Sealed With a Kiss

by Robin Palmer

  This wasn’t fair. It wasn’t my fault that everything was going from bad to worse . . . very quickly. After I wiped my eyes with the bottom of my shirt, I took out my advice notebook. When you’re offered a trip to Hollywood, remember to SAY NO!! I wrote.

  When I get nervous—like, say, about what my stepfather-to-be-who-gets-super-paranoid-aboutwhat-people-say-to-sleazy-tabloid-journalists-about- his-superstar-daughter is going to do when he finds out that I was talking to one of them—I get hungry. Which is why, as Laurel talked to the non-sleazy journalist and Marci shot me dirty looks, I decided to set out to find craft services. Even though I was probably going to get yelled at again later for leaving the set without telling anyone, I just snuck away, because (a) I couldn’t get Laurel’s attention because she was too busy flipping her hair and laughing louder than normal talking to the reporter, and (b) it’s not like Laurel would care that I was gone anyway.

  There weren’t any cabs or buses to mow you down at the studio like there were in Manhattan, but there were lots of golf carts carrying suit-wearing people screaming into their cell phones that I had to dodge instead. And there were guys on top of ginormous cranes with lights and cameras on the end of them who screamed, “Hey kid—watch where you’re going!” when I almost ran into them as I was jumping out of the way of the golf carts. And there was a guy wearing sunglasses who kind-of, sort-of looked like this very famous actor who starred in lots of action-adventure movies, who turned to a bodyguard-looking guy next to him and yelled, “Please tell that girl to stop staring at me—you know how I hate that!” It was like being on a dangerous obstacle course. I was so busy trying to save my own life, I stopped crying, but ten minutes later, after no luck in finding craft services, I decided just to turn around and go back in the direction I had come. Except because I don’t really have any sense of direction, I couldn’t figure out which way that was. As I walked, instead of the city street scenes and cranes I had passed on my way there, all I saw were buildings that didn’t look familiar at all.

  And then . . . there it was.

  Written in the same big red letters that flashed across my TV screen every day was a big sign on one of the warehouses that said COME ON, PEOPLE—GET WITH THE PROGRAM—AUDIENCE ENTRANCE.

  When Sarah said yogalike things like, “Everything happens for a reason” and “Coincidence is the Universe’s way of remaining anonymous,” I usually rolled my eyes. But at that moment, I realized that my no-sense-of-direction issue was a good thing, because without it, I’d be back on set getting yelled at or being ignored, instead of about to have all my problems solved so I’d never have a bad day ever again!

  I’m not one to cut, but instead of going to the back of the huge line of people wearing TOLEDO LOVES DR. MAUDE or BUCK UP OR SHUT UP T-shirts, I marched up to the security guard at the front.

  “Hi. My name is Lucy B. Parker, and if it’s not too much trouble, I’d very much appreciate it if you could let Dr. Maude know that I’m out here,” I said politely.

  The guard snorted. “Yeah, right, kid. Now either get to the back of the line or be on your way, okay?” He flashed a smile. “And have a nice day.”

  “But you don’t understand. I really need some advice from her,” I said.

  He pointed to the line of people. “Yeah, and so do all these people.”

  “But she and I are e-mail friends! She knows I’m coming!” I cried. It was maybe half a lie, as I was pretty sure the other person had to be writing you back in order to be e-mail friends, but not a total lie. And she did know I was coming. Well, she knew if she actually read the e-mails.

  He rolled his eyes. “Like I haven’t heard that one before. Now come on—back of the line or leave.”

  I leaned in. “Seriously—you have no idea how much advice I need at the moment. I may only be twelve and a half, but I have as much going on in my life as an adult in a telenovela at the moment. See, first my parents got divorced. And then my dad started dating this weird yoga teacher, and now they’re having a baby, and they’re naming him Ziggy, if you can believe that—”

  “My uncle’s name is Ziggy,” he said.

  “—which is a really cool name,” I continued, in hopes of getting on his good side. “And then my mom fell in love with a guy whose daughter happens to be”—I had learned my lesson: there was no way I was going to mention Laurel by name to ANYONE from now on—“a superstar. And then I had to move to New York City. And then, to make matters worse, according to Beatrice—she’s my new best friend—I found out that I have to have not only one, but three crushes—”

  He pointed to the line. “Look, if you go stand there, you’ll probably be able to get tickets for one of the tapings two weeks from now—”

  “But there’s more!” I cried. I hadn’t even gotten to the part about Mom abandoning me because I’m so resilient or Laurel turning into a jerk and also abandoning me or Sylvester Benjamin-Morgan and being yelled at by a mean lemon-faced publicist! “Anyway, I’m only here for one week! I live in New York! I told you that part already!” I left out the part that I happened to live in the same apartment building as Dr. Maude, because if he knew that, he’d probably say “Then whattya doing wasting my time here—just go knock on her door!”

  He shrugged. “Ya want advice? Here’s my advice: Watch Dr. Maude on TV. It’s a lot more comfortable than those seats they got in there.”

  Another security guard—equally as big and wide but with a gun hanging off his waist—walked up to us. “Is there a problem here?” he demanded.

  “No,” I squeaked. I already knew Mom and Alan were going to freak about the Sylvester stuff—I did not need to add that I had gotten arrested for stalking Dr. Maude.

  “So . . . you going to go get tickets for the shows in two weeks, or what?” asked the first guard.

  “No,” I sighed. What was the point? I didn’t need advice in two weeks—I needed it now.

  chapter 8

  Dear Dr. Maude,

  I know that a lot of the time when your guests are telling you their problems on the show, you cut them off and say, “Oh, stop your complaining—just buck up already. This is life, and life is not fair. So deal with it!”

  Well, you know what, Dr. Maude? You’re right—life ISN’T fair. Because if it were, I’d be doing something FUN—like going to Billy’s Bakery with Beatrice, or playing Monopoly with Dad—instead of sitting in Laurel’s trailer CRYING because she’s being a total jerk. AGAIN. Not only did she get all mad at me for talking to a sleazy tabloid reporter even though I didn’t KNOW he was a reporter, but when I finally found my way back to the set after (a) getting lost for a pretty long time and (b) trying to get the security guards to let me into the taping of your show on account of the fact that you and I are friends, she hadn’t even noticed I was gone. THAT’S how unimportant I am to her now.

  The only good news is that Laurel’s publicist Marci was somehow able to convince the sleazy tabloid reporter’s boss not to run the article with the stuff I told him (probably because she’s totally scary-mean), and Laurel’s so busy being a teen superstar that she didn’t have time to call Mom and Alan to tell them what I had done. So at least I won’t get grounded until I’m back in New York. But still, I can tell that she’s REALLY mad. Which totally isn’t fair because it’s not like I did it on PURPOSE.

  My life is so awful at this moment that I’m pretty sure that not even YOU can help me, Dr. Maude.

  yours truly,

  LUCY B. PARKER

  P.S. I keep meaning to tell you—I love the new pics of your dachshunds Id and Ego that you put up on your website. The ones where the three of you are running on the beach? They’re sooooo cute.

  As I sat in Laurel’s trailer blowing my nose into a tissue (thankfully, they were the super-fancy Kleenex Cold Care kind), I realized I had spent more time crying in the past year than all the other eleven years of my life. Except maybe when I was a baby, but I’m not sure because I can’t remember that far back. I didn’t even care tha
t my eyes were all red and puffy, because I wasn’t planning on seeing anyone for the rest of the day. I was even willing to give up lunch, even though Laurel had told me that, like craft services, you could go up for seconds, or even thirds, if you wanted—which just showed how upset I really was. And once we got back to the hotel, I was going to lock myself in the suite and stay there for the rest of the week.

  Unfortunately, like all my other plans for the week (i.e., having a good time with Laurel), the sitting-alone-being-miserable-in-the-trailer plan was screwed up once there was a knock on the door.

  I sniffled, opening the door just a crack. “Sorry, but Laurel’s not here. She’s on set.”

  “Oh. Okay. Thanks,” said a guy’s voice. WAIT—was that . . . ? I opened the door a tiny bit wider. It WAS. I couldn’t believe it—Austin Mackenzie was standing thisclose to me. Well, it would’ve been thatclose if the door hadn’t been there. He started to walk away and then turned back to look at me. Huh. His blond hair was actually a lot more sun-kissed-looking in person than on film, and his blue eyes were super-bright. He was like the male version of Laurel, looks-wise. “Who are you then?” he asked suspiciously. “And what are you doing in her trailer?”

  “I’m Lucy B. Parker. I’m her . . .” It definitely didn’t feel like we were fristers anymore. “My mother is marrying her father.”

  “So you’re stepsisters,” he said.

  “Something like that,” I grumbled. Before I could say any more, I spotted Laurel walking toward the trailer. And then stop. And then start making this weird choking noise. Oh no. Please don’t let Austin turn around right at that second and see her. Even though I was mad at her for going all Laurel-Moses-superstar on me, after my encounter with Blair, I knew full well how hard it was to be face-to-face with your crush, let alone how hard it must be when it looks like you’re choking on a chicken bone and you’re squawking like Miss Piggy when she’s throwing up a hairball.

  Unfortunately, he turned around. I didn’t blame him. You’d kind of have to be deaf not to wonder what the noise was. “Are you all right?” he asked Laurel. I wondered if she had been studying Miss Piggy, because she sounded exactly like her.

  “Yeah”—squawk—“I’m—”

  “She has really bad allergies,” I blurted out. “To, uh . . . the smog in Los Angeles. It’s a real problem.” I really hoped Laurel appreciated what a good liar I was. I doubted it, though.

  “Oh, man—that’s awful,” he said. Either he was an excellent actor or a really nice person, because he sounded like he genuinely meant it. “Well, I just wanted to come by to introduce myself. I’m Austin Mackenzie,” he said, putting his hand out toward her.

  I did not understand why super-famous people bothered introducing themselves. It’s not like there was a person on the entire planet who didn’t know who he or Laurel was, except maybe a few shepherds in Tibet or somewhere like that. By this time she had stopped choking. She put hers out. “I’m . . . ”

  The two of us waited for her to say her name, but she just stared at him all scared, like she was going to be crushed by a fax machine come to life like the woman in the movie Attack of the Killer Office Supplies that I had seen on cable a couple weeks back. Boy, she got more freaked out about being around her crush than I did. Who knew that talking to boys was something I did better than her?

  “She’s Laurel Moses,” I finished. “And she’s very happy to meet you.” Was I going to have to speak for her like this all week? Maybe if I did that, she’d forgive me for talking to Sylvester. Or at least acknowledge my presence.

  “Okay, well, I guess I’ll see you on set then,” he replied. “I’m looking forward to working with you.” At least he didn’t say, “I’m looking forward to kissing you,” because that would’ve been kind of obnoxious.

  “Um, yeah . . .” she mumbled.

  “She says she’s looking forward to meeting you, too,” I said, yanking her toward the trailer. “At least that’s what she’d say if her smog allergy wasn’t doing that thing where it takes away her voice,” I said. “See ya!”

  I shut the trailer door and turned around to see Laurel sitting on the couch, looking like she had just walked away from a car crash or something. “I can’t believe I froze up like that,” she said, all dazed.

  “Yeah, neither can I,” I agreed. Seeing her sitting there, looking more like Laurel-normal-girl and not like Laurel-Moses-teen-superstar, my eyes welled up with tears again. “Laurel, I am SO sorry about what happened with that reporter—” I started to say.

  She waved her hand. “Forget about that now. I told you, Marci took care of it. Just don’t do anything like that again. Plus, that’s nothing compared to the way that I just acted like a total idiot in front of Austin!”

  Wow. Were crushes that powerful? They could get you to forgive someone for something you were super-upset about only moments before? I shrugged. If she was willing to drop it, so was I. “Laurel, you’re going to have to get it together,” I said firmly. “Obviously, I don’t have any experience with boys, either, but for someone like you, who’s performed in front of millions of people at the MTV Awards, I have to believe you can talk to Austin. Even if he is a huge star.”

  Wait a minute—I was supposed to be mad at her. Why was I being so nice and helping her?

  “You’re right,” she agreed. “I can do this.” She stood up and started pacing. “He’s just a human being who eats and sleeps and—”

  “He probably even farts, too!” I added. I couldn’t help it. I was in major-pep-talk-mode. Plus, I didn’t want to see her sad, even if she had been being totally mean to me earlier.

  “Exactly!” she cried. “I can just go out there and be normal.” She stopped pacing and grabbed my hand. “You know, Sequoia never would’ve saved me like you did back there,” she said. Sequoia was her ex-BFF—the girl who played her BFF on her show, but dumped Laurel because she used too much hand sanitizer and was so organized and weird about it. “I guess I never really knew what it was like to have a best friend before now,” she said shyly, squeezing my hand.

  Maybe Mom was right about the fact that this teenage hormone stuff made you totally nuts. I couldn’t keep up with Laurel’s moods. One minute she was super-mean and the next she was totally my BFF. But I knew that calling her on the flip-flopping at this point was not a smart idea. What if she flipped back to being mean?

  It sounded stupid, but I still couldn’t get over the fact that Laurel thought I was so great. I mean, I was just this normal, untalented, coordination-challenged twelve-and-a-half-year-old, and she was . . . well, Laurel Moses. Everyone liked her. Even people who had never met her wanted to be her. Granted, she was a little weird. Like with the germ thing. And the neatness thing. And the never-having-been-to-the-mall thing. And about fifty billion other things. But still, despite all the things, every girl in the world would have died to be able to call Laurel her BFF. And she chose . . . me, I thought, squeezing her hand back. Even though I said Beatrice was my BFF, the truth was I felt the same way—Laurel was my BFF. Well, at least the non-superstar version of Laurel.

  There was a knock on the door. “Come in,” she yelled out.

  A headset-wearing, walkie-talkie-holding production assistant popped her head in. “Laurel, you’re wanted on set,” she said.

  “Thanks,” she said. She turned to me. “You ready to go?”

  I nodded. I was glad Laurel and I had made up, because the more I thought about it, the more I realized that sitting in a trailer all afternoon by myself would be really boring. Even if there was a TV in there. I’d much rather be with my BFF.

  Unfortunately, Laurel missed the part in the BFF manual that said “BFFs don’t dump BFFs for boys.”

  When we first got on set, Austin dragged his chair over to sit next to us (not while the camera was rolling). I still had to help Laurel out with the talking-to-boys stuff for a while. Laurel had no problem memorizing pages and pages of dialogue, but when it came to talking to a boy she liked? F
orget it. She just froze up. Sometimes midsentence. Once she actually said, “Excuse me—I have to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back,” and ran away, like she had drunk like seventeen large bottles of water. But after a while, we both realized that Austin was a regular human being (and a nice one at that, because instead of ignoring me like I was an annoying little sister, he totally included me in the conversation), and Laurel finally began to relax.

  Everything was good until they started playing the “Oh my God—I had no idea you like fill-in-the-blank, too!” game. I HATED that game. Mom and Alan had played it the night we all went to dinner the first time. Back then I had caught Laurel rolling her eyes, but now she sounded just as stupid as Mom and Alan had, and soon enough, I was the one rolling her eyes.

  When they first started, I tried to play as well. (“Hey, I like pizza, too!” “I saw that movie, too!”) But they both just ignored me. And when you’re ignored long enough, you start to feel like a total loser and start picking at your cuticles again, just so you have something to do. I had finally managed to chime in and insert myself into the conversation when both their phones rang at the same time (“Look—we both have phones!”) and they had to take their calls (“It’s my agent on the line, too!”). Oh brother.

  I thought the morning had gone badly, but this was even worse. Laurel wouldn’t even be TALKING to Austin and playing this stupid game if it wasn’t for me helping her out! Not only that, but it was like Laurel had taken a pill that had turned her into Cristina Pollock. She flipped her blonde hair around every two seconds, and twisted it around her finger, or giggled at stuff that, frankly, was not funny.

  I’d had enough. It was bad enough to be ignored by Laurel-Moses-teen-superstar, but I didn’t need to feel like I was back in school and being forced to sit next to Cristina Pollock. I was about to tap her on the shoulder and say, “Laurel? I’m going to go back to the trailer. Not that you care . . .” when she turned to me. “Hey, Lucy, Austin and I are going to go to the director’s trailer because we have some questions about the scene we’re going to shoot later. You’ll be okay here without me for a little bit, right?”