I So Don't Do Famous Page 12

  “You’re so picky,” Junie says. “I’ll eat yours if you don’t want it”

  I Google Kira Cornish. “Junie, Kira Cornish is a humongous fan of Pink’s hot-dog stand. It’s the place she’s most spotted by the paparazzi. She even has a hot dog named after her.”

  “And?” Junie says.

  “The other day, Lorraine and Stef showed up here out of the blue. Just hoping to meet me,” I say. “Maybe they’ll do something similar to Kira Cornish. Basically hang out at Pink’s and wait to see if she makes an appearance.”

  “And then would they talk to her?” Junie munches on my taco. “Ask her what she has worth stealing?”

  I shrug. “It’s a long shot. But it’s all I have right now. Plus, I’m hungry. Are you coming?”

  “I ate my taco and part of yours. I’ll go with you just for the detecting part, though,” Junie says. “Although, you shouldn’t have a hot dog either. You know what’s in them, right?”

  I plug my ears. Some mysteries are better left unsolved.

  Junie stands. “I feel so gross after lying outside. I’m taking a shower before I go anywhere.”

  “I’ll text my dad about Pink’s,” I say. “We already talked about going together.”

  I pull out my phone and tap in a message.

 

  Then I sit down at the desk with nail polish for a touch-up. My dad’s the slowest texter in the West. I’m unscrewing the cap when my phone pings with his reply. Junie hasn’t even found her shampoo and conditioner yet.

 

  He must be starving. He’s never texted that fast in his life. I’ll do my nails later. I read the text to Junie.

  “Just go with your dad,” she says. “I can veg here. You guys could use some time together.”

  I head to the hotel parking lot and am reclining in one of the leather couches by valet parking, when Dad slowly noses in and stops by the curb. At the speed of a bicycle, we drive to La Brea and Melrose.

  “Sherry, this is one of your best ideas,” Dad says, glancing over his shoulder for the fifth time before changing lanes. “I haven’t had a hot dog in months.”

  Not since he married The Ruler and her health-food ways. He turns right into Pink’s, and we leave the car with valet parking. Yes, valet parking at a hot-dog stand!

  We join the ordering line on the sidewalk. I keep an eye peeled for limos.

  “Let’s eat inside,” I say. “Follow me.” I balance my tray with a Grape Crush and a twelve-inch Kira Cornish dog, which comes with relish, chopped tomatoes and bacon.

  I find a table for two next to the wall. We’re seated by rows of signed black-and-white photos of celebrities who have eaten at Pink’s. It’s like eating lunch while a bunch of celebrities stare at you. Of course, Kira Cornish’s photo is up.

  Across from me, Dad’s eyeing his order and rubbing his hands. His dogs are coated in bright orange nacho cheese, lumpy chili and sauerkraut. His onion rings glisten with grease. His bottle of Strawberry Crush sweats blobs of moisture. His grin couldn’t be wider.

  Dad takes a bite, then wipes his chin. He swallows. “This is the best hot dog I’ve had in my life. And that’s saying a lot.” Dad picks up an onion ring and waves it at me. “Feel free to help me eat these.” Closing his eyes, he chomps down. “Did I ever tell you about the time I won a hot-dog-eating contest at summer camp?”

  “Yeah. And you were sick and throwing up for two days after, right?” I point at his tray of fat and cholesterol.

  “What?” He follows my finger. “Don’t worry. This is nothing your old man can’t handle.”

  “Are you going to try to beat Orson Welles’s record?” I nibble at my dog. Überyum.

  “Orson Welles? What record?”

  “For the most dogs eaten in one sitting at Pink’s. Eighteen!”

  “I don’t think so. That’s over my limit.” Dad laughs. “How do you know that odd little fact?”

  “Mom,” I say simply.

  And that word, “Mom,” hangs like a curtain between us. She doesn’t come up much in our conversations. Certainly not nearly as much as I’d like her to. I want to hear the old stories over and over so that Sam and I don’t forget them. Stories like the year I pulled down the Christmas tree, or when I cut Sam’s hair, or when Sam cooked the plastic play food in my Easy-Bake Oven.

  But the word “Mom” sends my dad’s eyes flitting back and forth.

  At least, usually it does. But today, he nods. “Your mother had a head full of Hollywood trivia, didn’t she?”

  “Yeah, she was like a walking encyclopedia of it.”

  “Remember the year she threw an Oscar party and everyone came dressed up?” Dad says. “Then, before the ceremony started, she handed out ballots so we could vote on all the categories.”

  “There was a piece of red carpet running down the walkway to our front door.” I have this very vague memory.

  “It was a great party,” Dad says. “And your mom was the star of it.”

  “Grandpa played his accordion and sang songs in German, right? And Grandma danced me through the house?”

  “That’s the way it happened.” He smiles.

  The two of us sit in silence, eating and drinking in the warm glow of a connection.

  Dad breaks the cozy silence. “So, uh, how’re you feeling about things with Josh?”

  At a different time and in a different place, I’d shut him down at this point. What teen girl talks to her dad about a broken heart? But today is special. Maybe because it’s the two of us and we just tripped down memory lane about Mom. Plus we’re far from home and we’re indulging in a meal only we would eat. The feeling of awkwardness between us is gone.

  “I’m sad. It hurts. Then sometimes I forget about how Josh and I are broken up. Then I’ll see something that reminds me of him and it’s like getting knocked over by a bus. Onto a road of spikes.”

  “That’s heartache,” Dad says. “I don’t have any advice. But I can tell you time heals.”

  “Is that how it is for you with Mom?”

  He sets his hot dog down. “Sherry, I will always love your mother. Always. I still miss her. I avoid eating at Tio Roberto’s because it makes me feel bad. But even with all the memories of your mom, I can love Paula too.”

  “If you could talk to Mom, is there anything you’d tell her?” I ask.

  Dad stares into the distance. “There are lots of things I’d like to tell her. I’d bring her up-to-date on you kids. How well you’re both doing.” He coughs. “I’d like her to know how much our life together meant to me. How I still take her opinions into consideration when I’m making decisions for you and Sam.” He swallows. “I hope she’d be happy with the way I’ve handled things since her death.”

  A huge lump sits in my throat. “I’m sure she’d be happy with you, Dad.” I think back to the idea I had at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre when my mom was asking about my dad. My parents would so benefit from five minutes of Real Time. Five minutes where they could talk face to face.

  There’s a strained silence. Dad forces a laugh. “Love is a strange business. No doubt about it.”

  “I hear you,” I say.

  “Sherry, you’re really a terrific person. A wonderful daughter. A great big sister.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “I’m not just saying this because you’re my daughter.” Dad picks up an onion ring. “I liked Josh. Thought he was a nice kid. But he’s obviously an idiot. And there will be plenty of other boys.” He frowns. “Way in the future. Maybe wait ten or twenty years.”

  I shake my head and smile.

  “Hey, did I tell you the joke I heard the other night about the traveling accountant?”

  He did, but I let him tell it again.

  “You okay for a minute, Dad? I want to ask the staff a few questions. For Junie’s article.”

  “Definitely.” He waves me away from the table. “This plac
e should be featured in the school paper. How many hot-dog stands are around for over seven decades? And cater to both the stars and the riffraff.”

  I walk up to the cashier. There’s a lull in business, and he’s free to talk.

  “I was hoping to bump into Kira Cornish,” I say. “Does she come here pretty often?”

  “Maybe once a month,” he says. “Did she have a new movie release? Two other girls asked me about her earlier today.”

  The hairs on my arms jump to attention. “Did one girl have an eyebrow bar and the other a nose ring?”

  “Haven’t got a clue,” he says.

  The girl behind him who’s filling up the fridge with bottles of soda says, “Troy, seriously? Do you go through life with your eyes shut? Yes, they did. They practically looked like twins. They both had brown hair, and it was the exact same length. To their chins.”

  Troy shrugs. “I don’t remember any of that.”

  The girl sighs. “Do you remember that you told them to go on the tour of the stars’ homes if they want to catch sight of Kira Cornish’s awesome digs?”

  chapter

  twenty-three

  My dad’s upstairs in his room, lying down and sipping on Alka-Seltzer.

  Junie, my mom and I are at the concierge’s desk.

  “Three—I mean, two—tickets for a tour of the stars’ homes,” I say. This tour was so meant to be. My mother had already suggested the tour for the three of us. And now I’m hoping it’ll help me figure out what Lorraine and Stef are plotting.

  “Air-conditioned van or open-top minibus?” the concierge asks.

  “Whichever one goes past Kira Cornish’s house,” I say.

  “Kira Cornish?” my mom says. “Since when did you become a fan of hers?”

  “Very recently,” I say.

  “Pardon?” the concierge says, alternately staring at me and his computer screen.

  “We’re interested in seeing Kira Cornish’s house,” Junie says.

  “Only one company’s allowed up that particular street. Starline, the company that runs the open-top van.” The concierge’s fingers fly across his computer keyboard. “Let’s see if they have seats available. The van only holds ten. And they pick up from other hotels too.”

  “How come other tour buses can’t go on that street?” I ask.

  “The residents complained. The other companies weren’t strict enough, and there were incidents involving trespassing and cameras with zoom.”

  “How disrespectful,” my mom says.

  “Got it!” the concierge says. “These are the last two tickets.”

  Junie and I unzip our purses and pull out money.

  “You’ll be glad you chose this tour, even though the ride’s a little rougher.” He sticks his hand out by the printer to grab our tickets. “Vista Drive ends at the top of a hill with a great panoramic view. You can get out, look around. Just stay away from private property. We don’t want Starline to lose their privileges too.”

  We shove the tickets in our pocket and tramp out to the parking lot to wait.

  When the minibus arrives, I give the passengers a once-over. No Lorraine or Stef.

  We bump along over to Beverly Hills, the sun beating down on our heads. I’m queasy from the exhaust of the other vehicles on the road. Junie and I have to scream to hear each other over the street noise and the minibus’s growling engine.

  “I’m hot,” Junie says. “Are freckles popping out all over my face?”

  “No.” I grab my roiling stomach.

  “The breeze is beautiful,” Mom says.

  The driver keeps up a running monologue. We pass two-story houses and one-story houses, houses with arches, palm trees, wide leafy trees, lots of green lawns and fancy cars. He slows down and even stops so we can snap lots of photos. With his microphone, he calls out homeowners’ names and tidbits of information, like movies they’ve been in or how long they’ve lived in the house and the names of previous occupants.

  All very interesting if you’re in a comfortable ride with air-conditioning.

  “I’m gonna suggest they überdiscount this tour to make up for the discomfort,” I say. “I’ll be lucky if I don’t throw up.”

  “I’ll be lucky if I don’t turn into a beet.” Junie’s shielding her face with her notebook.

  “I can’t wait to see Jane Russell’s house,” my mom says. “She and Marilyn Monroe were friends.”

  We’re chugging higher and higher up a steep hill. The driver pulls over to the side and idles whenever a vehicle appears behind us. “Sorry, folks. I know this slows down the tour. But the residents have been getting vocal, and we’re the last company still allowed in this neighborhood.” We lurch the rest of the way up.

  I’m hanging over the side, clutching my stomach.

  Junie’s crouching down to avoid the rays.

  At the top, the driver parks, then stands and faces us, his back against the dashboard. “On the right we have Kira Cornish’s humble abode.” He opens his arms wide. “On the left is Jane Russell’s house. Jane Russell costarred with Marilyn Monroe in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. Ms. Russell has a second house in the Central Valley, and spends most of her time there.”

  “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Marilyn Monroe hangs out here. Think of the peace and quiet,” my mom says, all perky. Obviously the harrowing, stinky, jerky ride has been no hardship for her.

  The nanosecond the driver opens the side door, I bolt out, gasping for fresh air and stable ground.

  Junie is close on my heels. “I’m not feeling so good either,” she moans.

  “Remember, folks, you’re free to take photos of the homes and the view,” the driver says. “But no playing amateur paparazzi. Absolutely no trespassing.”

  “The ‘no trespassing’ rule does not apply to me.” My mom giggles like she’s our age again and at a slumber party. “Fingers crossed, girls, that there’s a sign of Marilyn Monroe here.” The scent of coffee briefly hovers above me, then wafts away.

  “No littering.” The driver continues on with his list of rules. “We don’t want to lose access to this hilltop.”

  “What a horrible tour.” Junie stumbles behind me. “I won’t be recommending it in the school paper.”

  When we get to the grass, she slumps down, sitting cross-legged, and wipes the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand. “I feel like my brains are going to explode.”

  The other passengers step around us. They’re oohing and ahhing about the view. They frown at us like we’re poor sports.

  I take a deep breath. “Actually, Junie, now that I’m off that death trap of a minibus, I’m feeling a little better.” I stretch out my arms and legs. “Although my thighs are still tingling unpleasantly from the vibrating seats.”

  “Go scout out the place. Take some photos with your phone of Kira Cornish’s house.” The hair around Junie’s face is damp and wispy. “I’m not moving.” She closes her eyes. “Don’t do anything dumb, Sherry.”

  I don’t even dignify that with a response. I’m a detective. A professional detective, except for the getting paid part. At this moment, though, I’m a detective without a real plan.

  I meander over to Kira Cornish’s one-story stucco house and stand at the foot of the driveway. A black wrought-iron fence surrounds the property.

  I glance over my shoulder. The guide and the rest of the tour group are across the wide street at Jane Russell’s house. He’s yakking away, his arms gesticulating like a windmill.

  I walk to the side of Kira Cornish’s house. I’m standing on rubble, completely still, staring at the house, at the low hedge snaking around to the back.

  A pudgy brown bunny hops past me, then stops and balances on his haunches, his nose twitching. He scampers off, disappears from my view, then seconds later is in front of me but on the other side of the fence. I follow his trail. The fence curves around the property, then suddenly ends. I could walk right into Kira Cornish’s backyard.

  If I were cra
zy enough to ignore the warnings from the concierge and the bus driver and even Junie. Which I’m not.

  I take a step closer to the last post.

  Nothing’s moving. Not even a leaf or a blade of grass. Then the bunny bounces down an embankment in the backyard.

  And out of sight.

  In the distance, I can hear the tour guide’s voice. “Folks, see all the agapanthus at the front of Kira Cornish’s house? Those are Kira’s favorite flowers. Word has it that these were transplanted from her mother’s garden down in San Diego.”

  From below the embankment, there’s a squeal. “Stef, look, isn’t that the cutest bunny in the world?”

  chapter

  twenty-four

  Lorraine and Stef are out of sight, at the bottom of the embankment in Kira Cornish’s backyard!

  The tourists and tour guide are still at the front of the house and out of sight.

  Junie is back near the bus and out of sight.

  My heart is in my throat.

  I make a split-second decision.

  Fast as a speeding comet, I streak around the end of the fence. I leap down the embankment. Yikes. It’s steeper than I expected. Thud. I trip. I roll. Thud. I come to a halt by a pair of flip-flops. Hollywood High flip-flops.

  The bunny bolts.

  Lying on my back, I look up and wave. “Hi, Lorraine!” I shield my eyes with my other hand. “Hi, Stef!” This situation is going to take all the pluck I can muster.

  I stand slowly, checking for broken bones. Then I brush off the dirt. “Thought I’d find you two here.”

  Their jaws hang open.

  “How’d you find us?” Stef finally gets her mouth back in gear.

  “A little clue here, a little clue there,” I answer. I smile, all friendly and best friends. I pretend like the whole use-me-for-tickets-to-pull-off-a-purse-heist thing never happened.

  “I can see how you won the essay contest,” Lorraine says. “You really are smart.”

  “I am,” I say. “And you know what else I am?”

  “A gymnast?” Lorraine says, pointing at the hill.