Starkissed (12 page)

Chapter Eighteen

Being on a first date with anyone is a lot of pressure. Well at least I assume so. I’ve never really had a first date before. Unless you count sitting in the cafeteria. So being on a first date with Grant, well it’s not exactly a picnic. A few hours after Dad gives us the go ahead, I meet Grant at the restaurant. He looks fantastic again, wearing a pair of black pants, a white button up shirt, and a black suit jacket. The first few buttons of his shirt are undone, just enough to make me lose my train of thought for a second.

He smiles as I walk over to him. I’m wearing one of Ava’s dresses. A clingy black wrap dress with tiny white polka dots. The hem is a little shorter than I’m used to, well actually a lot shorter. I keep thinking I’m feeling the slinky material sliding up my thigh, dangerously close to revealing, well, everything. I don’t feel like myself at all. My normally straight hair is curled within an inch of its life, and I’m wearing so much mascara my eyes feel droopy from the weight. This is all my mother’s doing, with some not so helpful input from Ava, Angelina, and Caroline. Apparently I can’t be trusted to dress myself anymore. I tried to complain but they barely let me speak as they pulled, plucked, curled. At this point I’m just thankful I have different sized feet from all of my sisters or I’d have been shoved into some impossible to walk in heels instead of my low wedges.

“You look pretty,” Grant says when I reach him.

“Thanks, you too,” I say. Then realize I just called him pretty. “Well I mean, not like um, girl pretty, but you know, like manly pretty. Like um, um…” I finally give up because I can’t seem to find a single word that doesn’t make me sound ridiculous. I wonder if all the foundation mom painted over my cheeks is hiding the blush I can feel flaming beneath it.

He laughs. “Thanks.”

A waitress, at Dad’s request, leads us to small, circular booth at the back of the restaurant. Grant and I slide in on opposite sides.

“So...your dad owns this place,” he surveys the room.

“He does,” I nod. At the sound of our voices, the couple sitting in the booth beside us leans in, waiting to absorb every word we say. I point them out to Grant, and the next time he speaks, he slides closer, so our sides are practically touching, and whispers.

“I’m really glad you’re here.”

I look into his eyes, tracing the little flecks, which look orange again, and smile. “Uh, me too.”

Despite the fact that we’re in the most secluded booth the restaurant has, there’s little to be had for privacy. Everyone is watching. When Grant reaches over to brush a stand of hair from my forehead, there’s this collective intake of breath that surges through the room. I lean back from him.

I’m almost grateful when the first autograph seeker shows up, taking the attention away from me. She’s small, maybe seven or eight years old, and her tiny hands are trembling. When she speaks, her voice is quiet.

“Can I have your autograph please?”

He shifts uncomfortably and looks over at me. I nod. He smiles at the girl, and takes the pen from her hand. He scribbles his signature on a cloth napkin and hands it to her.

“That was sweet,” I say, once she’s gone.

Seemingly encouraged by Grant’s good deed, soon other autograph hounds head toward us: more kids, teenagers, and even an elderly woman who blushes when Grant smiles at her. I can tell he’s not thrilled, and every time someone leaves, he tries to apologize to me. But he never says no to the fans. He never sends anyone away disappointed.

We order an appetizer sampler and it comes quickly. We pick our way through mushroom caps, fried ravioli, chicken wings and spinach dip. Just as we’re finishing it, a commotion erupts near the front door. My dad is pushing a photographer outside. The guy holds his camera up in the air and hits the shutter a few times, bursts of white light fill the room.

“So this is your life,” I stare at the door.

“It is,” he nods.

“It must suck sometimes.”

“I could definitely do without the paparazzi watching my every move.”

“I know what you mean, and I’ve only been at this for a day.”

He looks down at the table. “I get it if this is too much. If you want to leave, it’s fine.”

He’s giving me an out, and maybe I’d be crazy not to take it. Dating Grant, I can tell, is not like dating other guys. Paparazzi everywhere, fans at every corner. It’s not normal.

“Meet me by the men’s bathroom in three minutes,” I whisper in his ear.

“What?” He leans back and looks at me, an expression wavering between curious and shocked on his face.

“Get your mind out of the gutter. Just trust me.”

He climbs out of the booth, shoots a puzzled glance in my direction, then heads to the back of the restaurant, following the signs leading to the restrooms.

Almost as soon as Grant is gone, Dad edges over to the table and frowns at me. “Where did he go?”

“The bathroom. God Dad.”

“Oh. Right.” He wrings his hands and looks around the room.

“Is he treating you well?”

“You’ve been watching us the entire time, you tell me.”

“Sydney, of course I haven’t...”

“Dad.”

“He seems...nice.”

He continues to hover and I’m running out of time. I reach forward and grab an untouched piece of bruschetta from the appetizer platter. I slowly raise it to my lips, then at the last second, let go. The slice drops from my hand and lands on my lap, covering my dress in oil and chunks of tomato.

“Oops!”

I grab a napkin and half-heartedly wipe at the spot, more smearing it than cleaning it up.

“I think I need some soap,” I finally decree. I slide out of the booth, shrug at my dad, then march toward the restroom. I arrive just as Grant is ducking out of the men’s room. I look from side to side, making sure no one can see us, then drag him toward the basement door.

“Where are we going?” he asks as we descend the stairs.

“All the businesses in this building are connected,” I tell him when reach the basement floor. We navigate through boxes of supplies until we reach another door.

“Through here,” I point to the door, turn the lock, then wretch it open. It leads to a long, dimly lit corridor that spans the entire length of the building, going under Branson’s Photo and Old City Bakery on the left of Dad’s restaurant, and West Plane Hardware on the right. I grab Grant’s hand and drag him to the left.

We reach the end of the basement hall quickly and stop in front of another door. “This,” I point to it, “is our release.”

I push the large metal exit open and a cool breeze brushes past us, ruffling my hair around my face. We step outside and climb the steep concrete stairs to street level. We’re in an empty alley, no fans or photographers in sight.

“I think we’re alone now,” I smile wickedly.

Grant laughs and his mouth breaks into an ample grin. “You, Sydney Kane are not just beautiful, you’re also a genius.”

“We should go,” I say, my voice hoarse, my cheeks flaming again. “Before anyone realizes we’re gone.”

I take Grant down side streets until we reach a residential neighborhood where I’m mostly positive no one will think to look for us. Once the rush of being free abates, though, we kind of lapse into a silent lull of awkwardness. At least at the restaurant, surrounded by dozens of people and watching eyes, we didn’t have time to feel pressured. Now, though, all alone, I have no idea how to act. I wish there was some sort of _Dating Celebrities for Dummies_ book, or even better a _How to Talk to Famous People: A Beginners Guide._ If I ever make it through this maybe I’ll just have to write it.

About halfway down Turner Avenue, a voice rings out through the air. “They left the restaurant!”

“What?” another voice bursts out in anger.

In the distance I can see two figures walking toward us. Before we can be spotted, Grant takes my hand and leads me behind a massive, thick trunked tree on the edge of someone’s front yard. We press our bodies into the rough bark.

“Call Angelina. Find out if they’re home yet.” The voice is closer and it sounds familiar. Michelle?

The two voices fall silent for a minute, and then the sound of a murmured, one sided discussion can be heard. Not Michelle, but whoever she is with, is talking to my sister.

“She’s not there,” the other voice says loudly to Michelle.

“Ugh!” Michelle cries. “We have to find them tonight. I need to meet Grant.”

“Why?”

“Because the sooner he realizes that Sydney Kane is a worthless nobody, the sooner he’ll realize I’m perfect. Come on.”

I clap my hand over my mouth to keep from bursting out into laughter. I look over at Grant. His lips are twitching. They’re getting closer to us. He takes my hand and carefully inches me around the tree so they don’t spot us when they pass.

“Friends of yours?” he whispers when they’re far enough down the street that they won’t hear.

“Hardly. Michelle, she lives there,” I point to a house up the street. “She’s just...well crazy. And diabolical. You might want to watch out for her.”

“I’m sure I’ll be just fine. I’ve dealt with my fair share of crazy girls.”

“I’ll bet you have.”

He laces his fingers back through mine, and then pulls me onto the sidewalk. “So what now?”

***

“What, he couldn’t even drop you off?” Angelina sneers when I walk through the front door an hour later, 9:59 on the dot actually, just one minute before curfew.

“We took separate cars,” I remind her.

“Oh. Well that’s just fan-freaking-tastic,” she screeches and takes off for the stairs. An interesting outfit choice she’s got on, for a Sunday night at home – a mini-skirt, a low cut, hot pink t-shirt with cap sleeves, and a pair of 4 inch heels that make her calves look like they’re carved from marble. I’m not even going to get in to the make-up.

“How long has she been dressed like that?” I ask America, who’s camped out on the couch watching a women’s soccer game on ESPN.

“Since you left.” she laughs. She hits the power button on the remote and the TV switches off. “So what was it like?”

I walk around the back of the couch and sit down beside her. “It was weird. But fun I guess.”

“Why was it weird?”

I shrug. “He’s just…we’re a lot different you know. He’s living a life beyond anything I can ever imagine. We don’t have a lot in common.”

“Sure you do,” America grins.

“What makes you think that?”

“Well in last month’s
Seventeen
he said that his favorite movie is Batman.”

“Original or new?”

“New. That’s your favorite right?”

“Maybe.”

“And he loves
Star Trek
just like you. He’s a complete geek. Just like you.”

“Shut up,” I poke her and she giggles loudly.

“His favorite books are Harry Potter.”

“Okay, okay. I get your point.” I lean back into the couch and pull my legs up beneath me. America’s eyes drift over to my lap.

“What happened to your dress?”

I look down, in the direction of her stare, and zone in on the long forgotten bruschetta stain from the restaurant.

“It’s nothing,” I sigh. “Just a moment of pure genius.”

America narrows her eyes in confusion, but lets it go. I grab the remote from her and turn the TV back on. “Can we please watch something else?” I beg when the screen fills with soccer players.

“Fine,” she sighs, and leans over, resting her head against my shoulder. “Just not
Jersey Shore
okay? Angelina’s been making me watch it all night.”

Chapter Nineteen

“I think he was going to kiss me,” I admit to Caroline over the phone the next morning while getting ready for school.

“But he didn’t? Why not?”

I lie back on my bed and stare at the ceiling. That’s a very good question, but I have no desire to answer it. How can I tell Caroline that just as he was leaning in, just as I realized what was going to happen, that I froze and turned away from him? That the thought of kissing him again, while exciting, also filled me with fear and discomfort. How do I tell her that while every other girl in the country is in love him, I’m just...not. He’s a nice guy. A really nice guy. And I like him, but all I could think as he was leaning in was,
God I hope Colin doesn’t stumble upon us.

“It just wasn’t the right moment,” I sigh.

“So what did you guys do?”

“We just talked and walked around.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Not a lot. We didn’t have much time at the restaurant, and after we left…”

“So when are you going to see him again.”

“Tonight, he’s come over for dinner.”

“You’re introducing him to your family? Already? Isn’t that a little soon?”

“I know,” I grimace. The fact is that last night, once Dad got home from work – far later than usual – thanks to a late surge of guests, he ranted at me for twenty minutes for sneaking out with Grant. He went so far as to try and forbid me from seeing him, again. I managed to talk him down, but only so far as to let me see Grant while home, surrounded by the watchful eyes of my family.

***

I don’t want to go to school. I don’t want to see the looks on all my classmates’ faces as I walk down the hall. I don’t want them to watch me, to judge me, to call me a liar, to ask if Grant is a good kisser.

“You’re the one who went on a date with him,” Caroline reminds me over the phone while I’m getting dressed. “What did you think would happen?”

“I know. But they would have been staring anyways, after that interview on Friday.”

“Very true.”

I enter the front doors of the school and almost instantly, every eye in the immediate area looks my way. I hold on to the straps of my backpack for dear life and move forward as quickly as possible, pushing my way through the throngs of students in the hall, searching for Caroline.

I manage to find her quickly, camped out by our lockers, flagged on one side by Paul, and Shanae on the other. I realize, with a start, that besides Caroline I haven’t explained things to the rest of my friends. What if they think I’m a liar, what if they’re mad?

I pause about five feet from them, and swallow a massive lump in my throat. Unfortunately it’s not easy to remain unnoticed when pretty much everyone in the school is pointing and staring at you. It takes Caroline and the others barely a second to realize I’m there.

I step forward and flutter my fingers in a limp wave. “Hey guys.” I step closer and lower my voice so the prying eyes and ears filling the hall can’t figure out what I’m saying. “About the whole Grant thing...”

“Oh my God did you kiss him yet?” Shanae interrupts a little too loudly.

“Oh. Um.” I drop my voice even further, aware that almost every ear in the hall is now honed in on us. “Later?”

She nods eagerly.

“So,” Paul steps forward. “There’s this rumor online that Grant is poised to star in the new Green Arrow movie. Is it true?”

I laugh. Just like Paul. Superheroes over everything else.

“I don’t know,” I shake my head. “But I’ll ask him tonight.”

“Awesome.” He clutches his hand into a fist and sort of punches the air to punctuate his excitement.

“God you’re such a nerd,” Caroline pokes him and rolls her eyes.

Paul’s enthusiasm almost instantly deflates. He drops his hand to his side and shrugs self-consciously. Poor guy. Stupid Caroline. Why she has to like some stupid jock who couldn’t care less about her over sweet, funny, cute Paul is beyond me.

***

I feel like a museum exhibit. Everyone’s watching me. EVERYONE. My teachers, students, the janitor even stopped to stare as I made my way to class between second and third period. The gawking seems to have transcended to a whole new level. Every look comes hand in hand with curiosity and judgment.

When lunch finally rolls around, I head to the cafeteria with a certain air of trepidation. Almost as soon as I set foot in the lunch line, Michelle is swooping into line behind me, and she automatically starts dripping syrupy sweet all over me. It’s like last time, except far worse. She natters at my back as I sort through the food on offer, finally selecting a soggy looking sandwich. She tells me she loves my new boots, and that she’s considering dying her hair brunette – it’s apparently the new blonde. Then to cap it all off, she buys me a cookie.

I know, weird right? I mean who buys people cookies? I almost don’t take it. But it’s chocolate chip, my favorite.

After my food is paid for I head straight for my regular lunch spot, and Michelle is quick on my heels. I put my food down on the table and slide into my seat. Almost immediately she’s dropping her plate of lettuce (dressing on the side) on the table too. She tucks herself into the open spot on my right. Like good little minions, the rest of Michelle’s brigade zooms over to us, filling the table quickly and efficiently. They’re so fast and organized, it’s like they have military training or something. Before I can even blink, my table is brimming with popular kids. I groan inwardly.

Caroline, seeing the rapidly filling table, immediately rushes across the room and inserts herself into the open space on Liam’s right. When she’s seated, he looks up, smiles, and says hello. I swear if Tara wasn’t sitting right there beside her, holding her up, she probably would have careened over or something from the shock and excitement of it.

By the time Zane, Paul, Shanae and Alex head toward us, the table is packed and there’s no room for any of them. They don’t really seem to mind, and head off for an empty spot nearby. I on the other hand, am pissed. If I weren’t so freaked out I’d get up and go sit with them. But instead I stay in my spot, quietly nibbling at my food.

I spend the rest of lunch hour ignoring Michelle, who doesn’t seem to notice I’m not absorbing her every word, and watching Caroline, who keeps finding reasons to slide herself closer and closer to Liam. By the time the end-of-lunch bell rings their forearms are lightly touching and their shoulders are pressed together. Caroline looks like she’s on cloud nine. I doubt Liam has even noticed.

***

Let this be a lesson to all teenage girls around the world. Second dates that taken place at your family’s dinner table...not so good. Especially when said date is with a famous movie star and your family is bunch of freaks.

Grant arrives just before six carrying a large bouquet of flowers for my mom – she practically sobs when she sees them, but not before embracing him in a giant hug that lingers a few seconds past creepy – and wearing black pants, a black shirt, and a black leather jacket. The way he’s dressed reminds me a bit of Patrick Swayze in
Dirty Dancing
and I admit, I swoon a little at the idea.

About two seconds after the front door opens and he steps inside, Angelina makes her entrance. She parades down the stairs wearing a tight black skirt, knee high stiletto boots, and a mauve, curve hugging shirt. She makes it to the third to last stair just fine, but then Grant looks up and meets her eyes. She gets flustered and when she goes to take the next step, she loses her footing and falls the remaining way down. The only thing that saves her from face planting is my Dad, who quickly swoops in and steadies her tangled limbs.

I don’t know if I’ve ever seen Angelina so nervous. I don’t know if I’ve ever laughed harder.

Before dinner, we all assemble in the living room – or sitting room as Mom tells Grant, in a vain effort to make our family seem a little classier – and stare at each other awkwardly while passing around a plate of cheese and crackers. Ava, who managed to snag the spot on Grant’s right, I’m on his left, decides that the best form of pre dinner conversation is to rant on about how meat is murder. A brilliant topic choice, seeing as we’re supposed to be having lamb for dinner.

There are only two saving graces to the entire night – one, America is so shy that she ends up being about harmful as a hamster. She sits in the corner and blushes whenever someone speaks to her. And two, my dad is not a total ass after all. He and Grant actually bond over dinner – talking about sports and fishing and who knows what else. By the end of the night, I think he actually might like Grant. At least he’s learned to tolerate him.

After dinner I drag Grant upstairs after me to my room. I don’t know if I really want to be alone with him, but I have to get him away from my family before they do anything else insane.

Grant wanders over to the far side of my room and peers out the window, which looks out onto the street. “Nice view,” he says.

“Uh yeah,” I respond intelligently. I stay close to the door, watching his every move, and clasping my hands together.

“What’s this?” Grant reaches for my sketchbook, which is sitting on my desk.

“Oh um,” I rush forward, but he picks it up before I can stop him. Damn it. I was looking at it last night and left it open to picture I drew of him the other week.

“Is this me?” he asks.

I tick my foot against the floor and suck my lips against my teeth. “Uh huh.”

“Wow,” he lifts the page closer to he can inspect it. “That’s really great. I didn’t know you drew.”

“A bit, not much,” I shrug.

“I thought you were a writer. That’s what you said at LIMA.”

I shrug. “I write a bit too. I’m also a knitter and on days when I’m late for school, a racecar driver. I’m a lot of things.”

He smiles and puts the sketch back on my desk. “You aren’t like any girl I’ve ever dated.”

“Have you ever dated anyone who wasn’t an actress or singer?”

“Sure.”

“Or model?”

“Um no.”

I laugh. “Well there you go. I’m just like any other girl really.”

He shakes his head, but doesn’t say anything more. At Mom’s call for dessert we go back downstairs. At around ten Grant’s driver comes back. Again I feel like he wants to kiss me, but this time I don’t have to turn away from him. He’s dissuaded enough by the audience of my family, hovering in the hall while he and I say goodbye. Instead he lightly brushes his lips over my right cheek and promises to call soon. He has to leave New Mexico in the morning to head for Los Angeles.
Deader than Night
comes out in two weeks and he has a lot of promoting to do.

***

“You have to do something,” I beg Angelina Tuesday night while she’s doing the dinner dishes. It’s been another hellish day of Michelle following my every move and I can’t stand it. She grabs a plate off the pile, sneers at the remaining clumps of meatloaf and gravy, then rinses it clean and places it in the dishwasher.

“
I
don’t have to do anything.”

“Michelle won’t leave me alone!”

“That’s not my problem.”

“Um, yes it is. You’re the one who didn’t want me to steal your friends. So what’s with complacency? Fight for them!”

“You saw it the other week, the minute they got bored with the idea of you and Grant, they stopped caring about you. The same thing will happen eventually. They’ll either figure out you’re not going to let them near him, or he’ll dump you.”

“Angelina! Come on. Please? I don’t want to be Michelle’s friend and she just keeps following me around.”

“Then introduce her to Grant.”

“Yeah. Not happening.” I shake my head and lean back against the counter.

“Worried she’ll steal him away?”

“More like worried she’ll maul him. People can’t seem to keep their cool around him.” I look at her pointedly, reminding her of the night before.

“I don’t think there’s anything I can do, okay? Michelle does what she wants. What I think doesn’t really matter all that much to her.”

“You could at least help me at lunch, try and distract her.”

“No.” She drops a plate back into the sink and the sound of ceramic clattering against metal fills the kitchen.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m busy during lunch.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that it’s none of your business. So unless you’re going to help me deal with this,” she indicates the heap of dirty pots and plates in the sink, “leave.”

***

Over the next few days, I watch helplessly as my life spins out of my control. Grant’s face is everywhere: television, the internet, magazines. The makers of
Deader than Night
are going all out with this promotional push. I read an article the other day predicting the movie will make over $100 million opening weekend. That’s big stuff. Grant is big stuff.

Every once in a while it feels so...impossible. Grant is on TV talking about me and I just have to pinch myself because I’m convinced it’s a dream...or a nightmare. I know I said I like him, and I do...it’s just that it’s only been two dates! And some of these interviewers are acting like he and I are practically engaged.

On Wednesday after school Mom takes off work and drags me shopping in the city. We hit up every major department store, and when I try and head for Old Navy she presses her lips together in a tight line and drags me in the other direction. By the time we get home I have a wardrobe full of clothing that I would never, ever, pick out for myself. Dresses, skirts, fancy pants, dressy jeans, shiny blouses.

“Maybe we should consider getting you a publicist, or an agent,” Mom suggests when I complain about missing my old clothes.

I quickly shut her up by pulling out one of my new dresses and telling her how much I love it. But maybe she’s right. Maybe I need someone to carefully shape and refine my public image. The very thought makes me cringe, but it hasn’t taken long for people to start turning against me. I notice it first online – fans who are convinced that Grant is their soul mate tearing me down – limb by limb. My skin is too pale, my hair is too brown, my nose is too big for my face.

I’m not surprised really. I’m a girl, I’ve spent my entire life living with girls, I get them. Jealousy, anger, rage...it comes with the territory. Look at me. I want to destroy Ava for dating Colin. So I shouldn’t get upset when people try and tear me down for dating Grant. Still though, when some thirteen year old brat from Florida blogs that my arms are fat and I have cankles, well it sucks.

“They’re just jealous of you,” Caroline reminds me.

At school it’s a similar theme, except instead of hating me outright, people talk behind my back and act sugary sweet to my face. It’s hard to tell who’s acting fake and who’s for real. I’ve never had so many offers of friendship in my entire life. And I’m not just talking about Michelle and her minions, I’m talking about the popular and unpopular alike. From Drama Club nerds, and Glee Club Gleeks, to Student Council dictators and Athletic Department jocks. They’re all after me.

People who I entertained friendships with in elementary school are suddenly rekindling old memories of playground antics – no matter that the last time we spent any time together was in third grade on the monkey bars – and attempting to use these moments to cling to my side. It’s exhausting and frustrating. I can barely talk to any of my real friends for more than half a minute before someone is interrupting us. In Algebra, while doing a test, Melonie Mellman leans over to whisper a hello and
I
almost get a zero for talking during an exam.