Catch a Falling Star

by Culbertson, Kim

  After the fireworks left the sky smoking and dark, we walked alone toward the Range Rover, Mik having run back to the house for some of our things that we’d stashed in the entryway.

  As we neared the garage, I saw the lit end of a cigarette before I saw him emerge from the shadows.

  T.J. Shay.

  “You’ve got yourself some rich friends, Carter,” he drawled, his face falling into the light of the motion sensor we’d set off with our approach.

  A familiar current of unease moved through me. “What are you doing here, T.J.?”

  Adam drew closer to me, his hand taking mine. “This is a private party.”

  T.J. flashed a ticket stub. “Yeah, I know. Big winner!” He gave a practiced leer. T.J. had spent years cultivating his gangster image, and he almost had it mastered. In a few more years, it would cement itself into place, but I still remembered when he used to wander our house in a Batman costume and, for me, parts of that boy lingered beneath the leer.

  I let go of Adam’s hand, crossing my arms across my chest. “You called into a radio station contest?”

  Shrugging, he stuffed the ticket into the pocket of his baggy shorts. The shorts looked more like they used to be pants, pants that had met with an unfortunate exchange with a chain saw. The hems sagged in varied lengths, frayed at their edges, and a long chain looped at his waist. I knew it was attached to a knife. T.J.’s beloved knife. He bragged about it the way a new parent would a small child who’d just started walking. How many times had he shown me that knife when he used to hang out at our house? I used to find it sort of boring and sad, little boy with his grown-up blade, but here, in the shadows, it served its purpose.

  “What do you want, T.J.?” My voice wobbled a little; this guy was a long way from Batman costumes.

  “Where’s your brother?” He dropped his leer, and without it, his face just looked slack and mean. “We can’t seem to find him, and he owes us some money.”

  “I already gave you money.” I thought of the stack of hundreds in the white envelope I’d passed him through his open car window in the Taco Bell parking lot back when things first started with Adam.

  T.J. shrugged. “It wasn’t enough.”

  “How much now?” Adam asked.

  T.J. eyed Adam the way one observes their options at a meat counter. “You going to pay me, Hollywood?”

  “How much does he owe you?” Adam asked again.

  “Adam, this really isn’t —” I began.

  T.J. cut me off. “He owes me fifteen thousand dollars.”

  That number weighted my feet to the ground: $15,000. The last time I’d asked John he’d said it was three grand, four tops. “There’s no way he owes you that much.”

  He lit another cigarette. “Interest.” Blowing the smoke away, he added, “And I don’t think you know your brother like I do. Fifteen is generous. That’s after what you gave me. Your boy’s got a problem.”

  I shook my head, anger melting away any lingering waves of fear. “John’s not here, T.J., and I think you should go.”

  T.J. laughed a quick puff of air. “Right, like you’re going to make me.”

  A blur passed us, quick and dark, and suddenly T.J. was facedown on the ground, Mik’s hulking form pinning him like a bug.

  Adam walked over to T.J. “This is Mik. He doesn’t like it when people don’t leave when I want them to.”

  “Get. Him. Off,” T.J. wheezed.

  “Didn’t I meet a sheriff earlier at the parade? Nice guy. Redheaded. Is he here?” Adam asked Mik. Mik nodded, motioning back down toward the lawn. People had mostly cleared out, and the catering company was moving tables, stacking plates. Someone had turned on some floodlights.

  “That’s Luke O’Casey. I’ll get him.” I started to turn toward the lawn.

  T.J.’s eyes bulged, but he still tried for tough guy. “Tattling is not in your brother’s best interest.” His breath came in ragged gasps.

  I waited, half turned toward where I’d last seen Sheriff O’Casey.

  Adam took slow steps toward T.J., waiting until his feet were at T.J.’s eye level, and then he crouched down next to him. “Tattling? Seriously? What are we, five?” His voice came out low and graveled. “This isn’t about tattling…. This is about reporting you to the proper authorities.”

  “Wait!” T.J. rasped, his eyelids beating like hummingbird wings. I had a flash of him darting through the late evening of our yard, his Batman cape streaming behind him. “Carter, don’t get the sheriff. I’m leaving.” His eyes looked upward. “Er, I mean, I’ll leave.”

  Adam stood and gave Mik a quick nod. Mik released T.J., who, like a small animal that’d been trapped beneath the paw of a suddenly generous Rottweiler, dashed off down the driveway.

  That night at home, I texted John:

  T.J.’s looking for you.

  When I woke up the next morning for my shift at the café, he still hadn’t answered, and it occurred to me that I hadn’t seen him or heard from him since that night outside the Jensens’ barn.

  I texted him again:

  Where did you go, John?

  “Jones?” I poked my head into the kitchen. “Did you clean the bathroom already?”

  He didn’t glance up from his morning prep, small piles of chopped red bell pepper, onion, and tomatoes. Ready for the breakfast rush. “Sure did.”

  I leaned on the door frame, watching him chop. “You didn’t have to do that; it was my turn.”

  He gave his tattooed shoulders the smallest of shrugs, more of a wink. “Seems to me, you’ve got enough on your plate this morning.”

  He meant the reporters outside. They seemed to be multiplying, filling up our café tables, perched on curbsides, hanging out on the back of their rented cars. A plague of press. I’d been approached by individual members before, but this morning a pack of them crowded the gates of Little Eats.

  “That was some kiss last night at the fireworks — are you two serious?”

  “Did you know about the song?”

  “What will you do when he goes back to L.A.?”

  “Is Adam helping with your brother’s gambling problem?”

  Parker’s words echoed in my ears. Don’t talk to the press. I had tried smiling in a friendly-but-distant sort of way, and hurried inside to the ever-present snapping of cameras.

  “I can still clean a bathroom,” I said to Jones, but crossed and gave his arm a squeeze under the auspices of reaching for a roll of paper towels.

  He stopped chopping a red pepper and let his eyes fall on me, those gray eyes that looked like sheet metal. “I know you can clean a bathroom. You can do a lot of things. But other people can also help you.”

  I wasn’t used to Jones stringing that many words together. It struck me as the only sort of advice he’d ever given me. “Thanks.”

  I flipped the sign from Closed to Open, my gaze falling on a clump of men with cameras leaning against the outside of the waist-level white fence that separated our patio from the main sidewalk. One of them, his straw bowler hat pulled low, perked up when he saw me through the window.

  I moved out of sight before he could raise his camera.

  The next couple days of shooting were at the Little Club, Little’s only tennis and golf (nine holes) club. I sat in my chair in Video Village, watching Adam shoot a scene with the actor who played his father, one of the pivotal scenes where Scott realizes he’s been wasting his life and needs to make a change. Building an epiphany arc.

  The actor playing the father, someone I recognized from television but couldn’t quite place, sat across from Adam at a table by the window, staring out over the golf course. Hunter crouched beside him, one arm resting on the white linen tablecloth. He gave him some whispery direction, his other hand moving in big gestures, his Sundance cap bobbing as he spoke.

  Someone slipped into the seat next to me, a flash of dark and light out of the corner of my eye.

  Beckett Ray.

  I had sort of forgotten about Be
ckett Ray. Until now.

  Catching my eye, she waved in an overdramatized way considering how close we were sitting, a wide smile on her pale face. “Hi!” she whispered.

  I nodded, trying to find the sort of smile that wouldn’t seem like I’d tasted something awful. She stared intently at the actors, her lake-blue eyes searching the scene as one would the surface of an ocean where someone had gone under.

  Why was she here? She wasn’t in this scene.

  Hunter called for a short break, still huddled at the table with Adam and the TV actor.

  “Isn’t this incredible, Carter!?” Beckett chirped. “Well, I don’t know how incredible it is for you. You’re not an actor. But as an actor, this is just thrilling.” Beckett held the word actor in her mouth as if she were having it bronzed.

  “Are you in this scene?” I licked my lips, my mouth suddenly dry.

  She tossed her dark mane of hair. “Oh no, I’m done shooting my scene. But Adam suggested I watch some of the shoot. You know, get some guidance, make connections. Acting’s really all about connections. It’s not what you know, it’s who you know, you know?”

  I didn’t know.

  I shrugged, pretending to search my bag for something, anything to avoid eye contact. Gum. I found gum.

  “This has been such an incredible opportunity for me.” Beckett swelled like an overfilled balloon, waving away my offer of minty gum.

  Adam finished talking to Hunter, spotted us, and sauntered over. “Well, if it isn’t Little’s two most beautiful women.” His eyes darted to the crew members nearby, making sure they’d noticed. This was one of my least favorite versions of Adam, the one who played to the whole room, who saw every person as a potential audience member. I even preferred obsessed-with-his-iPhone Adam over this guy.

  Beckett’s laugh trilled throughout the room. Probably because his comment was just so incredible. At least to an actor.

  Adam narrowed his eyes a bit at me. “Did you like the scene?”

  Before I could answer, Beckett jumped in, her voice almost squeaky. “Adam, you are so at ease in that scene. I just love what you’re doing when your father asks you about your lunch — how the way you describe your hamburger is this huge metaphor for what’s wrong in your own life. You never noticed the pickles before. Brilliant.”

  “It’s not too overt?” He tilted his head, his arms crossed on his chest.

  I actually did think it was too overt, that he lingered too long on the pickles comment, as if the audience would miss it if he didn’t punctuate it for us, but I didn’t tell him that. He didn’t want to hear that; I could tell by his face he wanted praise and only praise.

  “It’s perfectly in balance,” Beckett gushed. “You never noticed the pickles before. But you do now, right? Brilliant.”

  “Brilliant pickles,” I added.

  They both stared at me.

  I buried the pack of gum in my bag. “You know, I should really go help my dad with the lunch rush.”

  Beckett gave me an overly sympathetic nod. “It’s so cute that you work for your parents. Carter’s such a small-town poster girl.”

  Why couldn’t something heavy fall on Beckett Ray? Just this once. A pulsing started behind my eyes. I didn’t seem to know about acting and pickle metaphors, but I did know I seriously had to get out of this room. The air-conditioning felt too chill, the corner where we sat too dark, everything shoved aside at odd angles to make room for the film equipment.

  “You okay, Carter?” Adam’s brow furrowed. “You look kind of weird.”

  “I think it’s just the air-conditioning.” I scooped up my bag, gave a short wave, and hurried from the room, but still in time to see Beckett stand and curl up next to Adam like a dark-haired cat.

  I ended up working the rest of the day at Little Eats, a welcome distraction so I didn’t have to think too much about Adam and Beckett. I was just about to switch off the lights for the night when I heard a light tap at the back door of the café. Jones had gone home, but I thought I’d wait out the last few reporters still hanging out near the front fence, the night darkening their faces. Opening the door a crack, I found John standing there, hands shoved into the front pockets of his jeans. His face was sallow, but his eyes flickered with relief when he saw me. “Hey, little sis. I was hoping you’d be here.”

  Dad would be furious at me for letting him in, but I held the door wider. “Hey.” I ushered him in, locking the door behind him, and he followed me out through the kitchen to the front. “You hungry? We have some sandwiches left.”

  He slid into a chair at one of the blond tables. “That’d be great.”

  I hurried to put a plate together for John, pour some tea over ice. I sat across from him while he ate for a few minutes, his eyes downcast, his face dimly lit by the low glow of the drink cases.

  “Did you get my texts?” I toyed with the pile of paper napkins I’d set out in front of him.

  He shook his head. “I don’t have my phone anymore.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  Without warning, he broke down, dropping the rest of the sandwich onto its plate, tears streaking his face. I froze. The only time I’d ever seen my brother cry was when he’d fractured his arm falling out of my tree house when he was twelve. “Oh, oh, John,” was all I could manage. Chewing my lip, I scooted my chair closer to his, not sure if I should hug him or punch him or call my parents. I opted for sitting and watching him cry.

  After a few moments, he took a ragged breath. “I never meant for T.J. to come after you.” I started to explain that he hadn’t really come after me, but he rushed on. “I heard he was bothering you at Fourth of July, threatening you. I never meant for any of this …” He trailed off, his red-rimmed eyes blinking. “I never meant any of it.”

  “I know.” We sat quietly, listening to the hum of the drink cases, the passing of cars on the street outside. “I just want you to be okay.”

  He took a long drink from his sweating iced-tea glass, emptying it, then mopped his damp hand off on his jeans. “I can fix it,” he said.

  Listening to him, my heart hurt. I’d heard him make that promise to my parents so many times before. Needing a minute to myself, I said, “Hang on a second, okay? I’m going to get you more tea.” I grabbed his glass and headed toward the kitchen where I was brewing a fresh batch. Even before I’d reached the jar of tea, still warm from its earlier soak in the sun, I heard the click of a lock and the bell on the front door jingle. I dashed back out to the front.

  John was gone.

  At the table, surrounding his empty plate, he’d left a spray of shiny green glass drops, the dragon tears he used to scatter under the trees in our yard, back when he told me about the fairies who lived there and I’d believed him.

  “have you seen this?” Chloe slapped a copy of Entertainment Now! on the counter. It was folded to an inside page, something called “Caught!” What would these entertainment magazines do if the world suddenly lost the exclamation point? I squinted at the picture. I was in a little cutout window shaped like a jagged heart, looking bereft (probably because I’d just cleaned the espresso machine), and the main picture showed Adam with Beckett, both laughing on the set. I’d spent today helping Dad, ignoring Adam’s texts, and avoiding the Little Club, but the picture must have been taken back when they were in a scene together because Beckett was wearing an apron.

  The caption read: Adam Jakes Breaks a Little Heart.

  Seriously, what if my town had been called Pineville or something?

  I pushed it out of the way. “She’s in the movie with him. I already knew this.” I turned back to the decaf latte I’d been making for the very patient gentleman in the tan khakis and polo shirt who Chloe had just stormed in front of at the counter.

  “Look where his hand is!” Chloe widened her eyes at me.

  I handed the man his latte and a free cookie for being so patient. The heat was making people cranky and demanding, and he hadn’t even blinked an eye when Chloe cu
t in front of him. “Thanks for your patience.” Smiling his response, he settled into a seat by the window and flipped open a copy of the Sacramento Bee.

  Upon closer inspection of Chloe’s magazine, I could see that, yes, Adam’s hand appeared to be on Beckett’s hindquarters. Pushing aside the thick rope of dread coiling in my stomach, I said, “They’re just working together.”

  Chloe snorted and circled the offensive hand with one of the many Sharpies she kept in her pockets. I wanted to tell Chloe that it really wasn’t any of my business where Adam Jakes put his hand. He wasn’t paying me to monitor his extracurricular habits … or his taste in girls. Of course, I couldn’t tell her this, but even if I could, it wasn’t true. When I glanced at the picture again, my belly-knot of rope twisted and yanked. I tried to sound unconcerned. “Thanks for being outraged on my behalf.”

  She glared at the photo. “You need to tell him this is unacceptable boyfriend behavior. I don’t care if he is a movie star.” She shoved the article at me until I picked it up, folded it, and set it beneath the counter. I’d bury it in the recycling later when she wasn’t looking.

  “Okay, okay. I haven’t seen him today; he’s working. I’ll talk to him tomorrow. I’m sure it’s nothing.” I wiped the counter down and started to prep for closing. “Now, if you’re looking for something to do, you could wipe down the drink cases.”

  The next morning, I sat on the shaded front steps of Chloe’s house, waiting for the Range Rover to pick me up, the early air still stained with leftover yesterday heat. The paparazzi outside my house had multiplied, so I suggested to Parker they pick me up at Chloe’s this morning. I’d set my alarm for five and slipped out the back of my house hopefully unseen. Now, even at six a.m., morning buzzed around me. Sprinklers shushed, a lawnmower hummed, a low-playing talk radio whispered from the roofers working across the street. One of them sat on the open tailgate of his truck, sipping from a silver thermos, checking his phone. When he glanced my way, I gave him a little wave. He held up his cup in salute.