people came with you when you decided to invade the set today?”
I was not about to turn Madison in. “Just me.”
“You’re lying.” He said this with an assurance that surprised me. Usually people couldn’t tell when I lied. “How many of your little friends do we have to round up—the truth this time.”
I didn’t answer him, even though he asked twice more.
This led the guards to have a minute-long conversation about how they needed to split up and continue searching the grounds. They decided the Polynesian guy would search through the trailers while the older guy stayed with me. He would stand guard outside the trailer so he could keep an eye out for other teenage encroachers and still make sure I didn’t run off.
Crew-cut opened the door and pointed inside. “Wait in there. And don’t touch anything. You don’t want to get yourself in more trouble than you’re already in.”
I turned away from them and walked up the steps into the Winnebago. The door shut behind me with a determined thud.
I guess I expected the inside of a star’s trailer to be glamorous. Maybe a hot tub, a fireplace, and a shelf full Of Oscars. Instead it looked like a cramped apartment.
The living room had built-in couches and a TV that pulled down from the ceiling. Behind it, cabinets lined a small kitchenette. A door stood behind the kitchen—probably leading into a bedroom and not outside. Mini blinds let light in through windows on either side of the walls. There was nothing glamorous about it.
The only really unusual thing about Steve Raleigh’s trailer was that it wasn’t empty. A middle-aged man sat on the couch directly in front of me.
Chapter 9
He looked nice enough, like a lot of people you’d walk by without giving much thought to. But he reminded me of a book: full of creativity inside. He stared down at his laptop, and I sensed him going through ideas like someone sorts madly through a laundry basket searching for a missing sock.
He looked up at me, deemed me unworthy of attention, and went back to typing.
“Um . . . who are you?” I asked.
His gaze stayed on the computer while his fingers clicked over the keys. “Jim Blasingame, one of the show writers. I’m waiting to talk to Steve about the next script. Who are you?”
“A nun who just got fired.”
“Oh.” He didn’t stop typing. “What are you doing here?”
“Don’t think I haven’t asked myself that question.” I sat down on the couch in front of him but glanced over my shoulder. I could see the back of the security guard standing by the side of the door.
When I returned my attention to Mr. Blasingame, he had stopped typing long enough to consider me, but then he shook his head. “Oh, never mind, I don’t really want to know. I need to finish this script. Will Steve be here soon?”
“Yes.”
He waved a hand in my direction. “Good. Then do whatever it is fired nuns do, quietly.”
The sound of his typing—and then almost obsessively pushing the delete button—filled the room.
I sat on the couch and pulled my knees up to my chin. I couldn’t believe it was going to end this way. I had worried I wouldn’t be able to speak to Steve Raleigh;
I had even considered the possibility that he wouldn’t help me, but I had never imagined myself trapped in his trailer waiting for the police to haul me away.
I wished I could cry. I might have even garnered some sympathy from the writer—or from Steve whenever he came back. I’m not sure where the body keeps its reservoir of tears, but as always mine wasn’t there. It had been dammed up, frozen over, drained. I only had a huge empty space I occasionally wandered around in, kicking up dust.
I sat for a while longer listening to the tap of the keyboard while the feeling of doom penetrated down to my bones. I wanted to say a prayer, but I wouldn’t. My last official prayer had been before Jeremy’s first MRI. I’d said, God, if you love me at all, even a little, you’ll make it
I was not about to turn Madison in. “Just me.”
“You’re lying.” He said this with an assurance that surprised me. Usually people couldn’t tell when I lied. “How many of your little friends do we have to round up—the truth this time.”
I didn’t answer him, even though he asked twice more.
This led the guards to have a minute-long conversation about how they needed to split up and continue searching the grounds. They decided the Polynesian guy would search through the trailers while the older guy stayed with me. He would stand guard outside the trailer so he could keep an eye out for other teenage encroachers and still make sure I didn’t run off.
Crew-cut opened the door and pointed inside. “Wait in there. And don’t touch anything. You don’t want to get yourself in more trouble than you’re already in.”
I turned away from them and walked up the steps into the Winnebago. The door shut behind me with a determined thud.
I guess I expected the inside of a star’s trailer to be glamorous. Maybe a hot tub, a fireplace, and a shelf full Of Oscars. Instead it looked like a cramped apartment.
The living room had built-in couches and a TV that pulled down from the ceiling. Behind it, cabinets lined a small kitchenette. A door stood behind the kitchen—probably leading into a bedroom and not outside. Mini blinds let light in through windows on either side of the walls. There was nothing glamorous about it.
The only really unusual thing about Steve Raleigh’s trailer was that it wasn’t empty. A middle-aged man sat on the couch directly in front of me.
Chapter 9
He looked nice enough, like a lot of people you’d walk by without giving much thought to. But he reminded me of a book: full of creativity inside. He stared down at his laptop, and I sensed him going through ideas like someone sorts madly through a laundry basket searching for a missing sock.
He looked up at me, deemed me unworthy of attention, and went back to typing.
“Um . . . who are you?” I asked.
His gaze stayed on the computer while his fingers clicked over the keys. “Jim Blasingame, one of the show writers. I’m waiting to talk to Steve about the next script. Who are you?”
“A nun who just got fired.”
“Oh.” He didn’t stop typing. “What are you doing here?”
“Don’t think I haven’t asked myself that question.” I sat down on the couch in front of him but glanced over my shoulder. I could see the back of the security guard standing by the side of the door.
When I returned my attention to Mr. Blasingame, he had stopped typing long enough to consider me, but then he shook his head. “Oh, never mind, I don’t really want to know. I need to finish this script. Will Steve be here soon?”
“Yes.”
He waved a hand in my direction. “Good. Then do whatever it is fired nuns do, quietly.”
The sound of his typing—and then almost obsessively pushing the delete button—filled the room.
I sat on the couch and pulled my knees up to my chin. I couldn’t believe it was going to end this way. I had worried I wouldn’t be able to speak to Steve Raleigh;
I had even considered the possibility that he wouldn’t help me, but I had never imagined myself trapped in his trailer waiting for the police to haul me away.
I wished I could cry. I might have even garnered some sympathy from the writer—or from Steve whenever he came back. I’m not sure where the body keeps its reservoir of tears, but as always mine wasn’t there. It had been dammed up, frozen over, drained. I only had a huge empty space I occasionally wandered around in, kicking up dust.
I sat for a while longer listening to the tap of the keyboard while the feeling of doom penetrated down to my bones. I wanted to say a prayer, but I wouldn’t. My last official prayer had been before Jeremy’s first MRI. I’d said, God, if you love me at all, even a little, you’ll make it
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