Accidental It Girl

by Libby Street

  Without thinking, I drop The Hager Saga.

  Trying to catch the case in midair, I elbow one of the flimsy metal shelves, causing a cacophonous noise and sending roughly three dozen DVD cases tumbling into one another. Hair covers Hamburger Hill, Hannibal hits Hannah and Her Sisters. Two Blockbuster employees continue to look disinterested and underpaid.

  Ethan Wyatt smirks at me over the big blue and yellow Drama sign.

  “Oh, you,” I say, while putting the three Hamlet’s back in their proper order from best to worst—Branagh, Gibson, Hawke.

  “Yeah, me,” he says, with that deliciously disarming smile fluttering across his lips.

  A sudden sort of otherworldly feeling strikes me, as my eyes tick back and forth between Ethan’s face on the cover of a DVD and his smooth, disguise-free face right in front of me. I find myself confused and blankly staring at his rather pouty and alluring lips.

  He looks at me puzzled and adds, “What? You’re not going to rent Hager now?”

  Okay. Time to get it together. I cannot let him know he’s getting to me, or that I’m sort of…a little bit…just barely…into him, ever so slightly.

  I quietly pull the cell phone from the front pocket of my jeans. I flip it open and set it up for the maximum picture quality. Please, for the love of God, let me finally get a picture of the man’s face.

  Ethan pads down his aisle while blabbing and turns the corner toward me. “If you haven’t seen it, you should. But, if you’re in the mood for something a little more relate-able…might I suggest La Dolce Vita for a start?”

  “Oh, I get it. You work here now,” I retort, while wondering exactly which sickly shade of green my skin has turned under the harsh fluorescent Blockbuster lights. “Good, could you tell me where I can find Motion of the Ocean?”

  “Cute,” he replies to my little dig.

  I roll my eyes and continue, “Do you know what your problem is?”

  “I have a problem?” he replies, coming closer.

  “Your problem is, you set yourself up for this.” I pull the phone up and snap a picture of his face, which has contorted slightly in surprise. Ha! I did it!

  “Ah, another picture phone,” he says, trying to seem nonchalant, but clearly disturbed by the fact that I’ve captured his image yet again.

  I snap off another picture. Oh, this is great.

  “Ooh, that was good,” I say, clicking off another one. “But you might want to smile next time,” I add while flipping the phone around to show him his own image, frozen in another horrible expression. I inspect the photo again triumphantly. “You know, you’re looking a little tired. Should I call your stylist? Plastic surgeon, perhaps?”

  “God, you never stop. You are always on—like some photography bot.”

  “What about you and your Mr. Big attitude?” I mock his voice, “Might I suggest La Dolce Vita for a start? You know, for a guy who doesn’t like to be photographed, you spend an inordinate amount of time pestering photographers. Hey! Wait a second!” I exclaim, genuinely excited by this new train of thought. “Is this one of those Sean Penn God-complex things?” I mime pulling out a pad and pencil, change tone, and do my best concerned doctor imitation. “Do you, or any members of your entourage, believe you have the power to save the world from itself? Have you gone on any diplomatic missions without State Department approval, or insulted the media while on a promotional media tour?”

  “I am not like Sean Penn!”

  “You may not have married Madonna. Or gone down to Louisiana to save people in a boat too full of photographers to actually hold anybody needing rescue, but you do whine an awful lot about the same things,” I reply matter-of-factly.

  I wait for a response, but he just looks at me blankly. I think I may have rendered him speechless. Nice.

  “Oh, and another thing!” says Ethan boisterously, with a little gleam in his eye. Another thing? What was the first thing? “Your portraits—”

  “What do you know about my portraits?” I ask, as a touch of queasiness grips my belly.

  “I found the website.” He pauses for effect. “It hasn’t been updated lately, I noticed…but it’s all there.”

  “So now you know my deep dark secret. I am, in fact, a legitimate photographer.”

  “No, correction,” Ethan says, moving closer to me. “You were once a legitimate photographer.”

  I can’t think of a single thing to say, a single insult to throw at him. The only word I can form is “Humph.”

  He smiles at me…waiting. I got nothing.

  I click off another picture. Damn, I think he might look pretty stunning in that one.

  “When did you sell out?” Ethan asks pointedly.

  “I’m a sellout?” I bite back.

  “You’re joking, right? You’re taking pictures on a cell phone…right now. Again.”

  Oh, that’s rich. “You of all people are calling me a sellout?” I grab two of his DVD covers and say, “How did you go from this”—I hold up the cover of Junkies, a highly praised indie that resulted in his one and only Oscar nomination—“to this?” I hold up Going Nowhere, an incredibly lame explosion-filled popcorn flick that the critics rightfully panned.

  He stares at me, a look of stunned disbelief flickering across his eyes and extending down to his open mouth. Aggravated, he raises his voice. “But you’re this…smart, quick…reasonably easy to look at woman…with an amazing talent. Those portraits are good. Really good!”

  “Oh, and you’re not talented, I suppose?” My voice rises to match his. “You were incredible in this film!” I say, pointing at the back cover of Junkies and a picture of Ethan, ugly and emaciated, acting his ass off. “You weren’t a movie star in this. You were an actor. A great actor!”

  We both stand stock-still and stare at one another—both of us, I believe, coming to realize that we’ve just been insulting each other with compliments.

  His bright blue eyes dance nervously over my face. He inhales, as if to speak, but doesn’t say anything.

  “Ugh!” I say finally, turning on my heels and stomping toward the exit. “You are so frustrating!”

  And what the hell is “reasonably easy to look at” supposed to mean?

  I march out of the store and head back downtown toward my apartment.

  “Hey! Sadie!” comes a loud male voice behind me.

  I look over my shoulder to see Ethan headed in my direction. He races toward me, while shoving his camera into its bag. I increase my pace and make a sudden left in an attempt to lose him.

  “And another thing!” he shouts, catching up to me.

  “Why do you always say ‘and another thing’ when nothing has been said before it? What is that about?” I ask, stopping suddenly in front of a kosher deli and startling a trio of Hassidic men eating at the counter that faces the street.

  “Why do you always change the subject when I’m about to make a point?” he fires back. “I know why you’re not taking the portraits anymore!”

  “Oh, yeah?” I ask haughtily.

  “Yeah!” A little smile creeps onto his lips. “You’re too scared!” he says definitively, as though I’m now supposed to break down or beat him up or something.

  “What am I so scared of, then?” I ask.

  He rolls his eyes and huffs, “I’ve been trying to figure that part out for about the last three days but…(a) your mother has stopped taking my calls, and (b) well…there is no b.” He forces himself to stand straighter. “But I know you’re scared of something!”

  “Genius!” I reply. “Now, can you tell me why I can’t get my VCR to stop blinking?”

  “Will you just drop the act?” he says firmly. “I saw you last night, all right?” My heart feels like it’s just stopped beating. He continues, “I saw you behind that fence. And I know you didn’t take any film on it.”

  “What fence?” I ask, dumbly.

  His arms fly up in the air with frustration. He slaps a hand to his forehead and grits his teeth, before ex
claiming, “Come on!”

  Losing a bit of my steam, and genuinely curious, I ask, “How do you know I didn’t take anything?”

  His body language softens suddenly. He replies, “I asked around.”

  Ethan’s eyes lock onto mine, really begging for an answer. But it feels too raw, too guileless and pure of a look to be wasted on me.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say finally, before turning to walk away.

  He grabs my arm, forcing me to turn around and face him.

  “Why do you always deflect? Why don’t you listen, Sadie?” Ethan exclaims, letting go of me and flinging his hands around like a windmill. “Why are you holding on to this so damn tight?”

  “Holding on to what?” I shout right back.

  “This paparazzi thing, this act you’ve got going—being tough and not caring about things. That’s not you! You’re better than that. God, you’re stubborn—”

  “I’m stubborn?” I ask, amused. “Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

  “Why can’t you just let me speak?” he says with a scowl.

  Oh, good, an easy one. “Because you’re a pompous hypocrite! You call me a sellout?” Curious, he’s moving toward me. I continue louder, “You are the clearest-cut case of selling out that I’ve ever seen. Articles have been written about it!” Ah! He’s moving even closer. My voice rises a touch higher. “Rolling Stone…Entertainment Weekly…Max—”

  He puts his hands on either side of my face and kisses me.

  I’m kissing Ethan Wyatt.

  Ethan Wyatt is kissing me.

  It’s a kiss that comes from his whole body, every single cell concentrating on me—wanting me. It’s the kind of kiss that forces my hands to clutch the strap of the bag on his shoulder, to dig my nails into the nylon and hold on. I suddenly feel like I’m falling.

  I break away to catch my breath. “Why did you do that?” I ask, trying not to notice that the three Hassidic gentlemen in the window are now smiling and chuckling with one another.

  “To shut you up?” Ethan replies sheepishly.

  Well, it worked. I have no idea what to say. Especially since I think I might have liked it. I may, in fact, really want him to do that again. Soon.

  “You’re…you’re a sellout!” I say, trying desperately to recapture the anger that was in my voice just seconds ago, and hoping to somehow banish the strange fluttering in my midsection that reminds me so much of the feeling I had when I first laid eyes on him at the airport.

  “I know,” he says gently. “And so are you.”

  Ethan adjusts his camera bag, and simply—far too simply—walks away.

  Chapter 26

  I’m not a sellout. Am I?

  No.

  Yes?

  No. How can you be a sellout when you were never really “in” in the first place?

  Ethan Wyatt was in. He’s the sellout.

  I’m not ashamed of what I do…most of the time. I didn’t abandon my artistic principles just for money. Well, I didn’t exactly pursue them in spite of the lack of money either.

  In a perfect world, I would have been able to make enough money to survive on my portraits alone. I would have gotten a gallery to show my work straight out of art school. I wouldn’t have had my father’s debt hanging around my neck like a millstone. I wouldn’t have been petrified of poverty. In a perfect world, I would have been able to remind myself not to give up—or maybe there would have been somebody there to remind me. Anyway you look at it, though, this is not a perfect world.

  And, even if I am a sellout, so what? Who am I selling out? Me. What business is it of Ethan’s? Why does he care? Is he just trying to hurt me? One last stab at retribution?

  I stagger into the apartment, not knowing exactly what to do. In the living room are Brooke, Luke, and Paige.

  All three of their heads turn to me. Luke smiles, Brooke and Paige look concerned.

  “What happened out there? You look upset,” asks Brooke, while pulling her chestnut mane into a taut ponytail.

  “Are you all right, darling?” adds Paige.

  Luke chimes in with “What’d you rent?”

  “I just need…some time…alone,” I say, before shutting myself into the bedroom.

  So, what did he mean by that kiss? Was it just another way to manipulate me? Does he plan on suckering me into thinking he likes me and then dumping on me as part of his revenge?

  Could he possibly feel something for me?

  There’s a quiet tap on the door. Brooke pops her head in. “Did something happen? I knew we shouldn’t let you go alone. Did he do something to you?” Brooke says—sounding more and more like my mother by the minute.

  I nod my head yes.

  She tiptoes into the room and gingerly closes the door behind her.

  Brooke pulls my one little chair closer to the bed and sits down facing me. “Those celebrities are such assholes!” she spits. “What happened?”

  “I think I have a little problem,” I tell her.

  “Okay, what is it?” she asks, giving me her undivided attention.

  “I think I might…like him.”

  “Ethan?” she asks, bravely trying to mask the shock cascading down her face.

  “Yeah,” I reply guiltily.

  “Huh,” she says before taking a deep breath. “Do you like him, or do you like him like him?”

  “What are we, in tenth grade?” I huff. I look to the Brown Box for support. “I think I might like him like him.” I am now reduced to speaking high school riddles with my best friend.

  “Well,” Brooke says with finality, “that takes care of that.” She reaches into the back pocket of her pants and pulls out a very slim pink leather notebook. Its onionskin pages rustle as she grabs a pen off my dresser, flips some pages, and marks something down.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Crossing him off,” she says, returning the notebook to her pocket.

  “You have an actual list?”

  “Organization is not a hobby, Sadie. It’s a lifestyle choice.”

  “You’re a little sick, you know that?” I kid.

  “I’m sick? You’re the one falling for a man who’s stalking you.”

  “You may have a point there.”

  “What are you going to do?” Brooke asks.

  “I have no idea. I don’t know if he’s still stalking me or what. I don’t know…anything….”

  “Wait, what happened, exactly?” asks Brooke.

  “Well, he complimented me. And then he kissed me. And then, he called me a sellout—”

  “He kissed you?” Brooke asks, startled.

  “Yeah,” I say, looking to her with the hope that she’ll have some idea what’s going on.

  “He kissed you?” she tries again, her eyes widening.

  “Yeah…that’s what I…just said.”

  “Ethan Wyatt kissed you?” she says once more, while slamming her fists into her own thighs.

  “Brooke—breathe.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says, just a hair away from hyperventilation and anger rising in her voice. “Excuse me, he kissed you?” I don’t think she’s even talking to me. She seems to be talking to the Brown Box. All the muscles in her face are tensing up—simultaneously. Her eyes instantly become puffy. Her cheeks drain of color.

  “Are you all right?” I ask, hoping not to set her off.

  “Ethan Wyatt kisses you, the woman he supposedly hates. Meanwhile, I…I…” She struggles against a wave of tears.

  “You what? Brooke—”

  My mother flies into the room, no doubt drawn by the volume of Brooke’s rant.

  “What is going on in here?” Paige asks, worried.

  “Well, let’s see,” Brooke exclaims, recovering herself. “Ethan Wyatt kissed her. And Duncan Stoke doesn’t remember me! God, and you were warning me about these guys,” she says, pointing at me.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” I yell.

  Paige shakes
her head and then takes a deep breath. “Let’s get this all sorted out. Sadie, what is this about Ethan Wyatt?”

  “He kissed me,” I say matter-of-factly, staring at Brooke and wondering what the hell just happened here.

  Paige looks away, trying to hide the self-satisfied, knowing sort of smile that is creeping out from under her Chanel lip gloss. “Well,” she says to me calmly, before pursing her lips, “that is a development.”

  “Why do you say it like that?” I ask her.

  Paige shakes her head at me, silently telling me to drop it, as she gently places a hand on Brooke’s shoulder. “Now, Brooke. What is bothering you, sweetheart? Do you feel comfortable talking about it?”

  Does she feel comfortable talking about it? She was just screaming about it.

  Brooke closes her eyes and takes three deep harried breaths like a person preparing to dive into icy water. “When we met with Duncan Stoke…after Sadie went running off into Central Park…I was flirting—”

  Excuse me? “You were flirting while I was hobbling through the streets—”

  Paige gives me a stern glare. “Sadie, it’s Brooke’s turn.”

  Brooke continues, “We flirted. I gave him my number and he said he would call….”

  Well, I guess that explains the running and shushing and general mania of the last couple of weeks.

  “But he didn’t call.” My mother finishes Brooke’s sentence.

  Brooke shakes her head no. “And then I called him this afternoon. I finally tracked down his number. I had to pretend I was the sponsor of a charity softball tournament,” she says, the shame evident in her eyes. “And he didn’t remember me.”

  “Oh, Brooke.” I lay a hand on her knee. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Are you really? You kissed Ethan Wyatt!” she shouts.

  “I didn’t mean to!” I shout back. “He kissed me, okay? I was just standing there!”

  “But you kissed him back! And you liked it!” She points a finger at me. “Don’t lie. I can see on your face that you liked it.”

  My mouth drops open. I whisper, “My mother is in the room. Will you please—” I tell Paige, “He also called me a sellout.” As if somehow that will temper the “I can see on your face that you liked it” comment.