort. “Tell Dad I said thanks again. I’ll call you later, from the … 
set.
”

Oh yeah, I am
quite
full of myself.

Leigh Ann and Becca are right on time, which is a clear indication of how psyched we all are. I mean, it’s seven-thirty in the morning on a day off from school. Living in New York, we’ve all walked past miles and miles of those “movie star” trailers and trucks full of lighting and camera equipment, but this time it’s something special—
we’re
something special, or at least it feels that way. We’re about to cross over to the other side. To become part of the club. People will see us and wonder who we are. That and, well,
hate
us for being there when they’re not.

The police have set up barriers in a big circle around the ball field next to the carousel, and a crowd of (mostly) girls is already four or five deep all the way around. When we get to the entrance, there’s a big, dangerous-looking guy with a headset and a clipboard blocking our way.

“Sorry, ladies. You have to stay behind the barriers,” he snarls.

“We’re invited,” I say. “We’re Nate Etan’s guests—we should be on the list. St. Pierre?”

He stares at me for a full second before consulting his clipboard, running his index finger down the long list of names. “St. Pierre?”

“Sophie,” I say, trying to be helpful.

He grunts, then turns to Margaret. “And the rest of you?”

“Wrobel, Chen, and Jaimes,” Margaret replies. “And that’s Jaimes with a
J
, not an
H
.”

He checks their names off his list and then hands us laminated guest passes on bright orange lanyards. A little clashy with my outfit, but that’s okay—perfect, even. I
want
people to see it. He steps aside to let us through the opening.

“Go straight back to that yellow and white tent—one of the assistants will be able to help you find Mr. Etan.”

We can’t stop grinning as we thank him. Behind us, I hear the chatter of the girls who are standing outside the barrier, and it is beautiful music to my ears.

“Hey, who are
they
?” one of them asks. “How did they get in?”

“They don’t look like anybody,” another answers. “They’re just kids.”

“Well, they got in, so they must be somebody,” a third says.

“Did you hear that, guys?” I whisper. “We’re
somebody
!”

Starting across the field, we all freeze when sixty pounds of black dog bolts out of the tent we’ve been told to go to. The beast is coming straight for me, and barking in a not-so-friendly way. I’m already visualizing the next day’s tabloid headline: “Mad Movie Mutt Mauls Girl Detectives.”

Instead of leaping at our throats, though, the killer canine stops suddenly right in front of me, wagging her tail so hard that her whole body is wriggling. Relieved that I’m not going to become just another tragic headline, I kneel down to rub her behind the ears, something that I know all dogs love, even though I don’t have one of my own. Yet.

And then a miracle happens. I’m so busy petting the dog that I don’t notice
him
. Nate Etan, mere inches away.

“Tillie!” he scolds. “Bad girl. Thank you for catching her—she usually doesn’t run off like that.”

From my point of view—kneeling—he seems ten feet tall. He’s looking down on me and smiling that same gazillion-gigawatt smile that’s plastered all over my bedroom. Okay, I know nobody has used this word in like a hundred years, but I’m pretty sure I
swoon
. My vocal cords, along with my legs, are paralyzed.

“This is Tillie,” he says, clipping a leash onto her collar. He holds out his hand for me to shake. “Hi, I’m Nate Etan.”

Well, of course you are. And I’m … I’m … Jeez, snap out of it, Sophie!

“H-hi, I’m So—So—Sophie. St. Pierre.”

“Well, hello there, So-So Sophie.” A nickname is born, I fear. “Oh, wait—you’re Guy’s daughter!” He even pronounces Dad’s name right. “Excellent! Here, let me help you up.” He takes my hand in his (deep breaths, Sophie!) and lifts me with astonishing ease. He
is taller, thinner, stronger, and better-looking than I expected—and my expectations were high, believe me.

Seeing him in the flesh makes it obvious why he was cast in the role of James Blancpain, the impossibly handsome vampire in
No Reflections
, the book that Leigh Ann and I have recently become obsessed with. His pictures don’t do him justice at all. Suddenly I’m feeling really small and extremely self-conscious about my nose.

I introduce the rest of the gang, and maybe he’s acting, but he
seems
to be really pleased that we’re there. He hands me Tillie’s leash and starts leading us toward the tent. “I have one little favor to ask. Since Tillie seems to have bonded with you, can you hold on to her for a while? If she gets to be too much of a pain, I can put her in my trailer, but she likes to be outside. You’re not allergic or anything, are you?”

“No, I love dogs,” I say. “I want one so bad, but I haven’t convinced my parents yet.”

“Great! Let’s go get something to eat, and then I’ll show you around. My scene won’t be ready to shoot for a little while. First time on a set for everybody?”

We all nod. Becca, Leigh Ann, and Margaret continue to stare openmouthed at him.

“Tell me, So-So Sophie—do your friends talk?” he says, laughing.

“Uh, definitely. Especially this one,” I say, pointing at Becca. “We usually can’t get her to shut up.”

She sticks her tongue out at me.

And then I realize that he’s staring at me—at my
nose, to be precise. When he realizes what he’s doing, he laughs and apologizes. “I’m sorry, but I just
have
to ask. What happened to your nose? And do you have two black eyes? Are you, like, a boxer or something?”

“A swimmer,” I say.

“No kidding. I didn’t realize swimming was such a violent sport,” he says, nodding earnestly. “I may have to pay more attention in the future.”

“It was an accident.”

Becca scoffs. “Ha!”

“It was. I swam right into another girl’s hand. Broke my nose.”

“Ouch,” he says. “Well, I’ll try to keep flying objects away from you today—except for Tillie. I guess it’s a little late for her. She’s kind of a self-propelled missile.”

Finally, Leigh Ann speaks. “Um, Mr. Etan—”

“Nate. Please. Mr. Etan is my dad.”

Her face lights up. “Right. Nate. I have a
lot
of questions for you, about acting and agents and stuff. I hope that’s okay.”

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t,” he says. “I suppose you’re all big fans of the book, right? Every girl in America is obsessed with it.”

“Huge,” Leigh Ann gushes. “I’ve read it twice—I just started the third time.”

“Yeah, Margaret’s the only one who’s really not crazy about it,” I reveal. “She’s read it, but she’s used to more—”

“Boring stuff?” offers Becca.