by Libby Street
I look out the dirty window of the cab, trying hard not to let my emotions get the better of me.
Watching the city go by, I say the only thing that I can think to say, “You win.”
I get it now. I understand it completely. How it hurts to be in the middle of all that, the way that I hurt Ethan, the way that I hurt a million other people. I drew a line in the sand, a line I would not cross, but it was so arbitrary and pointless. It was a mirage. Every time I pointed my lens at someone, I compromised a little part of myself, weakened what few bonds I had with the part of me that believed in unveiling the truth.
All those pictures in those magazines, all those pictures Ethan took of me…they were like mirrors. Showing me that I’m not the person I thought I was. Showing me just how far removed I am from the person I once wanted to be.
Do you know what it felt like being in that pack, having all those people stare at me as I fought and willed my way down the sidewalk? It felt just like when I was little and my mother paraded me around to her friends. All those eyes drilling into me. I swear, I could feel what they were thinking. Just like when I was playing the part of Paige’s darling daughter. I’ve been running from that, but all the while I was slowly becoming just like her. It was like slapping salve on an old wound—masking it, but not healing it. I was oblivious or just unconcerned by how my job—my choices—affected other people. Just like Paige.
I walk into the apartment to a jumble of greetings and apologies, and worry. Brooke and Luke look sleepy and startled, while my mother appears to have been primped and polished by a team of stylists. Beside her slick beauty, Todd looks like a rough-hewn caricature. His caterpillars bounce and wiggle as he—and the rest of them—spot my unlikely rescuer.
“Hi,” Ethan says, self-consciously lifting his hand by way of a greeting.
“Hi,” the peanut gallery says in time.
“Sadie, are you—” Brooke tries.
“Not. Yet.” I say, staggering into my bedroom.
I drop the squished egg sandwich on my bed and race to the giant Brown Box. Gripping the torn outer edge of the paper, I wrench it down. I rip through the cardboard, shredding it into a thousand little pieces, and finally understand what my mother meant in her note.
Sometimes the things we run away from should be given a chance to catch up. A reminder of things past—and perhaps future.
The contents of the box, quite literally, takes my breath away.
It’s a self-portrait I took my last year of college. The self-portrait that earned me the title of Graduate with the Most Potential. Originally a modest eight-by-ten, it’s now larger than life.
In the photograph, I’m sitting on a simple wooden stool, wearing a worn-in old white T-shirt and tattered jeans. My hair was shorter then, pulled off my face. In the warm, grayish sepia tones of the photograph, you can see the tension in my muscles, the way my teeth are slightly clenched—defiant. My posture is straight and proud—shoulders back, chest out. My eyes are wide open, piercing through the lens. All I can think now is, That girl has courage.
I looked so happy then, so determined. I was so sure of my future, of what I was going to do with my life. I knew that I would be a success. I knew that I could make it. Then, two weeks later, my father died. My father died, and I got scared. My father followed his dream straight to the grave, and my mother followed hers straight out of my life. I blamed my choices—to abandon art photography, to abandon my dream—on my father’s debt and my mother’s unwillingness to help me. But it was my fault. I let go of the portraits because I didn’t want to end up like my parents. I didn’t want my dream to swallow me up like their dreams swallowed them.
The tears begin again, unstoppable.
A noise over my left shoulder startles me.
“I had it blown up,” my mother says quietly, approaching me.
“Why?”
“So you couldn’t ignore it.” She puts her hand on my back, rubs it gently from side to side.
“I’ve been trying to tell you…in my way,” she says. “Perhaps I haven’t said it as well as I should.”
I stutter, “I wouldn’t have believed you anyway.”
She puts her hands on my shoulders, forces me to turn toward her, to look her in the eye. “I didn’t send this because I’m not already proud of you, Sadie. Portraits, or no portraits, I am proud of you.” She takes a deep breath and exhales by way of a sigh. “Your dad was a good man—kind, loving, generous to a fault—but I know that in some ways he was just as selfish as I was. We both neglected you for these things we were so determined to have. Our priorities were completely off,” she says with regret. “I sent this because I don’t want you to give up. You survived the chaos your father and I put you through. You can do anything. And that includes not repeating our mistakes. Do you understand?”
I nod yes.
My mother gives me a squeeze and then rises to leave.
“Hey, Mom?” I say through my tears. “Thank you.”
She blows me a kiss and slips out, leaving only a hint of rose water behind her.
After an hour of staring at my self-portrait, and one long hot shower, I feel strong enough to face the masses.
I step out into the living room. What had been a quiet but steady chatter drops off to complete and utter silence.
“I’m not dying, people,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “Oh, but Todd?”
“Yeah,” he replies sheepishly.
“I quit.”
He nods. “Sort of saw that coming.”
“All right. I need a drink.”
Standing in the divot by the window, I look down on First Avenue at the troupe of photographers staking out the entrance to the building.
“Hey,” says Brooke, pressing her head against the window beside me and staring down to the street. “I really am sorry about yesterday.”
“I know,” I reply, trying to see the make and model of a suspicious black SUV double-parked across the street.
“Seriously, Sadie,” she presses, turning around and staring across the room at our motley collection of friends, relatives, and the odd celebrity.
I turn around and join her, leaning my back against the window.
“I did some digging last night,” Brooke says. “I looked into that story Ethan told us about when they were both after the part in Dereliction of Duty. I’m pretty sure he was telling the truth. Right after that, Ethan started getting the bad press and rumors of drug use and all that. Duncan Stoke is an asshole.”
“You’re over him then?” I pose gently.
“I guess,” she says, shrugging her shoulders.
A hail of rambunctious laughter erupts from Ethan, Todd, and Luke.
Brooke gazes at Ethan and adds, “You know, I think you might have a decent guy there.”
“He’s not my guy…” Yet.
“Are you worried about the celebrity stuff or…”
I take a deep breath. “No. I don’t think so. Not anymore.” I’m not afraid of what any new pictures might reveal. If I can get a good handle on who I think I am, I’m pretty sure the opinions of everyone else won’t be a problem.
“Good,” Brooke enjoins. “’Cause I think he’s a keeper.”
Hmmm…a keeper. I’ve never had one of those.
I open the fridge for another beer, and when I turn around Ethan is standing in the entryway smiling at me. He’s pink and warm from the heat, and the beer, and a lot of very boisterous conversation with Luke and Todd.
I smile back, not knowing exactly what else to do.
His face suddenly goes all serious, his eyes doing that world-weary brooding thing they do so well. “I’m sorry,” Ethan says.
“For what?” I ask, taken aback.
“Uh…” he says, “the stalking…criticizing…general mayhem.”
“Don’t apologize,” I reply immediately. “I should thank you.”
“Oh, please. No problem. Anytime,” he jokes.
“Once might be enough,
actually.”
He retorts, “The Yoda toothbrush still hasn’t been captured properly…for posterity, I mean. So…”
“Cute.”
“Thanks,” he replies.
“I think we have a problem though,” I say softly. “How do we…uh…” I try to read the tiny movement of his eyes over my face, the little wisp of a smile that seems to be perking at the corners of his mouth. I don’t know how much I can say without completely screwing this up. I’m used to situations. This is the first time I’ve ever been interested in having an actual relationship with someone. “How do we make it stop?”
“Make what stop?” he asks, eyeing me with a roguish grin.
“Kissing in front of a kosher deli…torrid love triangle…you and I dating…Any of these things ringing a bell?”
He replies immediately, “You want to stop the stories?”
“Wouldn’t not stopping them be kind of inconvenient for you?”
“Not if it’s the truth,” he counters matter-of-factly.
I wait for him to elaborate, clarify, something…but he just stares at me with those big blue eyes.
“Help me out here,” I say. “Was that you just saying you want to date?” Ah, must be more specific! “Me, I mean. Date me?” I am like the biggest dork ever.
“Yeah,” he replies sweetly, dropping the roguish thing.
I let the tingling this inspires wash over me and settle in. “Oh,” I say, as an enormous smile bursts to the surface.
“Does that mean you want to? Date? Me, I mean,” he asks teasingly.
I crinkle my nose up dramatically, teasing right back. “Eh,” I grunt. “I don’t know. I just quit my job and all…. I’ve got to get back into the legit photography. I think I might try celebrity portraits. Like Annie Leibovitz…only, you know, not as amazing. Something like that. I’m probably going to be really busy.”
“I have to tell you, Sadie,” Ethan says, inching toward me, “it would probably be best if you lie low for a while.”
“Oh, really?” I ask, playing along.
“And the place I’m staying is pretty fantastic.”
“Is it?”
“The room service is outrageous. There’s a concierge…maid”—his right eyebrow arches wryly—“in-room massage…It’s a veritable who’s who of minions. We could probably survive—I don’t know—ten, twelve days without ever leaving the bed.” He smiles at me, practically beaming—his eyes doing that amazing, irresistible sparkling thing they do.
“Really,” I reply wryly, “never leaving the bed?”
“And you know, I’m something of a celebrity myself,” he says.
“You don’t say…”
He edges toward me, wraps one arm around my waist and slides the other slowly up to my neck. “Maybe you could use me…”
“Are you getting fresh with me?”
“You’ve got a dirty mind, girl. I mean, you could use me to practice your photography.”
He tips his head down and his lips meet mine. It’s a kiss so slow, soft, and intense that it’s almost paralyzing.
Ethan pulls away. “Did I mention there’s a minibar? If we play our cards right, we might not have to leave till fall.”
I’m beginning to think he doesn’t hate me anymore….
Epilogue
ETHAN WYATT GETTING A
SLICE OF THE APPLE
Recently reformed bad boy Ethan Wyatt is finally putting down roots in the Big Apple. He’s come out of hiding to sign on for the Broadway debut of My Favorite Wife. He’ll fill the role made famous by James Garner in the film Move Over, Darling, with Doris Day. He must think it’s a winner, too. He’s been seen tooling around Manhattan in a fully restored 1979 Camaro, going from one prospective apartment to another with his girlfriend of five months, Sadie Price. There’s no official word on whether the duo will be cohabiting in Wyatt’s new digs. Wyatt and his reps have been tight-lipped about the pair since their splashy beginnings. But psychiatrist and love expert Dr. Abigail Dalton gave us her two cents: “Soliciting consultation from a significant other on big-ticket purchases, such as a home or car, clearly indicates that the couple is taking things to the next level.”
Up Close and Personal
With the Authors
(Or, Sarah Bushweller and Emily Morris sit down and force themselves to discuss their latest work instead of what they just read in Us Weekly.)
EMILY: Hmmm. So we’re really not allowed to discuss Tom & Katie, Nick & Jessica, or Brad & Angelina, is that it?
SARAH: Correct. We must only discuss Accidental It Girl.
EMILY: Well, then…
SARAH: Yes. Well, then…
EMILY: Can we talk about what they were wearing in the pages of Us Weekly?
SARAH: No.
EMILY: Oh.
SARAH: How about this: How did you first get the idea for Sadie and the unusual situation she gets herself into?
EMILY: Oh good, an easy one. Thanks.
SARAH: No problem.
EMILY: Okay, it started many years ago when I caught a report on Entertainment Tonight about JFK Jr. getting ticked off at a photographer who was following him around Central Park. JFK Jr. went and got himself a camera, followed the photographer’s car, and hounded the paparazzi right back. I started to wonder about what would happen if a celebrity really took this to the extreme and tried to get back at a photographer who’d wronged him. Like I always do, I sort of filed the idea away in the back of my mind—and in my master book of ungerminated ideas. Finally, a couple of years after the initial spark (sometime around 1999 or 2000, I think), I was doing a screenwriting workshop with Lew Hunter as part of my college coursework and I developed the idea further.
SARAH: You started a screenplay but didn’t finish.
EMILY: Thanks for reminding me.
SARAH: No, I just mean that the plot was a lot different from the one we developed into Accidental It Girl.
EMILY: Yeah, originally it was much more of a farce. It was a sort of morality play exploring the silliness of Hollywood culture and the American obsession with celebrities.
SARAH: That’s why we decided to develop it into a novel. We’re both completely obsessed with the famous and infamous—and a bit confused as to why.
EMILY: It’s fascinating. On the one hand, we say, “Of course celebrities are just people, there’s nothing really special about them.”
SARAH: And yet my favorite tabloid section is the “Stars—They’re Just Like Us” page. I laugh about how the magazines say “They walk their dogs!” and “They try on shoes!” like we should all be shocked that famous people also have feet and need to try on their shoes. The tabloids treat celebrities like they’re these aliens who don’t eat, sleep, or breathe like the rest of us.
EMILY: Right. We laugh and say how silly it is. Yet, that’s the section of the magazine we turn to first. What’s even more intriguing is that you and I, having researched and written all about Sadie and Ethan, have really delved into what it feels like to be followed and watched twenty-four hours a day. We’ve come to the conclusion that it’s infinitely harder than it looks in the magazines, and just as frustrating and frightening as the celebrities claim.
SARAH: But we still buy the magazines, and delight in the fact that we get to see those images.
EMILY: Right. The whole thing is just beyond complex, and still totally fascinates me—on a personal level (in relationship to my own questionable sanity) and when looking at the culture as a whole. I mean, I don’t think we solve the mystery of these phenomena with Sadie or anything, but…
SARAH: The thing with Sadie is that she gets an entirely new perspective on just how similar the famous and unfamous are—how celebrities really are “just like us.” She and Ethan have led parallel lives, in a way. They both set out to have a career—a life—that meant something, and slowly lost touch with that.
EMILY: In a way they’re both paralyzed by a public image, Sadie as a tough, no-nonsense paparazzi, and Ethan as H
ollywood’s hottest bad-boy action hero. It’s like that old adage: “Don’t believe your own press.” Really, Sadie and Ethan both have. Deep down, each of them knows that they are more than the image they’ve been stuck with, but neither of them has done anything about it. Sadie resigns herself to the fact that people hate her, and Ethan has resigned himself to being a walking, talking action figure.
SARAH: Until Ethan’s big scheme puts Sadie back in touch with the person she always hoped she’d be. And Sadie sees the kind of person Ethan really is—and how she’s helped to perpetuate this ridiculous bad-boy image he has.
EMILY: Man, I love Ethan.
SARAH: Me, too.
EMILY: Oooh, here’s a question I get asked a lot: Is Ethan Wyatt based on any particular celebrity?
SARAH: Nope. Unless you count the many idealized versions of celebrities we’ve concocted in our heads.
EMILY: Yeah, Ethan could be any number of famous guys you and I have had a crush on over the years, I guess. Successful, debonair, perfectly imperfect.
SARAH: Outrageously good-looking.
EMILY: Yeah.
SARAH: Okay, let’s close this on a fun one. What would you say is your favorite movie about the movies?
EMILY: Hmmm, that’s a toughie. Oh, you know what movie I love? Albert Brooks’s The Muse with Sharon Stone. I think I probably love it so much because I can relate to the main character’s frustration as a writer. The movie is freaking hilarious, and shows all too accurately how being a writer can make a person go completely nutso. How about you?