“Okay. Sure.”
My first impression of Travis Dooley is that he’s exactly what the boys at school would call a nerd. He’s bald, with a neatly cropped beard, and he wears big, round, black-rimmed glasses. Behind those thick lenses, I see a pair of intelligent brown eyes watching me carefully as Alyz introduces us.
“Nice to meet you, Sia,” he says.
I smile, hoping I don’t look like I’ve just had my heart broken.
“I wanted to say hello. I had a long meeting with your dad today, and he told me you’d be here.”
I know he has to be the writer Dad told me about. This is important—if not for me, at least for Dad. I give Travis another friendly smile. “Yes, he mentioned you today. I hope you two were able to come to an agreement.”
He gives a brief shake of his head. “Unfortunately, we weren’t. I had another offer I couldn’t refuse.”
My heart sinks. The man was Dad’s last hope. Without a deal, our family is probably going to lose everything. “I’m really sorry to hear that, Mr. Dooley,” I say.
“Yeah. Me too, actually. But I’m sure he and I will work together sometime in the future.” He pauses, then squints at me. “You know, I was hoping I’d meet you tonight for another reason.”
“Oh?”
“Your dad told me about your recent experience. With your memory loss and all. You’ve been through a tremendous adventure.”
I chuckle. “It’s been something, anyway.”
I sense thoughts flying behind his eyes, but I don’t want to interrupt.
We stand looking at each other for a moment, saying nothing. Then he smiles very carefully, as if I'm a horse he doesn't want to spook.
“Sia, would you ever consider . . . no. No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t even ask. You’re going through so much right now.”
“It’s okay. You can ask whatever you like, Mr. Dooley.”
He still hesitates. “Well, I’m just thinking about everything you’re going through and have gone through with this fugue amnesia. You were homeless, and now you’re turning it all around and channeling your energy into this fundraiser. It’s really quite an amazing story.” He taps his chin. “Amazing enough to turn into a movie, I think.”
I am not expecting that. I laugh out loud, certain he’s joking. But his expression says otherwise. “A movie? About my life? Come on!”
“Absolutely. Actually, I talked with your dad about writing a screenplay myself, but he rejected the idea. He doesn’t want you to feel used or exploited. I can see that from a dad’s point of view, but personally, I don’t think of it that way. I told him it’d be more like taking lemons and making lemonade. Your story is the stuff blockbusters are made of.”
What a surreal idea. “You seriously think so?”
“Yes.” He shrugs. “Granted, the amnesia theme has been touched on before. But not like this. Your story has so many different facets to it.”
I am thoughtful. “But we don’t know how my story ends.”
He shrugs again and I decide I like this man; he seems genuine. “The ending can be improvised. Main question is how you’d feel about doing it. About seeing your life on screen.”
My eyes travel across the room, over the sparkling celebrities and bubbling champagne, though I don’t really see anything in particular. My mind is reeling with the idea of my crazy life being out there for millions to see. For someone who doesn’t think much of the spotlight, this has been one heck of a night. Still, as unsure as I feel about my own story, I know one thing for sure. If Travis Dooley wants to write my story, it could save my father’s business and his reputation. I look back at Travis. “I’d be okay with that,” I say. “As long as the names are changed.”
He smiles broadly. “Really?”
I nod. “Yeah. You write the screenplay. I’ll talk to my dad.”
“Excellent!” he says. “I know you won’t regret this decision. And since I have you here, I’d also like to make a contribution to your fundraiser. Would you take a check?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Life returns to normal—or maybe even worse than normal, if that’s possible. I am no longer the golden princess, shimmering among the celebrities; I have reverted back to the unpopular, awkward girl who no one wants to claim as a friend. Not even Kyle.
Sure, he talks with me, but only when we’re talking about the fundraiser. He’s all business all the time. He shows no sign at all that he remembers kissing me last night. None. He looks straight through me.
I can’t do that. When I close my eyes, I can still feel his lips on mine. I can still sense the energy that raced through me, knowing he wanted to kiss me as badly as I wanted to kiss him. Now I try not to close my eyes, because it hurts too much. Maybe he’s right. Maybe everything will change when this amnesia is finally gone. Maybe I’ll hate Kyle and want Duke back. I really can’t imagine that, but it could happen. I could easily become my old selfish self again.
On the positive side, the entire school is getting more involved in the fundraiser lately. More people are bringing canned food and bottled water to Kyle’s table every day. Between the constant television and Internet images, people are keenly aware of the victims’ needs.
Even Stacy comes by to drop off a box of canned ravioli. She kind of hides it under her sweater and slips it out onto the cardboard box; she just doesn’t want Amber to catch her interacting with me, the plague.
Kyle isn’t impressed by her sneaky donation. His head snaps up before she leaves.
“What’s wrong?” he asks in a snide tone. “Afraid your boss will fire you for making a donation?”
Stacy’s eyes pop open. It’s kind of funny. On the night of The Oscars, when Kyle had turned up looking so svelte and handsome, she had lit up like a Christmas tree. Now that we’re back in school, she seems surprised every time he says anything to her. She starts to answer him, but I defend her, whether she needs defending or not.
“Leave her alone, Kyle. At least she’s doing something.”
He gives me a stony look, but he doesn’t scare me. What’s he going to do, hurt me more than he already has? Fat chance. I give the glare right back. See how that feels, Kyle.
On Tuesday at lunch, Roberta comes running out to the table. From the look on her face, she’s about to share the biggest surprise. In fact, she’s carrying a copy of The L.A. Times. When she opens it to the front page, she points at a picture—of me! The headline reads “Local Teen Hero,” and although I’m really psyched to see it, I feel awful about the headline. It’s a fantastic promotion for the project, but I’m definitely not the hero.
“They should be talking about Kyle,” I say. “This was his idea.”
“It says here that you talked with this guy, this reporter, at the party,” Roberta says.
I nod. “He was nice. Even made a big donation.”
“Well, you must have really moved him, Sia. It’s a long feature!” she says. “And look at this photo. You looked like movie star.”
“Yeah, she did,” Kyle says quietly from behind me. He’s leaning forward, looking at the picture.
I’m unsure how to feel. I’m torn in all different directions. His comment suggests his affection for me, yet he won’t even be civil to me. And me? I don’t even know who I am anymore. It’s too much.
“You wanna keep the article, Sia?”
I shake my head, suddenly sad. “Kyle can have it for his scrapbook.” With that, I get up and leave. I don’t care what any of them are saying. I’m so tired of drama. If only everything could just settle down and be normal. Would that be such a bad thing?
Maybe somebody’s listening up there because I catch a break when I get home after school. I hear voices in the living room. I walk in on Mom and Dad, holding hands and talking. Both of them are smiling.
Mom has a coffee on the table beside her—not a vodka bottle—and she looks great, all bright-eyed and clear-headed. I had no idea she was coming home today. The hand that isn’t connected to Dad i
s holding a copy of The L.A. Times. She’s marveling at the picture of me on the front.
“Mom!” I say.
They whirl in surprise.
Mom leaps from her chair and hugs me tight. “Sia, we are so proud of you!”
“Thanks, Mom.” I say, still holding on. Seeing her here and being held by her is exactly what I need. “But I'm just glad you're home.”
She lets go. “Me too, honey.”
Beatriz brings some water, and the three of us sit and talk for about an hour. It’s the strangest thing: I know, based on what I’ve pieced together, that we’re not a family who does this. Yet sitting with them, laughing about little things and catching up, feels like medicine to me. For the first time in a long time, I am able to completely relax.
“I met Travis Dooley the other night,” I tell Dad.
He nods. “Yeah, I thought you might.”
“He told me it didn’t work out with that screenplay you wanted. I’m sorry about that.”
His smile wavers only a moment. “Something else will come along.”
“Uh, about that,” I say. “Travis talked to me about my story. He’s very interested in writing it, but he said you turned him down out of concern for me. I hope it’s okay . . . but I told him to write it. I have no qualms about it.” Suddenly, I recall my mother’s personal struggles. She might have some reservations of her own. “Mom, what do you think?”
She is serene. “I think we should do it,” she says, surprising me. “It could be kind of healing. And maybe our story can help other families who’ve lost their way.”
Dad looks even more shocked than I feel. “Really? I didn’t think you girls would be interested. It seemed, well, so . . . personal.”
Mom shrugs. “People respond to honesty. If Sia’s okay with it, I say we do it.”
“All right.” He stares straight ahead. I can almost see his mind going, sorting through everything this could mean. Then he turns to us, his eyes brighter than I’ve seen them in a long time. “Well, I guess I’d better call Travis, then.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The doorbell rings and Beatriz’s shoes tap across the front hall. Next thing I hear is someone’s loud cries echoing toward us. My parents and I look at each other, bewildered. Beatriz arrives to tell us what’s going on. Stacy has shown up, and she’s inconsolable.
“Tell her to come on in.”
“We’ll leave you to this,” Dad says, then leads Mom out of the room.
She winks at me on the way out. I love seeing how happy they are. It lets me know that things are getting better.
Stacy’s been at it a while; her pretty brown eyes are bloodshot, and both her nose and her mascara are running. She almost trips over her own two feet as she makes her way over to me. She keeps on sobbing, blubbering about how sorry she is.
I get up and hug her. “Come on, Stace. Come and sit.”
It takes a minute before she can settle down to something near normal.
Beatriz brings her some chamomile tea. “This will relax you, mija.”
“Can we have some cookies?” I whisper.
Beatriz gives me a happy nod. We both know the comfort of cookies.
“Okay, Stacy. What’s going on?”
“I . . . ” She pulls out a Kleenex and gives her nose a honk. “I can’t stand all the secrets anymore, Sia.”
I frown at her. “Secrets? What secrets?”
“Between Amber and me. Remember when I dropped off that donation today and was, like, really careful that she didn’t see?”
I nod.
“Well, someone else saw—and they told her!” She looks at me, her eyes wide. “Oh my God, Sia. She exploded. She pulled me into the bathroom and totally screamed at me. She says I’m not allowed to donate anything else or go anywhere near you.”
I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am. “What?”
She sniffs. “I know, right?” she says quietly. “She crossed a line. You can’t just tell someone not to give to charity! So I did something.”
I lift one eyebrow as she shoves half a cookie into her mouth.
“I stood up to her.”
This is new. “What do you mean? How?”
She takes a deep breath and exhales. “I yelled at her. Yes, I gave it right back! I told her exactly how I felt. And it was even more than that because all the other girls were there. I mean, well, it’s not like I meant to do that or anything, but they were all there when she yelled at me, so I just yelled back and they were still there, and—”
“Go on, Stacy. Don’t worry about that. What else happened?”
“Well, I just . . . I told her everything. Like how selfish she was, and such a prima donna, and that people didn’t like her because she was so bossy and fake and mean.” She shakes her head, and I see a grin starting to sneak out. “Oh my God. You should’ve been there. She couldn’t even talk.”
“What did everyone else do?”
“Nothing!” she exclaims. “It was all the cheerleaders, you know? And none of them said a word. They feel the same way. Of course, they didn’t say it out loud, but I could tell they all agree with me.” A smile lifts the corners of her lips. “It was, like, the coolest thing I’ve ever done.”
I smile. “Wow, Stace. How do you feel now?”
She ponders for a moment. “Really good. And lighter.” She giggles. “All of a sudden, it’s like I don’t even care about being popular.” She frowns. In a serious tone, she asks, “Though that’s probably just a temporary thing, don’t you think?”
It’s such a cute question that I have to laugh. Can’t change the world in a day, right?
“Anyway,” she says, “I want to help you with the earthquake thing. And I want . . . ” She looks directly in my eyes. “Well, what I need is for you to forgive me.”
I hold her hand. “Done.”
“Really? It’s that easy?”
“Of course, Stace. You’re my friend. You got caught up in some stuff that wasn’t right, but you found your way out. I’d love to have you with me when we’re working on this thing, and afterward. I know Kyle and the others will be happy to have you there, too.”
She smiles and we both start giggling, partly out of relief, but also because she is experiencing something I now know firsthand from Carol and Beatriz: the great comfort of having a friend.
The next day, I take Stacy to the others, and I find I was right about them welcoming her into our little group. Well, sort of. They are happy for the extra help, but they watch her warily. I recognize the attitude—they’d taken the same suspicious one when I started showing with my new personality. But I back Stacy up, and if any harsh comments come her way, I’m quick to deflect. No one knows better than I do how hard it is to start fresh. Or how important it is to have support while you’re trying to do it.
It is really her dedication that wins everyone over, though. She’s serious about helping. She immediately channels her energy into finding more volunteers, starting with the cheerleaders. I can’t help being doubtful when Stacy solicits them at lunch, explaining our project with her bubbly enthusiasm. But, miracle of miracles, two pom-pom shakers take heart and sign up to help!
All I can do is stare, mystified, as the chain reaction spreads. The nerds are joining, holding little computer game tournaments and donating the winnings. Some of the band people are helping out, and the theatre club is there, too. I’m starting to realize that Kyle’s fundraiser is taking on a new form. It’s no longer just a way to raise money for the Red Cross. Now it’s become a bridge for everyone to cross. Because of the project, cheerleaders are now talking with theatre geeks. Math nerds are sharing a few laughs with football players. All the cliques and stereotypes have been temporarily shoved aside for one common good.
This phenomenal shift attracts Ken Jones, the local TV news anchor, who shows up at the end of the day. Our school principal, Mrs. Wilson, meets him and his camera crew at their van. Everyone groups around, intrigued by the cameras. Ken directs hi
s crew to our table, and they start filming all the stacks of non-perishable food. We’d put some of it away already, but Ken asks us to bring it out again. “It’ll look better if it’s all on display for the camera,” he says. Some of the kids even take some away, then return and set it on the pile so it looks like the donations just keep on coming. We put on quite a show.
When Ken has enough background video, someone sends him my way. I grab Kyle’s arm and tug him over to stand beside me. There’s no way I should get all the attention for this. Kyle’s nervous at first, but he warms up pretty fast.
After a brief interview, during which Ken touches on the background of the project and what’s been done so far, the cameraman turns off the camera. Ken explains to Kyle that he wants him to speak directly to the camera and tell the viewers what they can do.
“We’re just going to zoom in on you now, so don’t even think about anything going on around you.”
Kyle shoots me a pleading glance. I merely shrug, refusing to bail him out. It might be selfish, but whatever. I’m only returning the coolness he’s shown me.
Kyle clears his throat, then nods at Ken when he’s ready. “If you’d like to . . . ” He drifts a bit. I see panic in his eyes. “Can we do that again?” he asks Ken.
“Of course.”
The process repeats itself. Kyle messes up both times; the pressure is getting to him. Finally, his dismay gets to me. I walk over and take his hand. It’s damp with sweat, and he squeezes mine before he tries again. This time, he says everything perfectly, asking the public to drop off whatever they can by Friday, at the end of the day, because we’re driving everything to ground zero on Saturday morning.
“Good work, Kyle,” Ken says. He nods at me as well.
“Yeah,” Kyle says. The TV crew packs up, and he turns to me. “Thanks for that.”
I shrug. “You looked like you needed a little support.”
He just nods, still avoiding my gaze. My anger returns.
“Cheer up,” I tell him coolly. “We’re almost finished. You'll only be stuck with me a few more days. Then you'll be free.”
Sia Page 17