You
can always count on me to make food a huge priority.” I cleaned up
our wrappers, stuffing them into the picnic basket.
He leaned back on his elbows. “I’m glad I didn’t end up having
to fake-date some starry-eyed idiot, speaking of boring. Not that
90
I’m glad your brother’s in trouble or anything, but at least you had
to take our offer.”
My skin iced over. “What do you know about my brother?”
He must have sensed the temperature change, deciding to tilt
his head toward the sun instead of answering me.
I let a minute slip past, then stood and gathered the picnic bas-
ket together.
“Where are you going?” He sat up.
“It’s probably been forty-five minutes.” I found the trail, my
eyes trying to focus on the ground, the sun hot on my back. “I’m
not sure this was really that helpful,” I called behind me. “I don’t
know anything about acting.”
He followed me down the path, so when I turned, trying to
still my heart, he almost crashed into me. I didn’t like him think-
ing he knew something about John. He didn’t know him. Or me.
And we weren’t some plot point in Parker’s stupid script. “I would
prefer we didn’t talk about my brother. That’s one of my rules.”
He put warm hands on my shoulders. “Okay, whoa.” A breeze
rustled the grasses around us. “Relax, okay?”
His hands sent a warm wash through me, and I held tight to the
basket as if it could steady me. Up close, I noticed that spicy scent
again from his trailer, and it struck me that you had to be really
near someone to smell them. Nearer than I wanted to be right
now. “You don’t know him.” I slipped out of his grasp and started
back down the path.
“Carter?” He called out to me, silhouetted against the bright sky.
“For what it’s worth, I know what it’s like to have people assume
they know you. In my experience, they’re almost always wrong.”
91
eight
downtown was the opposite of Little High; this time, the hum
came not from empty space but from the pressed-in bodies of hun-
dreds of people. Apparently, everyone from Little had shown up to
watch the filming and brought along about five extra friends. Mik
had trouble maneuvering the Range Rover around the throng at
the base of Gold Street, but finally, two men let us through a bar-
ricade and onto Main Street. At that point, they’d roped off the
sidewalks so the crowd wasn’t allowed onto the street.
As we moved up Main Street, I recognized two girls from my
Spanish class, half the football team, and Beckett Ray, Little High’s
own version of a movie star. Beautiful, out of touch with real life,
and a total pain in the butt. She often told people, “R-A-Y, like a
ray of light,” in that whispery, high voice of hers that was some sort
of Marilyn Monroe derivative. Now, she had her pale, willowy
legs planted in the street near Mountain Books — I could spot that
spill of black hair anywhere — chatting with a young police offi-
cer who had somehow decided the roped-off areas did not apply to
Beckett Ray.
When she saw me in the Range Rover, her mouth actually
dropped open. I’d never seen that before. Only read about it in
92
books. But her jaw went slack. I saw teeth. Her dark blue eyes fol-
lowed our passage up the street, her mouth never closing, and I
couldn’t help but smile. For the most part, I got along with pretty
much everyone, but something about Beckett Ray brought out the
dark bits in me and I wanted to start hurling knives. Ever since
she’d moved here in seventh grade, she didn’t miss an opportunity
to remind us she was just biding her time until she could get out
again. She hated Little, constantly told us what a prison sentence it
was to live here and how she couldn’t wait to leave for the real
world (aka Los Angeles), which seemed about as real to me as
Neverland. Once, in sophomore English, our teacher, Mr. Gomez,
pointed out that Shakespeare’s Dark Lady
can always count on me to make food a huge priority.” I cleaned up
our wrappers, stuffing them into the picnic basket.
He leaned back on his elbows. “I’m glad I didn’t end up having
to fake-date some starry-eyed idiot, speaking of boring. Not that
90
I’m glad your brother’s in trouble or anything, but at least you had
to take our offer.”
My skin iced over. “What do you know about my brother?”
He must have sensed the temperature change, deciding to tilt
his head toward the sun instead of answering me.
I let a minute slip past, then stood and gathered the picnic bas-
ket together.
“Where are you going?” He sat up.
“It’s probably been forty-five minutes.” I found the trail, my
eyes trying to focus on the ground, the sun hot on my back. “I’m
not sure this was really that helpful,” I called behind me. “I don’t
know anything about acting.”
He followed me down the path, so when I turned, trying to
still my heart, he almost crashed into me. I didn’t like him think-
ing he knew something about John. He didn’t know him. Or me.
And we weren’t some plot point in Parker’s stupid script. “I would
prefer we didn’t talk about my brother. That’s one of my rules.”
He put warm hands on my shoulders. “Okay, whoa.” A breeze
rustled the grasses around us. “Relax, okay?”
His hands sent a warm wash through me, and I held tight to the
basket as if it could steady me. Up close, I noticed that spicy scent
again from his trailer, and it struck me that you had to be really
near someone to smell them. Nearer than I wanted to be right
now. “You don’t know him.” I slipped out of his grasp and started
back down the path.
“Carter?” He called out to me, silhouetted against the bright sky.
“For what it’s worth, I know what it’s like to have people assume
they know you. In my experience, they’re almost always wrong.”
91
eight
downtown was the opposite of Little High; this time, the hum
came not from empty space but from the pressed-in bodies of hun-
dreds of people. Apparently, everyone from Little had shown up to
watch the filming and brought along about five extra friends. Mik
had trouble maneuvering the Range Rover around the throng at
the base of Gold Street, but finally, two men let us through a bar-
ricade and onto Main Street. At that point, they’d roped off the
sidewalks so the crowd wasn’t allowed onto the street.
As we moved up Main Street, I recognized two girls from my
Spanish class, half the football team, and Beckett Ray, Little High’s
own version of a movie star. Beautiful, out of touch with real life,
and a total pain in the butt. She often told people, “R-A-Y, like a
ray of light,” in that whispery, high voice of hers that was some sort
of Marilyn Monroe derivative. Now, she had her pale, willowy
legs planted in the street near Mountain Books — I could spot that
spill of black hair anywhere — chatting with a young police offi-
cer who had somehow decided the roped-off areas did not apply to
Beckett Ray.
When she saw me in the Range Rover, her mouth actually
dropped open. I’d never seen that before. Only read about it in
92
books. But her jaw went slack. I saw teeth. Her dark blue eyes fol-
lowed our passage up the street, her mouth never closing, and I
couldn’t help but smile. For the most part, I got along with pretty
much everyone, but something about Beckett Ray brought out the
dark bits in me and I wanted to start hurling knives. Ever since
she’d moved here in seventh grade, she didn’t miss an opportunity
to remind us she was just biding her time until she could get out
again. She hated Little, constantly told us what a prison sentence it
was to live here and how she couldn’t wait to leave for the real
world (aka Los Angeles), which seemed about as real to me as
Neverland. Once, in sophomore English, our teacher, Mr. Gomez,
pointed out that Shakespeare’s Dark Lady
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