That was, of course, true. But it had been more than a hundred years since muscular dystrophy was first identified, and people diagnosed with it today still didn’t live much longer with it than they did a century ago.
Mom was quiet for a moment, and I knew she was listening for any sounds coming from Alex’s room. Then she stood up, kissed the top of my head, and left the kitchen as if she were on autopilot. She would check on Alex, take care of whatever business still demanded her attention from earlier in the day, try to figure out what to do about dinner, let Elena go home, take care of Alex for the rest of the evening, and then collapse into bed, only to start the whole process over again tomorrow.
It would have been totally selfish to feel upset that she’d completely blanked on the fact that just seven hours ago I’d landed at JFK on my way back from a TV taping in LA. Way too much had happened with Alex during that time, and she had way too much on her mind.
And yet, I couldn’t help feeling bad.
APRIL OF TENTH GRADE, ON THE TIJUANA TROLLEY
I WOULDN’T BE SITTING ON THIS DUMB TROLLEY RIGHT now, shivering in the AC with wads of drug money taped around my stomach, if it weren’t for my parents. Instead I’d probably still be in New York, just where they want me to be. But they were so stupid. This is what you get when you can’t compromise.
I had a huge opportunity with Rich and Poor, and Mom and Dad just arbitrarily snuffed it. Can you blame me if I totally hate them? They kept saying, “We’re doing this for your own good. Someday you’ll understand.” Well, the only thing I understand is that the only people they care about is themselves. It wasn’t like I wanted to join some weird religious cult. I kept telling them that acting is what I’ll want to do for the rest of my life. And they were, like, “Oh, you’re too young to know what you really want,” and “How is acting on a reality TV show going to help you get into a good college?”
College? Hello? Is anyone even freaking listening? Hey, Mom, Dad, how many times have I told you I don’t give a crap about college? Do you have any idea how few famous actors went to college? Or went for a year or two and dropped out?
And then one day it hit me. I had a choice. I could either go through life blaming my parents or I could decide the hell with them and move on. It didn’t matter what they thought or wanted. They were worried about me not going to a good college? How about me not going to any college at all?
That was the moment everything changed. It was almost like I wasn’t their son anymore. Like I’d stepped through a portal into a different dimension. I was on my own, and it was up to me to decide what was best for my career.
Thanks to the commercials I’d done, I already had some money in the bank . . . and God bless eBay. In one week I almost doubled my money by selling practically everything I owned. Guitars, Xbox, camera, sneakers, Grampa’s wristwatch—you name it, I sold it. Then I went on Craigslist and found a room to rent in a house in North Hollywood.
I bought one-way tickets on the Lake Shore Limited to Chicago and the Southwest Chief from Chicago to LA, left a note on the dining room table, and was out of there for good.
MARCH OF TENTH GRADE, SECOND DAY OF SPRING VACATION IN LA
N,
I wish you’d write. I said I was sorry. I promise I’ll make it up to you when I get back to New York. I want you to tell me everything there is to know about you. Seriously. Please?
Anyway, here’s the latest: Willow’s raven-haired friend is Ann-Marie. She’s the daughter of some big cable TV mogul and incredibly rich and thin. So is Willow. (You forget that the camera adds ten pounds).
As soon as Ann-Marie arrived, Willow came downstairs and we went out to the pool. A-M and Willow wore bikinis and have amazing bodies (Just between you and me, N, I think they must have had matching boob jobs. Maybe they got a 4 for 2 deal!!!).
I was incredibly self-conscious in my one-piece suit, and A-M wasn’t exactly friendly. The first words out of her mouth to me were, “So where’s your camera?”
Nice, huh?
At the pool, Willow was constantly on the phone. She had two kinds of conversations:
1. “Yes” conversations (mostly with friends): “Oh, hi . . . Chillaxing by the pool. Oh, yeah? That might be cool. Okay, let me know. Ciao!”
2. “No” conversations (mostly about business): “No, I never said I’d do that. No way! In his dreams! That’s why they invented (fill in the blank: stunt people, body doubles, personal assistants, limo drivers, publicists, etc., etc.).”
Is this the secret of Willow’s success? Saying no makes people want you more?
BTW--have you heard from Avy? The phone number I have for him doesn’t work, and he hasn’t answered any of my e-mails. I hope it’s because he’s really busy. If I don’t hear from him soon I’m going to have to go track him down at Starwood, the showbiz-kids condo development where he’s staying.
Back to Willow. We hung by the pool for a while, then she decided to try on some of the things she bought that day. She asked me to get my camera and did a little fashion show in her bedroom with Ann-Marie approving or disapproving. Nothing to get excited about. (I’ll show you the shots when I get home.)
After the fashion show we went to dinner. There were six of us at a round table in the back of the restaurant. Sam had us sit in a semicircle with Willow in the middle and her back against the wall. The others were Ann-Marie, the two girls from the shopping trip--Kristen and Lanie--and Sam and me.
Willow and her friends picked at their food and gossiped. Now and then someone approached the table for an autograph. They passed a napkin, autograph book, menu (bet the restaurant really appreciated that), to one of us and we passed it to Willow. She smiled and signed everything.
(Rule #1 for the care and nurturing of stars: Once a day take them somewhere they can sign autographs. It makes them feel good.)
Spent the rest of the day shooting Willow at the beach, at the gym, riding a bike, eating a salad for lunch. See Willow play! See Willow eat! See how healthy and well-adjusted Willow is!
Last night after dinner we piled into a big white SUV and Sam drove us to Glare, the hottest club in LA. The sidewalk was roped off; the line of clubbers stretched down the block. Paparazzi hovered. As soon as we arrived the flashes began. (Once again it’s weird to be on the other side of the camera!) Paps shouting, “How do you feel about Rex seeing Dominika Bartoli?”
“How was rehab?”
“Think you can stay drug free?”
Willow was cool under fire. She smiled for the cameras and ignored the questions. Sam stayed close and hustled us past the line and into the club. (No one checks IDs in LA?)
Thunderous music inside. Willow and her friends joined the dancing crowd. Guys began circling. You could see the word spreading that Willow Twine was there. People leaning to one another and yelling in ears. Heads turning, necks craning for a look.
Willow asked Sam to get her a bottle of water. Get this--she isn’t allowed to have anything from an open glass unless Sam pours it himself. I took a bunch of pictures and was headed back toward Sam when someone grabbed my hand. It was Willow; she wanted me to dance.
So, why not? I danced with her and her friends and lost myself in the music and movement. (Don’t worry, N, no one hit on me). At one point I was face-to-face with Willow and she kissed me on the cheek! (No, that doesn’t count as hitting on me ;-)
Suddenly something in the air changed. All around us lips were pressed to ears, and murmurs rippled through the crowd. A group of lanky guys had come in. Spiked hair, tattoos, and piercings. At the center was Rex Dobro!
N, it was electric! Like an old western movie where the gunfighters face off. Everyone stopped dancing. A camera (not mine) flashed. Sam launched himself through the crowd toward Willow. Suddenly they were gone.
The music was still playing. At first I didn’t know what to do, but when Willow’s friends started dancing and flirting with guys again, I figured I’d just wait. That’s when I noticed that Rex’s friends wer
e still there, but not Rex.
After a while Sam came back alone and said he’d drive me home. The other girls all stayed.
On the way back, I asked where Willow was. Sam’s answer: “Nowhere good.”
Wonder what he meant.
Really miss you. Would love a hit back. xoxoxox?
I work for the Threat Management Unit of the Los Angeles Police Department. Some people call it the Celebrity Antistalking Unit. We handle about 250 cases a year.
In my experience, most stalkers are annoying but basically harmless. The problem is, you never know for sure, so you have to approach each one the same way—as if they have the potential to do serious harm.
By the way, I know this has nothing to do with what we’re talking about, but you want to know what one of our most annoying problems is? Imaginary stalkers. The ones that don’t exist—except in a celebrity’s mind. We’ve got a couple of those right now. Some celebrity starts thinking, “Hey, I’m famous, and famous people have stalkers, therefore, I must have a stalker.” Next thing you know, they start seeing stalkers everywhere.
I’m telling you, live and learn. Work this unit long enough and you’ll see everything.
Richard Hildebrandt was what we call a “love obsessional” stalker. At least, that’s how he started out. He decided he was in love with Willow Twine. He became obsessed with her. He decided that if he could somehow meet her, she’d recognize his true love and love him back. Only with Hildebrandt, there were bigger issues. Definitely an element of schizophrenia. He believed that there were people who wanted to harm her and that he had to protect her from them.
Only, he was also the one who wanted to harm her. I’m no shrink, but obviously this was one very messed up character.
MARCH OF NINTH GRADE, NYC
AS FALL FADED INTO WINTER, THE EXCITEMENT OF ALL MY PUBLICITY ABOUT being the youngest paparazzo seemed to fade with it. My appearance on The Tonight Show was forgotten. The issue of People with my cover was recycled and mulched with all the other magazines. Naomi Fine grew more pregnant and announced plans to marry Marco. Just as Davy’s niece had predicted, Alicia Howard burst onto the scene as the star of the new Nickelodeon series Garage Girls (about an all-girl garage band) and released her first CD, which debuted at number seventeen on the charts and quickly shot to number one.
By the time winter blossomed into spring, my career momentum had wound down to something slower than a crawl, as if, at the age of fifteen, I was already a has-been.
“Wouldn’t you rather be a has-been than a never was?” Davy asked one afternoon after I confided to him that whatever social currency I’d earned the previous fall must have fallen through a hole in my pocket.
“I’m fifteen, Davy,” I answered indignantly. “Isn’t that a little young?”
He shrugged and didn’t verbalize what we both knew: Fifteen was plenty old enough to be a has-been. Just ask Macaulay Culkin, the former child superstar of the Home Alone movies, or Molly Ringwald, who starred in all those John Hughes movies, like The Breakfast Club, Pretty in Pink, and Sixteen Candles. My fifteen minutes were over, and it left me feeling slightly empty, as if I’d lost something and didn’t know how to get it back. No one whispered or stared at me in school anymore.
Things had pretty much gone back to normal at home, too.
“It would be nice if you spent more time with your brother,” Mom said one morning before school while I dumped my camera bag onto the kitchen table and poured myself a cup of coffee.
“I will,” I said, taking a sip.
“You always say that,” Mom replied.
“Between school and work and Nasim, I’m busy,” I said. But the truth was, I wasn’t feeling busy because I had too much to do, I felt busy because I didn’t have enough. Months had passed since I’d sold a photo. Carla kept telling me to be patient, but it wasn’t easy. I felt like everyone was expecting something from the paparazzo prodigy. In addition to “has-been,” phrases like “flash in the pan” and “one-hit wonder” buzzed around my thoughts like annoying gnats. Were all the naysayers right? Was I only a kid with a camera who’d gotten really lucky twice?
By April, yellow and purple crocuses had begun to spring up in Washington Square. There were green buds on the trees, and on warm afternoons people threw Frisbees and hung out around the fountain. I was sitting in Nasim’s living room while he sat at the baby grand playing Bartók’s Allegro Barbaro. Nasim didn’t particularly like piano, but he played it for the same reason that he worked so hard to have a stellar GPA and flawless manners—because he was supposed to.
With a recital only a week away, he was practicing full run-throughs of the entire fifteen-minute piece. I sat on the broad windowsill, knees tucked under my chin, gazing down at the park, wondering what famous person might be pushing a baby stroller while getting some fresh spring air. I felt antsy; I could have been down there, shooting.
In the middle of that thought my cell phone vibrated. Trying not to be obvious, I checked and saw that it was Carla. I glanced over at Nasim, whose head was bent over the keys, then slid off the windowsill. Nasim immediately glanced up and gave me a look of displeasure, but he continued playing. I went into the kitchen, closed the door, and called her back.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Are you sitting down?” she asked with the nearly breathless excitement that almost always signaled good news. “I just got a call from Roxanne Pena, Alicia Howard’s publicist. Alicia’s going to be in New York next week to tape the Late Show. She also wants to do some shopping and take a break from LA . . . and she wants you to shoot her.”
Goose bumps rose on my arms. “Why me?”
“According to Roxanne, Alicia saw you on the Tonight Show last fall and decided that you would ‘get’ her. I think she meant you’d understand her. You know, because you’re around the same age.”
“They want me to shadow her?” I asked.
“Not quite. They’ll set up the times and places. You know the drill. ‘See Alicia shop. See Alicia at the zoo. See Alicia have a pillow fight.’”
“But what’ll keep all the other photogs from taking those shots?”
“They’ll be able to get some, but they’re not going to be allowed in stores where she shops, and they’re definitely not getting in on the pillow fight.”
“So these will be staged photos?”
Carla heard the disappointment in my voice. “Honey, if you want to be a celebrity photographer, you’ll have to get used to staged photos.”
I knew that, of course. Celebrities posed for Annie Leibovitz. I just needed to get over the surprise. “You said next week?”
“She’s scheduled to come in Tuesday night. The Late Show tapes Wednesday afternoon. My guess is, you’ll be shooting from Wednesday night until Friday night. She’s flying back early Saturday morning.”
“What about school?” I asked.
The phone line was silent. I wondered if Carla was considering how to answer that question. Or perhaps she was just trying to recover from the shock of being asked. Then she said, “My dear, you’ve just gone through a six-month dry spell. Now one of the hottest new stars on the planet has asked for you. She didn’t ask for Annie. She didn’t ask for Bruno or Howard. School, schmool. If this is what you want to do in life, make it happen.”
She was so totally right. What was I thinking? This was the kind of gig I’d been dreaming about!
“I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I don’t know why I said that. I think I’m just so totally shocked that I don’t know what to ask.”
“How about, how much are they paying you?”
“They’re paying me?” I blurted.
Carla chuckled. “Yes, Jamie, that’s what people do when they hire photographers. They pay them.”
The phone call ended and I stood in Nasim’s kitchen in a daze. It was a miracle! Just when I thought my career was on the autopsy table, someone had breathed life into the corpse! Had luck struck yet again, or was there some other
explanation? I really didn’t care. All I felt was relief. A weight had lifted. I was still in the ball game. This potential has-been had just been promoted to now-is.
That’s when I noticed how quiet it had become. Nasim was no longer playing. I went back into the living room. He was sitting at the piano, staring at the sheet music. I had the feeling he was purposefully not looking at me. He said, “I was going to ask you what you thought.”
In the silence that followed, his words reverberated around the room like a crescendo.
“I’m sorry,” I began to say. “It was—”
“Business,” Nasim ended the sentence for me with the same sarcastic bite my mother used to put on the word “career.” For someone who hardly ever let his emotions show, it was obvious that he was fuming.
“Am I, like, being totally obnoxious?” I asked, hoping that he’d say no, that he understood how long it had been since I’d felt productive, and how important this was to me.
But he didn’t say anything.
Nasim bid me a chilly farewell at his front door, standing just far enough away that I knew a good-bye kiss was out of the question. I left with a queasy, foreboding sensation in my stomach, hoping this wasn’t some kind of momentous turning point in our relationship from which there was no going back. I didn’t think he was being completely fair. Not only did he not understand how important this was to me, but I doubted he was aware of how the stress of the upcoming recital affected him. I decided to wait and talk to him about it after some time had passed and he’d had a chance to calm down.
My thoughts turned to the Alicia Howard gig. How amazing was this? Once again, my star was on the rise. I was going to meet and shoot Alicia Howard when she came to New York. Wait till Avy and the rest of the school found out!
MARCH OF TENTH GRADE, SEVENTH DAY OF SPRING VACATION IN LA
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