Spin (14 page)

The bar swings back to the platform and then away
from it. At the furthest point, the instructor screams, “Hands up!”

I reach my hands up and this time I grasp the bar
firmly.

“Legs down!”

I pull my knees toward my chest and my legs slide
off the bar. Not in a fluid motion like the instructor’s or Amber’s did, but
still, I’m swinging by my arms again and all that’s left
is . . .

“Release!”

That’s what I was afraid of.

“Release!”

Here goes nothing.

I open my hands and fall through the air. I feel
the hard jerk of the rope on the harness and my feet are touching the net. I
topple over.

Always so
graceful.

I flip onto my hands and knees and crawl to the
edge. There’s no way I’m going to be able to do that cool, over-the-head flip
thing. Instead, I sit on my bum, swing my legs over the side, and push off with
my hands, landing unsteadily on the ground.

“Well done, Katie,” Carol says, beaming at me.

“Thanks.”

I brush some of the chalk off my hands and walk
toward Amber, Connor, and Henry. My heart is pounding, pounding, pounding, but I
feel exhilarated and happier than I’ve felt in a long time, invincible almost.
This must be what being on coke feels like. I’m beginning to see its appeal.

“Yeah, Katie!” Amber says throwing her hands over
her head in a parody of a cheerleader. “Wasn’t it totally fun?”

“Oh, totally,” Connor drawls in his half-British
accent.

She swats him playfully. “Shut up, you.”

I meet Henry’s gaze behind them, and he rolls his
eyes. I stifle a laugh.

“So, what’d you think?” Amber asks, her fingers
playing with the back of Connor’s hair.

“It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience.”

“The good kind or the bad kind?” perceptive Henry
asks.

“The once-only kind.”

“Aw, come on. You
totally
have to do it again!” Amber says.

“Once was enough.”

“Well, then
you
have to
go, Connor.”

“We’ll see.”

“Con-nor!”

He shrugs her hand away from his neck. “Knock it
off, Amb. I’ll go if I feel like it.”

Amber turns toward me. “You guys haven’t really
met, right?”

I’m pretty sure telling her about our semi-flirty
exchange when we were playing Two Equals One Hundred in the cafeteria is a bad,
bad idea.

“Nope.”

“Connor, this is Katie, the only normal person
here.”

“Hi, Connor.”

His eyes meet mine briefly. “Hey.”

“Katie runs just like E. does! Doesn’t she,
E.?”

Who
is
this girl?

“Yeah, I guess,” Henry grumbles.

“And she writes about music for
Rolling Stone,
right, Katie?”

“Not for anything as prestigious as
Rolling Stone . . .”

“Oh, don’t be so modest.”

Seriously, who is this girl?

Wait a minute. Wait just a damn minute. I know who
Amber is. She’s TGND. Literally. She’s acting like the character she played on
The Girl Next Door.
Hyper. Bubbly. A little
dumb. What the fuck?

“Connor,” Carol calls from across the gym. “Your
turn.”

Connor gets an I-don’t-think-so expression on his
face. “Maybe later.”

“Come on, Connor.”

“Yeah, come on, Connor,” Henry mocks.

Amber shoots him a dirty look. “What are you even
doing here, E.? You’re not a patient.”

Connor makes an aggravated sound in his throat.
“Amb, we talked about this. You know why Henry’s here.”

“Well, I’ll never understand why he doesn’t have to
stay in his room all the time, at least.”

“Would it be OK if I came out for meals?” Henry
asks.

“Connor!” Carol calls again.

Connor emits a sigh and stands. I watch his face as
he stares at Carol and the apparatus behind her. He has a strange look in his
eyes. It’s almost as if . . .

No way.
No way.

I look again. It’s unmistakable. Especially if
you’ve just been through the same thing.

Young James Bond is scared. Scared shitless.

Connor shuffles toward Carol. Amber bounces up and
follows him, chatting away about how much fun he’s going to have.

I’m not sure what’s more surprising. That Amber
reverts to a television character when she’s around Connor, or that the guy who
jumped from a flaming speedboat onto a ladder hanging off a helicopter is afraid
of a little trapeze.

“What’s up with that?” I ask Henry.

“You mean Amber?”

“Yeah, she’s so . . .”

“Annoying? Silly? Stupid?”

“Different.”

He grins. “How politic of you.”

“Is she always like that around him?”

“Yup.”

“You say ‘yup’ a lot, don’t you?”

His mouth twitches. “Yup.”

“Want to go watch the show?”

“Sure.”

We walk toward the trapeze, where Connor’s getting
some last-minute tips from Carol. There’s a muscle twitching in his jaw.

“I can’t believe he’s really going through with
it,” Henry mutters to himself.

“Because he’s scared out of his wits?”

He turns to me with surprise. “How’d you guess
that?”

“Takes one to know one.”

“Can you keep a secret?”

Uh,
yes.
And no.

“Of course.”

He lowers his voice. “Connor doesn’t do his own
stunts.”

“But what about his whole too-cool-for-school
persona?”

“It’s an act.”

“He’s not that good an actor.”

“Yes, he is.”

“Shit.”

“Yup.”

I think about it. “He didn’t jump from that
boat?”

“Of course not. He’s afraid of the water. And of
heights.”

“He didn’t leap from that building onto that other
building?”

“You’re not listening to me. He’s afraid of
everything.
”

“You’re shitting me.”

“Nope.”

“But . . . how does he get away with
it?”

“How do you think?”

“CGI?”

“No, silly.”

“Then how?”

“Drugs and alcohol, baby. Drugs and alcohol.”

Chapter 14

Visiting
Rights

I
wake up
on Day Sixteen: Reconnecting with Family and Friends in a much better mood, but
with every inch of my body aching. It literally feels like I’ve been stretched
on a rack. No wonder this is how they used to torture people in the Middle
Ages.

I sit on the floor and try some of the stretches
Amy showed me, but they don’t seem to be working. In fact, all they do is remind
me of the location of each of the muscles I used to bring my knees up and over
the bar yesterday. Obviously, a few halfhearted sit-ups after my pathetic runs
aren’t enough.

Speaking of which . . .

After the movie last night (
The Lake House,
which wasn’t half bad), Henry mentioned something
about seeing me out on my run today. Typical guy, he didn’t actually ask me to
go running with him, or tell me what time he’d be going so I could casually run
into him. Of course not. He just said, “See you on your run tomorrow?” gave me
his patented shoulder squeeze, and left.

After a few more stretches, I pull on my running
stuff and check that the battery in my iTouch hasn’t run down. It’s fine, and I
don’t have any emails from Bob, either. I guess he finally trusts me to let him
know when I learn something important. That, or he’s too busy managing his other
spies.

I slip my earphones in my ears, queue up today’s
playlist (David Gray’s “Slow Motion” and Brett Dennen’s “The One Who Loves You
the Most” for a ten-minute total), and head out.

Outside, the air still feels crisp and smells
sweet. The blue sky is full of big, puffy white clouds that roll lazily toward
the horizon.

I jog to the path, willing myself not to look for
Henry. If he wanted to run with me, he only had to ask. Besides, I’ve got my
tunes, so I’m all set.

I put my hands against a tree and stretch my legs
away from it. Ugh! This is going to be agony.

Someone places a hand on my shoulder and I nearly
jump out of my skin. I spin around, clutching the iTouch to my chest like I’m
about to be mugged. It’s Henry, of course it is, but that doesn’t keep my heart
from shuddering against my ribs.

He mouths something to me that I can’t hear, and I
take the earphones out of my ears.

“What?”

“I said, sorry I scared you.”

“That’s all right. I’m kind of getting used to
it.”

“Just what every guy likes to hear.”

“Doesn’t it add to your man-cred?”

“You really do remember everything, don’t you?”

“Is that going to be a problem?”

His eyes glint at me. “Not sure yet.”

OK, moving on.

“So . . . are you here to run or
just to terrorize me?”

“Oh, obviously terrorize. In fact, this is my usual
terrorist wardrobe.” He waves a hand to indicate his black running shirt and
light gray running shorts.

“Smart-ass.”

“Sorry, I couldn’t resist.”

“You want to run with me?”

Why else would he be here,
idiot?

“Sure.”

“I’m pretty slow.”

“I can handle it.”

We walk to the path. When we get there, I start
running, trying to go a little faster than I normally do. Henry trots along
easily next to me.

“How are you feeling today?” Henry asks.

“Everything hurts.”

“Yeah, Connor too. I still can’t believe he
actually made it up that ladder.”

I smile, thinking back to Connor’s tentative climb
up the ladder. His approach was similar to my own (one foot at a time, eyes
closed). But while I didn’t even attempt to hide my utter terror, Connor tried
to act completely blasé. He didn’t quite manage to pull it off. It’s hard to
look as cool as a cucumber while you’re shaking like a leaf in sweatpants, even
if they are P. Diddy’s brand.

“Yeah. That. Was. Funny.”

“Do you feel more trustworthy now?”

“Ha. Ha.”

“What’s on today’s menu? Astronaut training? Or
just the usual therapy?”

“No. Therapy. Today.”

“Why not?”

“Visiting. Day.”

“Oh, cool. Are some of your friends coming to
visit? Or your family?”

I shake my head, unable to even stutter out words
anymore, and stop running. I place my hands on my knees, using them for support
as I try to catch my breath.

Henry puts his hand on my back. “You OK?”

“I can’t talk . . . when
I’m . . . running.”

“Sorry, I’m kind of chatty when I run.”

“I thought you were . . . the
strong . . . silent type.”

“I guess running is my kryptonite.”

My breathing returns to normal and I straighten up.
“Didn’t any of your girlfriends figure that out?”

“None of them liked to run.”

“Their loss . . .”

And what did you mean by that,
Miss Henry-Is-Definitely-Off-Limits?

Not another word.

I look away from him. “Anyway, should we run?”

“Sure.”

We continue down the path. I decide to ask a
question while I can still talk.

“So, what is your job, exactly?”

He glances sideways at me. “Are you trying to take
advantage of me?”

“Never.”

“I’m Connor’s manager.”

“Amber said. You were. Personal assistant.”

“She would.”

“What does. ‘Manager’ mean?”

“I manage Connor’s career. You know, help him pick
the movies he’s going to do, endorsements, what talk shows he goes on, that sort
of thing . . .”

As we run, Henry babbles on (literally, he is
babbling) about how he and Connor grew up together, and how his job is mostly
making sure Connor doesn’t make stupid business decisions. Except for lately
he’s also had to keep him away from the paparazzi because of all the drinking
and drugs and—“I really shouldn’t talk about that, anyway . . .
it’s kind of hard to explain”—he knows it sounds stupid, like he works for a
rapper or something, but really, it’s just transitional, while he figures out
what he really wants to do—when Connor asked him to come to rehab, that was
almost the last straw, and it took a lot of wrangling and a huge donation to an
outpatient drug program run by the Oasis before they agreed to let him in. He
knows everyone thinks it’s weird that he’s here, but Connor said he needed him,
and he couldn’t abandon him when he was finally trying to clean up his act,
right?

His talking is strangely comforting and almost
makes me forget I’m running. Almost. Until my entire body feels like it’s on
fire and the monkey is back with a vengeance.

Please let us have run for at least ten
minutes.

I stop and look at my watch. Twelve minutes, two
seconds.

I pump my fist in joy. Yes, yes, yes! Ohmygod it
hurts.

“You done?” Henry asks, breathing easily, a slight
tinge of pink on his cheeks.

“Oh yeah.”

“Cramp?”

I nod. “A bad one . . . do you mind
if we head back to the lodge?”

He agrees, and we walk slowly while I rub my
side.

“So, do you like what you do?”

“Sometimes. It’s fun hanging out with Connor,
living the life. But . . . sometimes it’s weird that my best
friend’s my boss. And sometimes I feel like I’m living his life.”

“So why do it?”

He shrugs. “I’d just finished grad school when he
invited me out to LA. I wasn’t quite ready to jump into the real world, so I
went.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Coming up on eight years now.”

“That’s a long time.”

“Yup.”

“What’d you go to grad school for?”

“English lit.”

“You a writer?”

“Nope, a teacher.”

“Really? That’s pretty far removed from manager of
a huge Hollywood star.”

“Imagine the pay cut I’d be taking if I gave it all
up.”

“Sounds like you’re addicted to him.”

He shoots me a look. “Excuse me?”

You know, Katie, just because
everyone around you is being confronted with brutal truths about themselves
24/7 doesn’t mean Henry wants to be.

“Sorry. Forget it.”

He stops. “No, tell me. Why did you say that?”

I stare down at my shoes. They’re covered with mud.
“Well, it’s just . . . the way you describe it sounds sort of
like an addiction. Being stuck in a pattern you can’t get out of because it
would mean making sacrifices. Your whole life becoming about
it . . .” I look up at him miserably. “That’s what it’s like to
be an addict.”

“I know what it’s like to be an addict,” he says
quietly.

Shit.

“Forget I said anything, OK? I’ve spent too much
time lately expelling every thought.”

He looks pensive. “No, you might be right. I am
kind of addicted to the lifestyle. I have a great car and a big apartment, none
of which I’d be able to afford if it wasn’t for Connor.”

“Sounds nice.”

“Yeah, but it’s also easy.”

“Just because something’s easy doesn’t mean it’s
bad for you. And at least being addicted to Connor gets you money and stuff.
Most addicts can’t say that.”

He smiles. “And chicks. Don’t forget the
chicks.”

“Right, how could I forget the
chicks
? You know, if you could invent a pill that got you money,
stuff, and chicks, you’d be a gazillionaire.”

“I don’t think that’s a word.”

We start walking again. A whippoorwill trills above
us, its repeating call the soundtrack of my childhood. My mind wanders briefly
to my parents, not far from here as the crow flies. Would they come and visit me
if they knew where I was and what I’m up to?

“So, are you really going to leave it all behind
and become a teacher?”

He sighs. “I’m thinking about it. But I can’t quit
until Connor gets better.”

“You’re a good friend, Henry.”

“Thanks. Anyway . . . you never
said. Are any of your friends coming to visit today?”

I feel a pang of homesickness for Rory. Is she ever
going to speak to me again?

“No, I don’t think so.”

“How come?”

“Oh, I don’t know . . . I’ve caused
my friends enough trouble, I guess.”

“I bet your friends are really proud of you for
coming here.”

“Maybe.”

“Trust me.”

I make a face. “Trust Day was yesterday.”

“So, what are you going to do with all your free
time?”

“Hope someone put something readable in the
library?”

He smiles. “I wouldn’t count on it.”

“Miracles can happen.”

“Well, if no miracle transpires, we could hang
out . . . if you want.”

Did he just look nervous when he said that?

“I’d like that.”

We turn the last corner of the path and the lawn
sprawls out before us. There are more cars in the parking lot than usual. New
faces are milling around. A group of four people is walking toward us. Something
about them seems vaguely familiar.

“Do you know those people?” Henry says. “They’re
waving at you.”

I follow his gaze. No . . . it can’t
be.

“Hey, lassie!” Greer bellows from across the lawn,
her face a wide grin. “Who’s the hottie?”

T
wenty
minutes later, Rory and I are walking toward my room so I can take a shower.

When our group hug dissolved, Henry graciously
offered to show Greer, Scott, and Joanne (!) to the common room while I
freshened up. Rory asked to come with me and, of course, I agreed. On the way
she explains that she ran into Joanne soon after I left, which is how she
learned where I really was. I ask her how they knew where to find me.

“Scott figured it out from the phone number you
gave Joanne.”

“Who knew he was so smart?”

“Yeah, he’s not a bad guy.”

I look at her curiously. Rory’s never approved of
Scott, or Greer, for that matter. I wonder what it means that they’re all here
together.

I open the door to my room, and Rory sits on Amy’s
bed while I get my things together for the shower.

“It’s nice,” she says, glancing round. “Do you have
a roommate?”

“I did. She left.”

“Oh. What was she like?”

“She was pretty great.”

“I’m glad.”

Rory stares nervously down at her sandals, her
hands folded in the lap of her tan pencil skirt. It occurs to me that this is
the first time I’ve seen Rory in casual clothes in a long time. It suits her.
She even looks like she’s gained a few pounds, and her skin is a shade or two
darker than the last time I saw her.

“You look good, Rory. Have you put on weight?”

She looks up. “I have.”

“That’s great.”

“Yes, well, your coming here was a bit of a wake-up
call for me. In fact, I’m, um, going to see a therapist to discuss my, um,
issues with food.”

I’m stunned. Besides our fight in her office, this
is only the second conversation about her weight we’ve ever had. Not that I
haven’t wanted to discuss it with her a thousand times, but since anything near
the topic was always greeted with such stony silence, I’d learned it was better
to leave it alone.

“I’m really proud of you, Ror.”

“Forget that. I’m the one who’s proud.”

“Please, don’t be.”

“I mean it, Kate. I’m so impressed that you
acknowledged you had a problem and came here before it got totally out of
control. And I feel really bad that I didn’t respond to your emails as soon as I
found out where you were.”

“Forget it. I know you went out on a limb to get me
that job. I’m really sorry I couldn’t take it.”

“What you’re doing is so much more important than
some stupid job.”

Great. Just great. I thought I was going to get a
lecture, a lecture I deserve, a lecture I can handle. What I can’t handle is the
fierce, proud look on Rory’s face.

“Please don’t be impressed with me, Rory. I don’t
deserve it.”

“What are you talking about?”

Crap, crap, crap. I’ve never been able to lie to
Rory.

“Because I haven’t done anything to be proud
of.”