“Just be your normal sweet adorable self,” Carla counseled on the couch outside her office. “That’s what they like about you.”
“They?” I repeated.
“You’ll see.” Pulling me by the hand, Carla led me into the office.
Inside, Aaron Ives sat at the desk, talking to someone on Carla’s MacPro. I recognized him from photographs. This was the man who’d made Willow who she was. Actually, they’d made each other. Aaron was just starting out in the talent agency business when he discovered Willow, so everything he’d become he owed to her. And vice versa.
“Give me a second, sweetheart, she’s here,” he said in a British accent. He looked up from the computer, smiled at me—revealing unnaturally straight white teeth—and extended his hand. “Jamie? I’m Aaron Ives. Delighted to meet you.”
“Thanks, me, too,” I said, shaking his hand. “I mean, I’m delighted to meet you, since I’ve already met me.”
He smiled as if anything I’d said would have been utterly adorable. “Have a seat.” He gestured to the couch, where, for the first time, I noticed Heather Taylor, a small, redheaded woman wearing a black pantsuit.
“Hi,” I said.
Willow’s publicist gave me the old “we’re so very glad to meet you” routine. I sat down beside her on the couch. Carla took a chair near the door. I thought it was strange that this was her office and yet Aaron Ives was sitting at her desk, using her Mac, and acting as if it were his office. But maybe that was how things worked in showbiz.
“So, Jamie.” Aaron leaned his elbows on the desk and intertwined his fingers as if in prayer. “Congratulations.”
“Uh, thanks, but for what exactly?” I asked.
Aaron turned to Carla, who smiled as if once again I’d just said something utterly adorable.
“For accomplishing so much at such a young age,” he said. “It’s not everyone who gets profiled in New York Weekly and has a People magazine cover at the age of fifteen.”
“Thank you.” I couldn’t imagine where this was leading and had to stop myself from blurting out that I wished he’d cut to the chase and just tell me. With that blindingly white, unnaturally even smile, Aaron leaned and placed his elbows on his thighs. “How would you like to do an exclusive on Willow?”
“But not like what Carla told us happened with Alicia Howard,” Heather quickly interjected. “We’re looking at a magazine spread. We’re talking to People, US Weekly, and Seventeen. They’re all interested.”
To avoid betraying the way I felt, which was totally stunned, I tried to act cool and asked the first thing that popped into my head: “Willow’s coming to New York?”
“Oh, no,” said Heather. “You’ll be going out there. She wants you to stay with her.”
“In Los Angeles?” I asked uncertainly.
“That’s right,” said Aaron. “In her mansion.”
Stay with Willow Twine—the biggest teen star in the world—in her mansion? I glanced at Carla, and she nodded eagerly as if to assure me that it wasn’t a joke. That’s when my total astonishment got the better of me and I asked the kind of question you’re not supposed to ask: “Why me?”
“Brilliant question,” Aaron said in a way that let me know he’d been waiting for me to ask. “Willow’s known about you ever since that New York Weekly story. You may recall she was also in that issue.”
I nodded.
“And you know, of course, that’s she’s been through rather a rough patch recently. The unfortunate accident and the run-in with the authorities, and then rehab. But she’s put all that behind her now. She’s ready to make her comeback, and she’s got the perfect vehicle. A terrific new movie, The Pretenders. I can’t tell you much more than that right now, but believe me, in a few weeks it will be huge entertainment news. For now we just want young women, I mean, girls, to know that Willow is still one of them. What better way to do that than to have someone close to their own age spend time with her, get to know her, literally become her friend, and document a week in the life of Willow Twine.”
Aaron paused to let the words sink in. A Week in the Life of Willow Twine . . . by Jamie Gordon. Carla, Aaron, and Heather looked at me expectantly. For a moment I was so dazzled—by the suggestion, by his accent, by the blinding brightness of his teeth—that I didn’t realize they were waiting for my answer.
“Jamie?” Carla finally said.
I forced myself out of the fog. “Uh, yeah, I mean, thank you so much. I’m thrilled. I mean, yes! Great, let’s do it!” I said. Was there any other way to reply?
“Brilliant!” Aaron turned the MacPro to face me. On the screen was a desk and an empty chair. Behind the chair was a bookcase lined with plaques, statuettes, and photos. “Willow, darling?” he said.
For a few seconds nothing happened. Then a woman sat down in the chair. She was wearing a thick white terrycloth robe and pulling a large light blue comb through her straight, wet hair. She looked very familiar, but without makeup it took an extra second for me to recognize her. “Hi, there,” she said with a smile.
“Uh, hi.” I concentrated on not sounding utterly awestruck and bedazzled.
“Nice to meet you,” she said.
“You, too,” I said. “I mean, thank you so much for thinking of me.”
“So, you like our idea?” Willow asked.
“It sounds great,” I said.
“I think it’s going to be so much fun,” Willow gushed as if she were as excited as me. “We’ll spend the whole week together. Just you and me. We’ll really get to know each other. It’ll be such a blast.”
We grinned at each other on the computer. Then Willow reached toward the screen. “Gotta go, okay? See you soon.”
The screen went gray. Aaron Ives swiveled it away.
“Uh, okay,” Heather the publicist said, more to Carla than to me. “Just so we’re straight up front, there are a couple of conditions. Obviously, it can’t just be Jamie and Willow all week. Willow’s got all kinds of appointments and meetings. But we are proposing that Jamie stay on the property and spend as much time as possible with her. As far as the pictures go, we’d like to get past the typical photo op and really let Jamie have the opportunity for some intimate candids, but obviously we also need to have some control.”
“I’m sure she understands,” Aaron said in a terse way that made it clear that these details could be discussed at another time. “So, you’re on board, Jamie?”
“Definitely,” I said.
“Brilliant.” Willow’s manager nodded at Carla, who rose from her chair and said to me, “Come on, Jamie, I’ll walk you out.”
Aaron and Heather stood, and once again we shook hands. Out in the waiting room, I gave Carla a quizzical look and whispered, “Why would Willow want to hang out with me? Isn’t she, like, three or four years older?”
“Try four or five years.” Carla dropped her voice to imply confidentiality. “But my guess is, that’s got a lot to do with it.”
“You mean, youth by association?” I asked.
“Right. It gives the whole project a younger feel. At least, that’s the way Heather wants to spin it. It’s all about reassuring Willow’s fan base that even though she and Rex Dobro were hot and heavy, she’s still the same sweet, virginal girl singer and actress that they’ve come to love and admire. There’s just one thing you have to do. Get your mom to let you go out to Hollywood for a week.”
MARCH OF TENTH GRADE, FIFTH DAY OF SPRING VACATION IN LA
N,
Did you get my voice mail? I hope the silent treatment isn’t your way of punishing me. It doesn’t seem like something you’d do. It’s really hard to be so far away and not know what you’re thinking. Especially after what happened. Please call back or write.
Anyway, it’s gone from crazy to bizarre here. Everything has changed. Willow’s canceled all her appointments. Her personal assistant, Doris, is stalking around with a huge frown on her face. A whole new group of people, mostly guys, have shown up, and the
scene around here has gone from “Girls just want to have fun” to “Guys just want to jump girls.” The stink of cigarette smoke is in the air, and abandoned glasses and beer bottles are everywhere.
There’s a morose silence, almost a sense of doom, among the staff. This morning Willow’s publicist, Heather Taylor, came to the front gate but wasn’t allowed in. Sam’s here, but no matter how vigilant he tries to be, people seem to disappear into the pool house or some bathroom and come back giggling, smirking, or just plain hyper.
I was in the kitchen having a salad with Doris before when Willow and Rex came in and announced that they wanted to have a party. Willow dictated a list of things she wanted Doris to order--party platters, beverages, etc.
“Better toss in some beer,” Rex added. “Maybe a case of Red Stripe and a case of Dos Equis. Half a dozen bottles of Patrón Silver and Ketel One.”
When Doris hesitated, Willow snapped, “Do what he says.”
When she’s with Rex, there’s something about Willow’s voice and body language that’s different. Is it adoration? The need to please? At the same time, she’s become bratty and demanding to everyone else.
It’s very weird, N. Maybe you’ll write back and tell me what you think? Isn’t that what you said you’d do?
ONLY THE SLEAZE, PLEASE!
LA SHOCKER! TEEN SENSATION
WILLOW TWINE ENTERS REHAB!
Less than forty-eight hours after crashing her Mercedes into the side of a garbage truck, teen superstar Willow Twine has voluntarily entered an exclusive LA rehab facility for what a spokesperson said was an “accidental” dependence to prescription painkillers.
This is the latest surprise in a series of bizarre developments that began early Sunday morning when Twine, accompanied by rocker boyfriend Rex Dobro—both apparently under the influence of drugs—sideswiped three cars and ran a red light before crashing into the side of the truck.
Police responding to the scene reported finding marijuana, pills, and a bag containing an unidentified white powder. The young actress was taken into custody and charged with possession of illegal substances and driving while impaired. Within hours, mug shots of Twine with stringy hair, a swollen split lip, and black eye from the crash were circulating on the Internet.
At the arraignment later that morning, Twine’s manager, Aaron Ives, posted bail and handed out a typewritten statement allegedly from Dobro stating that he was responsible for the drugs. Surrounded by a phalanx of friends and supporters, Twine was whisked from the courtroom into a waiting car.
Many assumed that Ives would keep his star under wraps until the situation died down and was forgotten, but the next afternoon Rexlow was surrounded by an army of paparazzi after they were spotted shopping on Rodeo Drive. Dobro further aggravated the situation by getting into a fight with one of the photogs, and then Willow made a garbled and rambling statement about the evils of the paparazzi. Within the hour the clip was all over TV and the Internet and was followed by an even more incomprehensible and befuddled statement on Willow’s website that was apparently intended to explain what she’d meant but instead left her fans scratching their heads and her enemies making snide comparisons to Britney and Lindsay.
A few hours later her publicist issued the announcement that Willow was going into rehab after “accidentally” becoming addicted to the prescription painkillers she’d been taking for a mysterious back injury that had never been mentioned before.
NOVEMBER OF TENTH GRADE, NYC
WHEN I SAW THE NEWS ON MY BLACKBERRY, I ACTUALLY CUT CLASS to call Avy from the washroom. Weeks had passed since we’d last connected. I’d spoken to him after he returned from Tijuana, but when I asked him to send me some shots of his new look, he said he wanted to wait until the swelling went down. The phone rang for a long time, and just when I expected to get his outgoing message, he answered with a yawn. “Hello?”
“Did you hear about Willow?” I gasped.
“Huh? Jamie? What time is it?” He sounded groggy.
“Two o’clock here, so it must be eleven there.”
“Oh, man. I—” He coughed for a few seconds, then cleared his throat. “I feel like I just went to bed.”
“Well, wake up and smell the gossip! Willow’s going into rehab!”
“Hmm.” Avy sounded less than interested. I was shocked. This was the kind of thing we’d once spent hours dishing about. I wanted him to be interested. I needed him to still care about the things we used to care about. “Uh, know what, Jamie? Let me get some coffee and call you right back, okay?”
School ended, and Avy still hadn’t called back. I went to a stakeout outside the federal court building downtown and stood on the cold marble steps for three hours with a dozen other photogs waiting for Blake Bloxon to come out, only to learn from a limo driver that the court appearance of the world’s richest deadbeat dad had been postponed to another day.
Avy called around 8:00 p.m., six hours after he said he’d get coffee and call me right back. But at least he sounded more like himself. “Hey, Wonder Girl! Willow’s in rehab! Can you believe it?”
“Oh, it’s classic!” I gasped, delighted that I had the old Avy back. “Just what everyone predicted would happen if she took up with Rex!”
“From superstar to fallen woman,” Avy said, and coughed.
“Well, not quite. More like a bump in the road, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know, Jamie. Have you checked out Facebook and some of the gossip sites? There’s suddenly a lot of anti-Willow stuff out there. Think about it. If you’re the mother of an eleven-year-old tweenybopper, do you want your daughter cheering for a rehabber with a rap sheet?”
“Even if Rex takes the blame for the drugs?” I asked.
“He wasn’t driving. She was.”
“You really think fans are that fickle?”
Avy’s answer came after a spasm of deep, gurgling coughs. “Whoa, Wonder Girl, what alternative universe are you living in? Of course they’re that fickle. Especially when they know Alicia Howard’s waiting in the wings.”
“Are you sick?” I asked while I Googled Alicia Howard on my MacBook.
“Nah, just a little phlegmy.”
I found Alicia’s website. “Listen to this. She’s issued a special statement: ‘I can only express my greatest admiration and concern for Willow. She was my number one idol as a girl. I wish her the best and hope she has a speedy recovery.’”
“Alicia’s probably salivating so hard her handlers are looking for mops,” Avy quipped.
I had to laugh. “Good one, Avy. Personally, I like the line, ‘She was my number one idol as a girl.’ Such a sweet backhanded dig at Willow’s age.”
“Come on, who’s kidding who?” Avy asked. “If the two of them were standing at the edge of a cliff and Willow began to lose her balance, Alicia would be more than happy to reach out . . . and give her a push.”
“Except it looks like Rex has done it for her,” I said.
Avy coughed, then cleared his throat. “True, that.”
The velocity of gossip started to wane. “So, what’s up?” I asked. “What have you been doing?”
“Same old, same old. I’m doing the academy thing, and Janice takes Sean and Brian and me to auditions—”
“Wait. Who are Janice, Sean, and Brian?”
“Sean and Brian are my roommates. Janice is Brian’s mom. She’s like our house mother and chaperone.”
“So you moved?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah, didn’t I tell you? My parents arranged for me to live in Starwood. It’s where all the showbiz kids live. We’re all at the Professional Children’s Academy.”
“But wait, if you’re at the academy, how come you were sleeping when I called this morning?”
“Oh, yeah. Uh, um, I stayed home today because I’ve been kind of run-down. Between school and auditions and everything.” He coughed again. It sounded deep and guttural.
“Seriously, Avy, are you okay?” I asked.
�
��Yeah, yeah. I’ve just had this bug for a couple of days. It’ll go away. So, what’s going on with you, Wonder Girl? How’s New York’s youngest paparazzo? Oops, I meant celebrity photographer.”
I told him it had been really slow, and that things with Nasim seemed okay but I could never really tell what he was thinking. Once again, the conversation seemed to wane in a way it never had before. Avy coughed and cleared his throat. “So, uh, that’s really crazy about Willow. Thanks for the update. Uh, I gotta go, Jamie. Let’s talk again soon, okay?”
“Okay,” I said. The line went dead. Maybe it was my imagination, but for the first time ever I felt like there was something more than just physical distance separating me from my best friend.
FEBRUARY OF TENTH GRADE, NYC
“NO,” MOM SAID. SHE, DAD, AND I WERE SITTING AT THE KITCHEN table. Alex was in the den watching TV.
“But this would be a huge step in my career,” I said.
Mom’s face tightened as if she still hated that word but had finally come to accept that she could do nothing about it. I turned to Dad and gave him a pleading look. Knowing I’d need his support, I’d asked him to stop by.
“I don’t think you’re being fair, Carol,” he said.
“It’s going to be over spring vacation, so I won’t miss any school,” I added. “You know you hate the idea of me being a paparazzo. Here’s a chance for me to really establish myself as a celebrity photographer.”
Mom looked at Dad. “She’s not even sixteen years old. You can’t be serious about letting her go all the way to the other side of the country to spend a week with a clearly unstable person who has a well-documented drug and alcohol problem.”
“Willow’s cleaned herself up,” I said.
That drew another long, dramatic, “give me break” sigh from my mother.
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