9

Hailey

Maybe I’m too blindly optimistic, but when the phone rang, I crossed my fingers, hoping it was my agent. I had left a message for her that afternoon, and thought maybe, just maybe, she was calling to let me know that one of the producers from All Our Tomorrows had called to renew my contract.

Did I mention that my thirteen-week contract was about to expire?

Did I mention that I can be a ball of insecurities at times? As in most of the time.

I grabbed the phone hopefully, but the caller ID flashed WISCONSIN. My parents—probably calling from the nearest dairy store, where they would be stocking up on tofu, sprouts, and fresh veggies. Sunflower seeds and nuts and vitamins came in ten-pound packs through the mail. Otherwise, my mother, Teddie, made her own yogurt and bartered for eggs from a nearby farmer. Dad was the canning expert, and whenever I was home I tried to stay out of the garage for fear I would touch something that had been sterilized or leave the wax out in the sun to melt or snitch a berry, which was a big no-no when Dad was ready to make jam.

“Hey, Mom,” I answered, wishing that they’d waited another few days for their weekly call. My folks didn’t have a phone at the house—Dad had gone there determined to escape the invasive pressures of society, of which telephones topped the list—and consequently, they called me once a week, when they ventured into one of the local stores for supplies.

“Hey, Bright Star! How’s it going?” It was Mom’s nickname for me, a play on the fact that I was named for the comet. Yes, Halley’s Comet. Part of that latent-hippie thing, but I always figured it could have been worse, and I might be trying to shed a name like Sunshine or Moonbeam.

“I’m fine,” I said.

There was a muffled sound, after which Mom said, “Your father wants to know if they called you about a new contract yet?”

That was the pattern of the weekly call. Mom took the lead, with Dad in the background, feeding her questions.

I bent one leg and stretched into the warrior pose. “Not yet. But I had a pretty hot scene with Antonio Lopez today, and I think someone at a store recognized me.”

“That’s so exciting!” Mom said.

She probably didn’t even know who Antonio Lopez was. How could she? My parents didn’t have a television in their home, another post–Wall Street career measure to cut off the stress of civilization. At the homes of relatives, they had seen videotapes of me playing Ariel in All Our Tomorrows, a phenomenon that probably reinforces their resolve to avoid televisions.

“How’s everything there?” I asked.

“Oh, fine. We got a new delivery of firewood, which will probably last us well into next winter. And before I forget, Sally Wallace’s daughter may call you. She’s headed off to New York to try the acting thing, so I gave her your number and told her you would show her the ropes. Her name is Jennifer.”

Great news: another aspiring actress named Jen who can screw up my latte order at Starbucks.

Mom went on about Jennifer’s family. Didn’t I remember the family with the four girls who used to canoe together on the lake? Dark hair, all of them, and their mom had moved to Wisconsin from Chicago?

Not a clue, but I pretended to recollect the Wallaces to move the conversation along. Which was a mistake, since she boomeranged back to the crucial questions: “When do you think you’ll hear about more work? How are you paying your bills?”

Beep! I was saved by call-waiting, flashing Alana’s cell number.

“Mom, I’ve got another call. Do you want to hold?”

“Oh, no, that’s OK. I’ll phone you again next week.”

After a quick good-bye, I clicked to Alana.

“Thank God you picked up,” she said, an oddly high pitch in her voice. “I need you now. Can you come?”

“What happened? Where are you?”

“I’m just outside Bon Nuit. Can you meet me here right away?”

“Sure.” I grabbed my Nine West heels. “But what are you doing there?” Wild thoughts flashed through my head: that Alana had returned to the store after I left an hour ago, that she’d decked the redheaded Marcella, that she’d been handcuffed by security and arrested ...

“I’ll explain when you get here. Meet me in cosmetics, at the Trenda counter.”

I grabbed a leather jacket, one ankle wobbling in its high heel as I snatched up my keys. Flying out the door, I tried to speculate about what could have happened to Alana.

With my imagination, that was dangerous territory.