Map to the Stars

by Jen Malone

  I was still way back on the “feelings for you” part, those words buzzing in my ears. When I finally caught on to the rest of what he was saying I couldn’t do much more than stare at him stupidly.

  He sighed like he was Atlas holding the world on his shoulders. Reaching out, he wrapped three fingers around my wrist, cradling my hand lightly. “I feel like I’ve said this to you way too many times for not knowing you that long, but . . . I’m sorry.”

  I fought the lump in my throat to choke out, “It’s okay.”

  “It’s not. It’s pretty fan-freakin-tastically sucky. But it is what it is. I can’t just do what I want to do when I want to do it because I’m responsible for all the other people who earn their living based on my career. I have to be the responsible one.” He snorted bitterly.

  I nodded numbly in reply. His arms wrapped around me in a hug that quickly threatened to be more as I leaned into him but, abruptly, he dropped his hold and took several steps back along the hallway.

  “I’ll see you in the morning, okay?” he offered, with a ghost of smile.

  “Will you be back to not talking to me then?” I asked. I hated the way my voice sounded so tiny.

  He grimaced. “I promise I’ll talk to you, Annie. Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedmites bite.”

  I couldn’t stifle a smile in spite of myself. “It’s bedbugs, freak.”

  “Right,” he said, the corners of his mouth tugging slightly upward. “Well, them either.”

  And then he was gone.

  I slipped my key card into the slot and entered the quiet room. Mom’s sleeping form caught the sliver of light coming in from the open door. Creeping past her, I felt around for my sweats in the dark. I was sure she wouldn’t be thrilled to find my wet bathing suit in a heap the next morning, but I was also sure I was beyond caring. For now I just wanted to crawl underneath my covers and let the clinging smell of chlorine bleach all thoughts from my head.

  I drifted off to the dull chorus of “Graham, Graham, Graham” outside my window and inside my head.

  Chapter Nine

  Graham did keep his promise to talk to me the next day, but our conversation was so impersonal that it was almost worse than the silent treatment. As we drove to the train station with Melba, Roddy, and Mom, he was careful to maintain a perfectly respectable distance between us at all times and our discussions never went any deeper than comments about the weather. Which sucked, by the way. The weather, not the conversation, though that sucked too.

  The only good thing about the steady drizzle sheening the streets was that it kept all but the most dedicated members of the London branch of the Graham Cabot Fan Club off the sidewalks. Of course, we still had to make a sneaky escape through the hotel laundry room and into the waiting limousine. I thought perhaps we could have been a little more stealthy in a few Honda Accords but, hey, that wasn’t my call.

  When we pulled up to St. Pancras Station, where we’d be catching the train to Paris, the limo snaked around to a side entrance and let out Graham and Roddy. Graham was dressed in baggy jeans and a rugby shirt, with a baseball cap riding low on his face and a hoodie pulled up over it. He looked exactly like someone trying not to look like someone.

  That is, until he plopped into a wheelchair Roddy retrieved from the limo’s trunk.

  I was pretty sure impersonating a handicapped person was illegal (and if not, it should be) but I had to admit that no one so much as glanced down at Graham as Roddy wheeled him toward the station. In fact, as we followed at a distance into the station, a large number of tourists were far more engaged in trying to throw themselves against the brick column separating platforms nine and ten. I thought about telling them that the Hogwarts Express, in addition to being completely fictional, departed from platform nine and three-quarters at the nearby King’s Cross Station and not St. Pancras, but decided a decent concussion would serve most of them right.

  When we caught up with the boys a few minutes later, Graham was miraculously healed and sprawled sideways across a seat in the private train compartment. Roddy took off to hunt for the food car and Melba and Mom snagged the opposite seats, leaving me no choice but to sit next to Graham. I thought about asking where the studio execs were this morning, but decided I didn’t actually care. Graham silently moved his legs out of my way and I pressed myself as close as possible to the opposite wall. Even so, I heard him suck in his breath when my leg accidentally brushed his. At least he was feeling things too, though that really wasn’t as satisfying as it should have been.

  I expected him to ignore me, but he surprised me by suggesting a game of Liar’s Poker using our combined pool of British and American currency. The object of the game was to determine if the person was telling the truth about how many of a particular digit was among the serial numbers of the bill in his hand. If he fooled you, he got to keep the bill and if he didn’t, he had to fork it over.

  It should be noted that trying to determine if an actor is lying is a bit like trying to get the “It’s a Small World” song out of your head after a visit to Disney: next to impossible. Plus, as my dad knows only too well, I’m an easy mark for an elaborate lie.

  If you weren’t paying close attention you wouldn’t notice how tortured Graham looked when our eyes happened to meet and how his smile was just a tiny bit strained. Unfortunately, I was paying close attention. And a few times I thought maybe, just maybe, that Melba was too.

  Needless to say, everyone but Graham was dead broke when we pulled into Gare du Nord in Paris a few hours later. We reenacted our arrival scene in reverse, wheelchair and all, then sped from the station to our hotel in an identical limo and an identical gray drizzle to London. Fog obscured most of the city out my window. Now I couldn’t even sightsee the drive away. Great. The warm cocoon of the train compartment faded and everyone was quiet as we crawled through city traffic. I felt every bit as heavy as the weather and I allowed myself to sink into my sulk.

  I missed home.

  And Wynn.

  And if I was being perfectly honest, I missed Dad.

  Pre-betrayal Dad, before everything changed. The dad who called me Principessa and always sang “On Top of Spaghetti” at the top of his lungs to make me laugh. The dad who wore a Halloween werewolf mask year-round when he answered the door to the pizza delivery guy. The dad who bought me a stuffed hippo on my thirteenth birthday to remind me that I would always be his little girl. Why did he have to go and ruin everything by putting appearances over the truth? Why couldn’t he just have been honest and trusted us to love him through it?

  I caught Mom studying me with her “I’m worried about you” expression and I tried to conceal a tear by swiping my cheek with my sleeve. I knew there would be questions when we got away from everyone else.

  Sure enough, the moment we deposited our bags in our room, she started in.

  “Annie, what’s going on?”

  “Nothing, Mom. I’m fine.”

  “Well, I can clearly see that isn’t true. Look, I know this trip is tiring and there aren’t a lot of kids your age to hang out with. Are you lonely? Maybe you could see if Graham wanted to hang out later since he doesn’t have any events until tomorrow morning.”

  I snorted, which only caused Mom to look more concerned.

  “You aren’t still hung up on the whole NYC thing, are you? It really seemed like you two had kissed and made up, so to speak.”

  Oh, Mom, if only you knew how much that was true. Especially the kissing part.

  “Things with Graham are fine. It’s not him. I’m just in a funk. Tired, maybe. A little homesick I guess.”

  Mom sank onto the bed, kicking off her shoes and leaning back into the pillows. She rubbed her temples in deliberate circles.

  “Are you sure it doesn’t have to do with anything else? I know I promised you back in Shelbyville that I would give you as much space as you needed with this an
d I realize you were every bit as eager as I was to get some distance from everything with Dad. But he is your dad. And one day, you’re going to have to deal with everything.”

  Says the woman who moved us three thousand miles and a career change away to get her own space. I bit my tongue.

  “It’s not easy for me either,” she continued. “And anyway, as long as we’re talking about him, I do need to call. Do you think you might be up for at least saying hi? It would mean a lot to him.”

  I fixed her with a stare that was equal parts shock and revulsion.

  “Why? Why are you calling him? Wait, are you guys talking?” I asked, as if conversation were the eighth deadly sin.

  “Sweetheart, we’re his family and he deserves to know where on the planet we are at all times. I’ve been checking in with him, of course I have. And . . . yeah, we’ve been . . . talking,” she said, sounding slightly defensive.

  “Mom?” I asked, in a small voice.

  “Ans, it’s complicated. All of it. But I always believed his intentions were pure. He was trying to protect us, not hurt us. He was misguided, no denying it. But I’m not so sure anymore that what he did was unforgivable.”

  “Mom, we moved across the country because of him. He lied to us EVERY DAY for months and months! How could you just act like that doesn’t matter?”

  “I’m not acting like it doesn’t matter. He hurt me just as much as he hurt you. I’m only listening to what he has to say. Everyone deserves at least that. Your dad is the man I’ve loved for nineteen years and I can’t simply write that off. Sometimes people learn from their mistakes and when they do, they earn themselves a second chance. I’ve had some time to cool off now, and what kind of a person would I be if I didn’t at least hear him out?” Her voice dropped lower as she added, “Anyway, we’re just talking. That’s all.”

  Mom stood back up and reached for her purse. She pulled her phone from it and began pushing buttons.

  “So, do you want to be here for this?” she asked.

  In reply, I grabbed my laptop and stormed out the door, my thoughts swirling.

  I set up camp in the opulent lobby of the hotel and began an email to Wynn. She’d replied to my London one eager for more of the same, but this time I didn’t sugarcoat anything with over-the-top stories about press junkets and camped-out fans. I told her everything about Graham and his mixed signals, about my mom and her mixed messages, and all about feeling lost and lonely and dark in the City of Lights. And when I was done, I hit send and felt lighter. Not better, exactly, but lighter.

  And very, very starved.

  I looked around the lobby with its high-hanging crystal chandeliers and the upholstered chairs with elaborately carved scrolls in the feet and weighed my options. I could try to break through the barricade of girls outside who had taken up the baton from their London counterparts. I could go back to the room and order room service and have to hear all about Mom’s phone call with Mr. Phony himself.

  Or I could call Graham.

  Why not? There wasn’t anything wrong with us being friends and friends were perfectly entitled to have a meal together. Right? Absolutely. Melba could screw off.

  I tried his cell and it went to voice mail without even ringing once. Turned off. Okay, fine. On to Plan B. I marched over to the man behind the check-in counter and cleared my throat.

  “Um, excusez-moi?” I asked. Well, there went the sum total of my French. Other than “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir,” which I got in trouble for singing in elementary school, even though I told my mother I was just following along with Christina Aguilera on that Moulin Rouge! song. Now that I knew what it meant, I was damn sure NOT going to be saying that to the squat, handlebar-mustached man behind the counter.

  Fortunately, he responded in English. “Yes, mademoiselle? How may I assist you?”

  “I was hoping you could give me the room number for my, um, traveling companion. Graham Cabot?”

  He peered at me disdainfully over the waxed wooden counter. “How did you get in here?”

  “Oh, no, no. I’m not one of the girls from outside. I’m a guest of the hotel,” I told him, holding up my room key.

  “I see,” he said with a harrumph. “Well, unfortunately, we do not have a Monsieur Cabot staying with us.”

  “Actually, you do, because I just arrived here with him an hour ago. Through the kitchen. We were greeted by one of your staff—I think her name was Françoise.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, mademoiselle, but we do not have a Monsieur Cabot on our guest list. Perhaps you are mistaken on the name?” he said, with a slight raise of his eyebrow.

  Oh. Of course. Graham wouldn’t be checked in under his own name. Okay, well that wouldn’t be a problem. I knew his alias.

  “Gotcha. In that case, Peter Parker’s room, please.”

  Mr. Snootypants raised his other eyebrow. “No, I’m sorry, mademoiselle. We don’t have a Peter Parker either.”

  Damn.

  I let out a frustrated huff, but thanked him politely and had turned to go when he called after me. “Pardonnez-moi, but perhaps there is another superhero you might care to ask about?”

  Aha. I wasn’t big into comic books, but I didn’t live under a rock either. I forced my brain into action and rattled off a list of the regular-guy names every hero in tights hid his greatness behind. Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Bruce Banner (why so many Bruces?), Hal Jordan. Each name received a head shake. Determined now, I cracked open my laptop on the countertop and typed in a few search terms.

  “Stop me when I hit it,” I told the concierge. He nodded, with a tiny smile.

  “Britt Reid, Kit Walker, Joe Dredd, Alan Scott, Al Simmons, George Sunday, Kent Allard, Claude Kane, Oliver Queen, Steve Rogers, Ed O’Brian—”

  “Arrête! Stop.”

  I scanned the document to match the name with its hero. “Plastic Man?” I asked, trying not to laugh.

  He gave me a small nod and I could see the amusement in his eyes. “Room 717, mademoiselle. Would you like me to phone it for you?”

  “No, thank you. I’ll head up. Hey, thanks. I mean, merci.”

  He gave a tiny bow from the waist and answered with, “De rien. Et bienvenue à Paris. Welcome to Paris.”

  A few minutes later, I stood in front of room 717 and rapped out “Shave and a haircut” in knocks.

  “Two bits” answered back and Graham flung open the door with an easy smile that told me Melba was not in the vicinity.

  “Hey there, Plastic Man,” I greeted him. His grin grew wider.

  “Well, I am a product of Los Angeles,” he said with a wink.

  I chose to ignore that one. Instead I said, “I’m starving. Did you eat lunch yet? Because if not, I figured there couldn’t be anything wrong with two friends grabbing a simple meal, right?”

  Graham stepped into the frame of the doorway and pulled the door a little closed behind him. “Um, nope, I haven’t eaten. But my room is a total disaster. Mind if we go to yours?”

  “My mom’s in mine.”

  “Right. No problem! I can call down to the front desk and see if I can reserve a conference room. Wait right here.”

  I stood awkwardly in the hallway. How messy could a room get in an hour? Seconds later, I overheard his conversation with the front desk. “Oh, I don’t know how long we’ll need it for. What’s the minimum I have to book it? Four hours? Sure, that’s fine. Just bill it to my room.”

  I pushed the door in a bit and squeezed inside. “Graham, that’s crazy. Don’t spend that kind of money to book a conference room. I can talk to my mom and see if—”

  He slammed down the phone with a hurried “Thanks” and rushed over to me, grabbing me by my shoulders to spin me toward the door and steering me into the hallway.

  I bit the inside of my cheek and decided not to comment on what I had seen. Which
was a spotlessly clean room containing a room service cart with the remains of one very picked-over lunch.

  Okay, so this means he lied about having eaten already just to spend time with me. Doesn’t matter, Annie. The boy is off-limits. Totally off-limits. He’s not going to sacrifice his whole career for you. And it would be wrong to get your hopes up again. So very wrong.

  Instead I decided to punish him.

  I made sure to order extra food.

  And challenge him to an eat-off.

  Maybe it wasn’t the nicest thing to do, but if the guy was going to leave my stomach in knots, the least I could do was make his uncomfortable too. It was all in good fun, although I did feel kind of bad to see how positively green he looked when he held his last forkful in the air and declared victory. It’s not like French food is renowned for being light and airy.

  “Okay, you win,” I told him sweetly. “Hey, should we order dessert?”

  “Uh . . . ,” he stalled.

  “Aren’t the French famous for their pastries? Or is it their tarts? What are those things filled with that ooey-goey chocolate stuff called?”

  I was going to hell.

  He tried to use the table to hide the fact that he was clutching at his side. “Crepes,” he mumbled.

  “Crepes, yes! Do you know I’ve never had a crepe? Do you think they have them on the room service menu?”

  “I don’t think I’m up for dessert, Pickles.”

  “Really? Here I thought you were a growing boy. Aren’t teenage guys famous for their limitless appetites?”

  “I think mine’s reached its limit,” he said with a slight moan.