He nodded, tractor beam eyes fully locked in.
“Well, it was part of this summer camp, right after my sophomore year. All these dancers in San Francisco. We’d applied to get in and were all just a bit too proud of ourselves for being there.” My throat felt dry, and somehow, Mik knew to hand me an icy bottle of water from the front seat. I thanked him, sipping it, as he pulled up to Adam’s trailer. Mik slipped silently from the car, leaving us there.
I told Adam about that summer afternoon in San Francisco. If there was a moment when I really began to doubt dancing, it hinged on that afternoon.
There had been a dancer, a guy who was probably in his late twenties, and he came to talk to us. We’d been sitting on the floor of a studio, the mirrors all around us, just chatting and laughing. We’d just finished an especially hard day of classes, so we were tired, but happy.
When he came into the room, something about him made us all just shut up. Instantly. He was dressed in a tight black tank top and jeans, his arms muscular and tan. He had dark hair and a severe hairline and, without much intro, he launched into a speech about how hard this profession was, telling us he “didn’t want to lie to us” and that we needed to know “what we were in for” if we expected to dance professionally. He used that word a lot, in all its forms: profession, professional, professionally. Each time he said it, it felt like someone was punching me in the stomach.
Then he told us to close our eyes.
Sitting there in the backseat of the Range Rover, the heat of summer seeping into the closed car, I described it to Adam: all of us in our beat-up jazz shoes, our slouching leg warmers, our faded leotards, all these outfits we’d worked so hard to make look like we’d just thrown them on haphazardly. We sat there in that too-hot studio that reeked of sweat, and we listened, our eyes closed.
Then he told us: If you could imagine doing anything else in the world besides dancing, anything at all, you should do that. Do that instead of this. Because dancing was competitive, exhausting, ruthless, and it was a very, very short career. He told us: Unless you can only imagine dancing, with all its pain and heartbreak and constant drive to prove yourself, you should go home, get good grades, and go to a regular college, because you’re not cut out to be a dancer.
“Then he walked out of the studio. He didn’t take questions or anything. That was it.” I finished, not sure if it was Adam’s face darkening or the light leaving the sky outside.
Adam shook his head, his eyes wide. “And you listened to him?”
I licked my lips. “He was very convincing.”
Adam made a sound like he had something caught in his throat, a sound of disgust. “He was some jerk that camp paid a hundred bucks to come scare a bunch of kids.” Adam took a deep breath and leaned back against the car seat. “Oh, Carter — if you listen to every idiot who claims to be a professional in this world, every so-called expert who makes you feel like crap, you’ll never try anything. That guy probably went home to his junk apartment and fed his cat and got Chinese takeout and resented all of you — all the possibility you stood for. What a jerk. He was just trying to sound important. Don’t listen to guys like that.”
I hurried to explain, my cheeks reddening. “It wasn’t just that guy; it wasn’t just what he said. He just got me thinking about the whole world of it, the whole dancing world. It’s when I realized it had stopped being fun and started being, I don’t know, forced.”
“You can’t have fun all the time. Sometimes it’s hard. Sometimes it’s frustrating and miserable, sometimes people are mean, but you have to push through that. You’re talented. Sometimes being talented is just hard.” His voice caught on this last sentence, and something suddenly connected us, a ribbon of understanding twisted out and tied me to him.
I drank more water, my head spinning. “That was the problem. I was sick of being talented. I didn’t want to be talented. At some point along the way, talent started screwing everything up. It started dictating things. It started saying yes, I could do that, or no, I couldn’t do that. It stopped being about the love and started being about how good I was. That summer, I hated dancing.”
“So you turned down the scholarship.”
“Yes.”
“And proved that jerk right.”
Tears started to spill down my cheeks, blurring his face.
“Oh, don’t do that. Don’t cry.” He hurried to brush them from my face.
His sweetness startled me enough to slow my tears. “I’m sorry. It’s just …” I fished for the words that clouded my brain. “I just, mostly, don’t think I’m right for that sort of world. For that world of winners and losers and pushing through. I’m not sure I’m built for that, don’t even know if I believe in that sort of world. Not when I think about that family last Saturday who was just trying to find a home, think about Bob who just wanted to get a job — any job— and how hard that is for him. And I have so much already: my family, my home, my job. I like my life here. It might seem boring and small, but I like it. I have so much, so who am I to spend time pushing for more? It’s just greedy.”
Adam leaned into the front seat, dug around in the glove box, and returned with a tissue. “Listen, if you’re happy teaching dance to those old people, if that’s enough for you, and you don’t want to go to New York and be some big-shot dancer, that’s fine; it’s sweet, actually. So you want to make the world better, devote yourself to those families on Saturdays — that’s a beautiful thing. I just don’t understand why you can’t do both. Why didn’t you just keep dancing here? Don’t let some jerk with a spray-on tan be the reason you gave up the thing you used to love the most.”
I dabbed my eyes with the tissue, watching the night sky bloom into violet. “What frustrates me is that there was so much weight given to one choice over the other. If I had taken the scholarship, left Little, then I’m brave or amazing or whatever. But people didn’t want to just let me stay here. Wouldn’t stop telling me what a mistake I’d made. They said I was scared or letting myself down or not expanding my horizons. I hate that expression, by the way. What if I like my horizons? What if staying means I’m loyal and care about my life here? But people didn’t see it like that. So I quit. It was just easier than listening to them.”
“People always have advice when it has no impact on their own lives,” Adam said quietly.
“Yeah, true.” I wiped at my eyes, embarrassed. I wanted to roll down the window, to escape the heat starting to build, to put an end to this conversation. I didn’t really want to be having this talk. It felt like scraping my heart on a cheese grater. “I just feel like other people are always encouraging me to take all these big risks or whatever because they mostly never did. They were hanging out at the river or taking a nap. But, hey, they want me to go make something of myself.”
“Having talent has its own sort of responsibility.” Adam pushed open the door, letting the cooling pine air into the car.
I studied him. “I don’t want to sound like a quitter or a whiner or whatever, but the truth is that I don’t like to compete. I don’t like it when people up the stakes on me. It’s like the higher up you go, the crazier the people get who show up alongside you. Anytime the stakes are too high, I just don’t like the company around me. It’s like there’s some sort of fast pass for narcissists that exists when there’s a winner on the line.”
When he took my hand, he was chuckling.
My stomach twisted. “Don’t laugh at me. Not all of us are cut out to be superstars like you.”
He shook his head. “It’s not that. I’m not laughing at you. You’re just bringing up all these things that came up in rehab for me. It’s kind of scary, actually, how you just sounded like me two months ago.”
My heart squeezed. Was it possible that our worlds might not be on separate sides of the galaxy after all?
His hand let go of mine, and its absence felt like the dark parts of space. He took a low, quiet breath. “Sometimes, I regret not having a regular life. A regul
ar childhood. You know, baseball teams and pizza parties. People think it’s so amazing to be in the movies. And it is. It’s great, but it’s hard not to wonder what it would be like to be … normal. To have just chosen my own path rather than had it all decided already.”
I opened my car door, too, so we could catch a cross breeze. The sky darkened even more and I thought of all those little stars, all the ones we couldn’t see, hidden out there in the dark, sparkling without anyone seeing them at all. I didn’t mind being that sort of star, the kind no one saw but still held its own small part of the sky.
Watching him, I wanted to say something to him about regret, about how I didn’t really believe in the idea of regret because it was always based on what might have happened. People always held up the now, the concrete now, and compared it to what might have been, and that wasn’t a fair comparison.
Instead, I told him, “I’m just trying to make the best choice I can, with all the information I have at the time, and then, if it doesn’t work out, I’ll figure out something else. That’s the best I can do.”
“I get that. More than you know.” He smiled at me, but his face was already retreating behind its curtain and, before I could respond, he was out of the car, leaning in. “I’m sorry to do this, but I’ve got to run. I’ll get Mik to drive you back to your car, okay? I have an epic shoot tomorrow, but the Fourth is going to be great, I promise.” He gave me a sort of half smile, not really meeting my eyes, and then disappeared into his trailer.
I just emptied my heart and he’s got to run?!
What just happened?
Feeling foolish as Mik drove me back to Snow Ridge, I realized that after all of that, we hadn’t even talked about Beckett Ray or reporters or the script or anything else. I was getting distracted and trusting him. I needed to stick to the plan.
No more improvising.
Morning, sky watchers. Well, tomorrow is the Fourth of July. All hail the Stars and Stripes. We’ve been wondering why the flag used stars to represent the fifty states. So, after poking around a bit with our pal Google, we found mostly that they are representative of the heavens, of the human need to look up and feel inspired by all that dark, all that scattered light. To aspire. One blogger we came across said he felt like the stars give people a chance to imagine their own possibilities; they provide a reminder that each of us has the capacity to make our best future, to find our purpose. That sounded pretty good to us. So, while you’re kicked back tomorrow night, looking up at the fireworks, take a minute to consider the stars, the ones always up there reminding us of what might be.
See you tonight, under the sky.
parker was dressed for the river. I knew the look well. Between the months of April and October, it came into the café a lot. He hadn’t shaved and wore a pair of raggedy Bermuda shorts with his T-shirt and flip-flops. He appeared almost normal, like some of the Hollywood shine had dulled. As he perused the script, he tugged at the bill of his faded blue ball cap; it was inscribed with the name of a movie studio I’d seen pop up on movies usually featured at the Dream, a theater that showcased artier films than the Vista. He hurried through our schedule for the day. I’d been in dozens of dance shows over the years, starting with my first satin-drenched, Bambi-eyed Bon Bon in The Nutcracker when I was four, but nothing compared to the production Parker had just outlined for me leading up to my fireworks kiss with Adam.
Sitting again at the iron table tucked away in the backyard of The Hotel on Main, he must have recognized a certain look on my face, a certain glazed overload, because he sat back in his chair, the garden already warm at seven a.m. “You all right? You look a bit peaked.” He took a sip of the orange juice Bonnie had brought us fifteen minutes ago when we’d started. She’d looked a bit less chipper than she had for our first meeting in her garden, the skin beneath her eyes bruised with fatigue. I knew firsthand that after a while, Hollywood or not, work was work.
“What time do we report for the parade?” I asked.
“Ten thirty. You’re in the first car. A vintage Mustang.” He held up a picture of a car, slick and shiny like a candy apple. I thought of the pink scarf Chloe had given me, wondered if they’d let me wear it. Parker tucked the picture back into a folder. “Fabulous, yeah? But no lingering. We’re going to rush you in and rush you out. For security reasons.” His phone buzzed. He eyed it, then texted a quick reply. “Oh, and here’s your dress.” He handed me a white eyelet sundress in a clear plastic bag. I noticed the label. “Oh, wow. Um, I’m pretty sure I’ll get that dirty. And that I can’t afford it.”
He blinked his river-green eyes at me and rubbed at his scruff of beard. “You don’t have to pay for it, love. The designer sent it.”
“Sent it to me?” I held the dress as if it were made of glass.
He was checking his phone again. “You’ll look gorgeous in it. With some sandals. Nothing tarty, yeah?”
“Um, have we met? I’m not even one of those girls who can pull off ‘tarty’ kitty at Halloween. I always go as a baby. Or a pirate.” I hooked the dress onto the back of my chair, careful not to let it drag on the ground.
A smile softening his face, he reminded me to change out of the dress for the lunchtime barbecue at the fairgrounds and then put it back on for the afternoon barbecue at Snow Ridge Senior Living.
Nodding, I said, “Thanks for letting me go to that. It means a lot.”
“It’s a great publicity stop.” He scanned his phone, frowned at something, and then added, “A shot of you with those geriatrics you teach to dance. Priceless.”
Not amused, I sipped my orange juice.
He flipped through a few more pages of the script. “We want you to arrive at the private party for tonight’s Fourth of July gathering no later than six.” He paused to make sure I was keeping up. “I’ll be there at four to make sure things are going smoothly, and the guests will begin arriving at five. We want shots of you two strolling the vineyard. It will be a perfect build for the fireworks kiss shot.”
“So romantic,” I mumbled.
He flipped the script shut. “We sell romance, love. We don’t necessarily live it.”
“We’re watching fireworks there?”
“You and Adam. And invited guests. And three hundred lucky Little locals.”
There had been a contest running all week on our local radio station to win tickets to the exclusive private Fourth of July party being hosted in honor of Adam’s Little film shoot. I’d scored some tickets for Dad, Chloe, and Alien Drake, but when they’d announced yesterday that they’d given away the last ticket, I’d suddenly had quite a few people trying to contact me. One more reason I was glad I didn’t have a Facebook page.
I watched Parker start to rearrange things in a red backpack that still had its tags. Inside, I noticed a thick book, a bottle of water, and a white-paper-wrapped sandwich of some sort. Not one of ours. “You’re not going to the parade?”
He shot me an almost apologetic look. “I’ll be back for the party, but I have a rare day off, and you guys are so snotty about your river I thought I’d see what the fuss was all about.”
“Here.” I pulled the script across the table and wrote out a series of directions on the back of it. “Go here. You’ll avoid some of the people up from Sacramento for the day. This spot’s pretty much locals only. When you get to the sign where it says ‘no river access’ keep going. A resident just put that up to try to keep people out.”
“Cheers.” He stuffed the script into the backpack. As he swung it over his shoulder, he opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it again, his eyes settling on me. His look felt heavy, searching.
I squirmed a bit. “What?”
“Nothing. See you tonight.”
I’d been to every Little Fourth of July parade since I was a kid but never in a featured car. And, of course, never with a movie star.
It changed things.
Not only did Mik run alongside of us, but three other Mik look-alikes joined him to w
ard off the masses. They sweated in the heavy sun as they ran, their huge arms bulging in matching black T-shirts and slacks. When they first joined us, I couldn’t imagine needing four Miks. Now, I wondered if four would be enough. People pressed in on all sides of the bubble of space the Miks kept around the car, but otherwise people shouted, whistled, tried for close-ups. One group of tween girls all wore red, white, and blue shirts reading: The United States of Adam. The collective scream they emitted when we passed caused several of the dogs in the crowd to start howling.
Never more grateful for Chloe’s giant sunglasses, I searched the crowd for familiar faces. I’d tried for the scarf, too, but Jewel had vetoed it, saying it didn’t match the car. As we cruised through the town, waving at the clumps of people in chairs hunched together in any bit of shade they could find, my stomach sank.
I recognized almost no one.
I’d always loved events like the Fourth of July parade in Little mostly because it was the same group of faces year after year. You could go to things like Summer Nights or Victorian Christmas and basically see the same people you saw at the grocery store or the post office — only in better moods. More relaxed, enjoying themselves. We lived a mellow life in Little, but it was still life. Events like these reminded us all to take a step back, turn off our phones, smile at one another a bit more. Even if you didn’t know each name, you knew the faces belonged here.
Today, the parade had record turnout. Maybe double or even triple its normal size.
As we neared the end of the street, the curve that would take us to the point where Mik would load us into the Range Rover, I’d only seen a smattering of familiar faces, and I wondered if everyone in Little had skipped the parade this year, tired of Hollywood taking center stage in our normally peaceful world.
The sun hot on my back, I wished I could join them. Wherever they were.
Catch a Falling Star Page 16