Map to the Stars Read online

  As if I could replace Wynn. It didn’t even warrant a comment. Instead I answered, “Sorry if I can’t make myself get all worked up over the latest kiwi-seed diet or a seven-hundred-dollar cell phone case.”

  “Wasted. That place is totally wasted on you,” Wynn said with a grin. Then her expression turned more somber. “Seriously, though, what do you think this means? Your mom getting fired so fast? Think you’ll pack up and move back?” Her voice went up a little at the end, like she couldn’t quite hide the glimmer of hope.

  “I really don’t know. I doubt it, though. With things the way they are with Dad, I think she’d rather have more than just a country between them, and so would I.”

  Wynn gave me a look of sympathy that made me bite down hard on my lip to keep tears from spilling over. Then she said, “I saw him the other day, ya know. He looked terrible. He was at Mac’s buying mulch and when he saw me it seemed like he wanted to cry. I’m not sure if you want to hear this but, um, he told me to tell you how much he loves you.”

  “You’re right, I don’t want to hear it.”

  Wynn dropped her eyes to her desk and quickly changed the subject. “Well, I give your mom credit. Imagine living somewhere your whole life where you were the total bomb and giving it all up for a chance at a brand-new life.”

  The living somewhere my whole life part I could definitely relate to. Being “the bomb”? Not so much.

  I answered Wynn. “Yeah, well, her bravado’s gone missing. You should see her now. She’s been on a tear ever since she recovered from her mini-meltdown. Three guesses what she’s doing now?”

  “Uh-oh. Does it involve an apron with our kindergarten handprints on it?”

  “Yup.”

  “Oatmeal raisin or chocolate chip?”

  “Oatmeal raisin. Joe’s on his way over and they’re his favorite. She called him freaking out on our drive back down from the Hollywood Hills.”

  “Hollywood Hills . . . ,” Wynn breathed in awe. “Whatever you do, you have to figure out a way to stay there through Thanksgiving. My plane ticket’s nonrefundable.”

  “Ha! That’s like a lifetime from now.”

  Wynn looked over her shoulder. I couldn’t see who was standing in her doorway but I assumed it was her little brother from the face Wynn made. Confirmation came when Wynn said, “Tell her I’ll set the table in five minutes. What? Just tell her, Toe Cheese!” She tossed something balled up in the direction of the door, then returned her attention to me. “Sorry, gotta go. Hang in there, okay? Text me tomorrow and let me know what’s happening.”

  I nodded, waved good-bye, and clicked end on the session. Despite all we’d talked about after, the part of the conversation that lingered was Wynn’s comment about my dad, and I sat for a moment, trying to push my feelings to a far corner of my head. I was usually pretty good at that. I needed to get my emotions under control before I saw Mom or we’d just loop right back into the way things had been at home before the move. Before the move, but after we found out what my dad had been up to. Even though things weren’t exactly going according to plan out here, I knew how much Mom needed this fresh start, and I didn’t want to be the one dragging her back into all the drama.

  The timer buzzed in the kitchen and brought me out of my fog. I took a few steadying breaths before venturing out to see how many racks of cookies were cooling, which was sure to give me some indication of Mom’s mood.

  It was worse than I’d thought. There must have been four dozen cookies, maybe more, spread out on every surface of the tiny kitchen and spilling over onto the table in the living room. I was just yelling for Mom about the buzzer when there was a knock and a head poked around the front door and into our apartment.

  “Ya know, this isn’t Shelbyville, ladies. You might want to get in the habit of locking your front door.”

  The disembodied head waited patiently until I offered, “Come on in, Joe.”

  Then the rest of film producer extraordinaire (to hear him tell it, anyway) Joe Ribinowitz strode into the room. His eyes lit up when he spied the bounty of Mom’s afternoon bakefest. He paused to inhale the smell of warm oatmeal and vanilla. I slid the next batch out of the oven and switched off the buzzer.

  “Your assistant said this was a safe neighborhood,” I accused.

  “Well, of course it is. By Hollywood standards. But this complex is mostly people in the industry and you have no idea what desperate people starved for a role—and probably even regular starved from dieting for that role—are capable of. There are some kooks out here looking to land their shot at fame. And never, ever underestimate those stage moms. The things they’ll do to get Junior a speaking line . . .” Joe gave a whole-body shudder that culminated with him subtly snatching a cookie off the cooling rack on the counter. “Where’s your mom?”

  “Not sure,” I was answering, just as Mom appeared in the doorway to her bedroom at the far end of the hall.

  “Hey, did you get the cookies out? Oh, Joe! Thank God. Finally a friendly face. How on earth did I let y’all talk me into this move?”

  I had to admit, when Joe first started hanging around Grandma Madge’s salon last winter as he recruited extra stylists for his production and, a few weeks later, landed at our kitchen table, I was pretty sure he was putting the moves on my mother right under Dad’s nose. If anyone in pinprick, dusty Shelbyville was going to catch the eye of a visiting film crew, it would be Mom, with her glossy honey-butter hair and her chirpy “Hey, y’all”s. People told her all the time that she was the very definition of a Southern belle, and she had the Miss Georgia Peach sash to prove it.

  My mom’s sweet as a peach too—she’d probably never even see the seduction coming. But it hadn’t been like that at all. Joe was every bit as friendly with Dad and he’d been a really good friend to Mom when everything went down. He was the one who made the move out here happen.

  Oh, and plus Joe was gay. Kinda missed that important detail.

  So now I’d finally begun to take him at his word; he was in it for the oatmeal raisin.

  He answered Mom. “I’ll tell you how the hell you let yourself get talked into it. Because I didn’t get where I am in this godforsaken industry without learning how to get anyone to do anything.” Joe polished off a second cookie and reached for a third. “Plus, you’re far too talented for a town so small it doesn’t even have a Starbucks. Who knew places like that still even existed? Criminal. You belong in the big time. The city of angels will open her gates for you two celestial beings.” Joe ended with a typically dramatic flourish that would usually have Mom in giggles.

  Instead she snorted ruefully. “I don’t know about that. I can’t even stay employed for an entire hour.”

  “Well, what did I tell you about those A-listers?”

  “You said stars are just shinier versions of regular people.”

  “I did?” asked Joe. “Huh. I think I must have meant douchier versions, not shinier.”

  My mom shook her head, a small smile fighting to break free. Joe saw it too and went in for the kill. “Anyway, you, my sweet, are on to bigger and better. I had my assistant’s assistant make some calls and, as they say in the biz, everything’s coming up roses.”

  “Really?” Mom asked as she drizzled cream into Joe’s coffee. I scooted my chair in and propped my elbows on the table.

  “Well. It’s not ideal. For me, at least. I’m gonna have to dive back into my freezer supply of oatmeal raisin. Though these batches will hold me over for a bit. I can have them, right?” he asked.

  Mom waved her hand over them, eager to move past talk of cookies. “They’re yours. Now, back to the job, please.”

  “By any chance do you ladies have passports?”

  My mom and I exchanged a puzzled look. “No. Neither of us had ever left Georgia before last week, much less the country.”

  “Okay, no worries. We can get a
rush job on a couple in two, three days tops. First stop is New York anyway, and you should be there through . . . wait, today’s Tuesday, so Wednesday, Thursday . . .” He ticked days off on his hand until my mother and I both screamed “Joe!” at the same time.

  Joe looked startled. “What?”

  “Are you fixin’ to tell us what the job is?” my mom asked with exaggerated patience.

  “Oh, right. Sorry. Guess I should have led with that.”

  He leaned in and smiled.

  “Do you two happen to know who Graham Cabot is?”

  Chapter Three

  Dear Wynn,

  Like the Statue of Liberty on the front of this postcard? That’s about how close Mom and I got to it from the Staten Island Ferry yesterday! This city is amazing. I haven’t slept at all since we’ve been here. Keep an eye out for a package. One genuine NYC snow globe on its way. Miss you!

  Love to Shelbyville,

  Me

  P.S. Tomorrow Mom and I start our new jobs with Graham Cabot . . .

  I slapped the stamp onto the corner of the postcard and set the alarm on my phone for 2:07 p.m. on Saturday afternoon. Shelbyville’s only mailman, Michael, timed his route to the minute and I knew exactly what time my postcard would flutter through the slot in Wynn’s kitchen door. I wanted to see if I could hear her scream eight states away. I was betting on yes.

  It had been hard enough for me to keep it secret for the past few days.

  Graham Cabot.

  When Joe spilled the news that he found Mom (and, by extension, me) a gig replacing Graham’s hair and makeup artist for the press tour of his new movie, Triton, I nearly snorted cookie crumbs out my nose.

  We were talking Graham Cabot, keeper of an entire generation of young girls’ hearts. Not mine, of course. But still.

  I mean, to be honest, I’ve never really been one for the whole unrequited crush thing. I’m fairly certain I was the only girl in Miss McConnell’s fourth-grade class not carting my crustless PB&J around in a Zac Efron lunch box (Wynn had three different ones, so she could alternate designs depending on her mood).

  The idea that any of my friends tucked away in single-stoplight Shelbyville would even encounter, much less seduce and happily-ever-after with any of High School Musical’s East High Wildcats was too preposterous to even consider. So why waste all that energy on . . . yearning. I mean, really, what was the point?

  The funny thing was that, when I first broke the news to Wynn about our move out west, she was totally convinced I was going to step off the plane and into the waiting arms of a swoon-worthy movie star. Even after I reminded her we’d be driving.

  “You know what I mean,” she’d insisted.

  Only I hadn’t. I knew Mom was going to work in showbiz but I didn’t really think it would be a big part of my life. I was mostly hoping to survive transferring schools before my senior year. Now at least I knew I’d have a killer topic for my “What I did on my summer vacation” essay.

  Apparently a lot of people in Hollywood owed Joe favors and he’d worked me in on the gig too, as Mom’s assistant. When I protested I didn’t know the first thing about hair (other than how to shampoo it and sweep it off the floor of a salon) and knew even less about makeup, he’d promised it was just a glorified title. He’d further insisted every studio-funded promotional tour was chock full of people who didn’t actually need to be there. (“If stars can bring their Scientology gurus on the road with them, you’d better believe the studio will fund your trip. Plus, they owe me,” Joe had laughed.)

  Our job with Graham was slated to be six weeks of travel that included stints in New York (Triton US press junket), London and Paris (Triton promotional appearances), Barcelona (Triton opens film festival), and Venice (where else would you hold a premiere for a movie that revolved around water?). Which, for me, translated to: Chrysler Building/Empire State, Big Ben/St. Paul’s Cathedral, the pyramid at the Louvre, every Gaudí building ever built, and Palladio’s Church of the Redeemer. Architectural tour of a lifetime. I couldn’t wait and I really didn’t care whose nose I’d have to powder to go!

  So far it had not disappointed.

  Even the place where the studio put us up in New York had me mega geeking out. The Carlton Hotel, designed by famous architect David Rockwell at the pinnacle of the art deco era, was literally in the shadow of the Empire State Building. Granted, our room on the fourth floor had an unremarkable view of the office building on the other side of Madison Avenue, but the view from Graham Cabot’s suite on the twelfth floor, where Mom and I were setting up a makeup bonanza, was an entirely different story (no pun intended).

  Perfectly framed in the center of the bedroom’s arched window was the Empire State Building in all her gleaming glory. If it was possible to be smitten with a hunk of metal, I was totally there.

  “Hey, are you going to earn your keep on this trip or what? Quit it with the googly eyes and grab me that bottle of hair gel, would you please?” Mom’s voice cut through my reverie.

  Turning my back on the postcard view, I squeezed through the pocket doors separating the bedroom from the living space and trudged over to the glass dining room table that Mom had commandeered as her workspace. Yes, dining room table. In a hotel room.

  “Just give me a hand here,” Mom said. “This is the first chance I’ve had to unpack this stuff and I want to make sure it all got here in one piece, so I can get it organized and at least mostly packed back up before Graham arrives. I’m sure he wouldn’t appreciate us taking over all his space.”

  I glanced around a room that would likely echo several times over. “Um, I think he could probably find somewhere to squeeze in.”

  “Not the point. After the whole incident with Billy Glick, the last thing I want to do is start off on the wrong foot. I want to be as professional as possible.”

  “Prick,” I mumbled.

  “Excuse me, young lady?”

  “Oh, I was just saying Billy ‘Prick,’ not Billy Glick. It’s my new pet name for him.”

  Mom gave an appreciative smile as she stacked eye shadows into a small tower, then dove back into her bag. “Oh hells bells!” she exclaimed, with her arm elbow deep.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “One of the foundation jars cracked and the whole bottom of this bag and all the makeup brushes in it are covered in beige goop. Shit!”

  “Mom, relax. We’re in New York City. We’ve seen more Duane Reade drugstores than yellow taxicabs.”

  “Yes, but these are professional makeup brushes. I won’t be able to find anything like them at a corner pharmacy.”

  Oh. Just another reason why there were likely about eleventy billion people on the planet more qualified to be an assistant makeup artist than someone like me.

  Only in Hollywood can you get paid a salary and sent on a European adventure to NOT work. That said, I wanted to help my mom just because she was my mom and I hated seeing her stressed like this. God knows she’s had enough of that already this year.

  “Okay, okay. But all those runway models have to shop for beauty supplies somewhere, don’t they?” I asked.

  Mom took a deep breath and exhaled. “You’re right. I’m just so nervous I can’t think straight. I’m going to call the front desk.”

  A few minutes later she had a pad of paper covered in scribbles. “Okay, the concierge gave me a bunch of addresses for supply stores and there’s one that’s in the Garment District, not all that far from here. Graham’s schedule doesn’t show his plane landing for another three hours, so we have some time. Damn, but one of us should stay here and get this stuff in order. Do you mind?”

  I didn’t mind, though I wondered how Mom was going to handle the big city on her own. Our drive out west was the only time either of us had ever had a need for our phones’ GPS, and we hadn’t exactly mastered the NYC subway during our sightseeing ventures. Bu
t at the moment she was all hectic energy and didn’t seem concerned about it. She bustled around the room, grabbing at bags and peeking inside for damage.

  “I really have to figure out some other carry-on options so I don’t have to check this stuff next time.”

  I shrugged. “Aren’t we flying to London with Graham’s whole group? I’m guessing maybe a private plane doesn’t have overhead compartment limitations.”

  Mom straightened up and swiped a piece of hair out of her eyes. She looked at me for a second and then burst into laughter. It was nice to see the shadows in her eyes receding.

  “Oh, my sweet girl. How did this get to be our life?”

  I grinned in return and listened carefully to her instructions, then pushed her out the door with promises that I would call housekeeping for Windex and get everything else arranged into a lovely display for the one and only Graham Cabot.

  After forty minutes or so, I had all the tubes and jars sorted and the items I thought we’d need neatly stacked on the mirrored sidebar. I’d managed to track down glass cleaner, and the table and sidebar twinkled in the sunlight. I’d even walked the dirty paper towels to the trash bin outside of the elevator so they wouldn’t mar the cans in the room.

  When I returned, I ventured back into the bedroom to stare transfixed again at William Lamb’s masterpiece. Seriously. How does someone design a building as amazing as the Empire State Building? If I peered closely, I could make out ant-size people movements at the top, where the observation tower was. I remembered thinking the same about the size of the people below when I’d been up there myself the day before.

  After a few minutes, the sightseeing of the day before started to catch up with my legs. I parked my butt, somewhat guiltily, on the very edge of the bed. The room had the muffled hush of a funeral parlor. Which was weird, because our room eight floors below was full of the sounds of the city outside. Maybe Fortress of Silence was on the amenities list up here. Wouldn’t surprise me.