I So Don't Do Famous Page 17

  Josh and I say quick goodbyes and click off.

  Her head tilted to one side, Junie stares at me. “Somehow I don’t think that’s how Dear Elle would’ve handled the phone call.”

  “Here’s the deal, Junie,” I say. “I don’t think Dear Elle is such an outstanding love expert.”

  Junie watches me carefully.

  “I could’ve gotten better advice from my grandpa. He’s been with my grandma forever. He obviously knows something.”

  Junie’s still watching me.

  “Anyway, I have a ton on my plate right now.” I pop open the soda and sip. “Like what am I supposed to do if Stef texts me for the heist right when I’m sightseeing with my dad? I can’t just say, ‘Excuse me, Dad. Please drive me back to the hotel, where I’ll catch a ride with a teen burglary ring. I’m part of the sting operation to take them down.’ And what if the heist happens tomorrow evening during the Marilyn Monroe event?”

  Junie’s tongue pokes out between her lips. After a few minutes of intense concentration, she says, “There’s no point worrying whether the heist is planned for tomorrow evening. If it is, it is. And we’ll figure out at that time how you can sneak away from Mrs. Howard and your mom.” Junie sits next to me on the bed and we lean against each other, shoulder to shoulder.

  “But handling your dad?” She snaps her fingers. “Leave it to me.”

  chapter

  thirty-three

  The next morning my dad is up bright and early like a bird. He knocks on the adjoining door.

  Junie cracks the door. “Shhh. Sherry’s feeling under the weather.”

  “What? Sherry’s sick?” My dad peers in. “Is she still in bed?”

  We purposely left the lights off, and our room is dim.

  “She’s on the couch,” Junie says in a low voice. “For the day.”

  “For the day?” My dad shoulders open the door. “We’ll call Paula. She’ll know exactly what to do.” He fumbles in his pocket for his phone. “She’s amazing that way. Even long-distance.”

  “Paula can’t fix this,” Junie says. “Sherry talked to Josh last night. They’re, well, not getting along.”

  “Of course they’re not getting along. They’ve broken up.” He rubs his forehead. “Isn’t that the definition of ‘broken up’? Not getting along?”

  “She needs a day to own the heartache and process it.”

  “A whole day?” Dad’s so out of his league. “I want to take you girls shopping on Rodeo Drive.”

  I groan. I’m giving up shopping on Rodeo Drive!

  Dad comes over. “Are you okay, pumpkin?”

  “I’ll be fine,” I say hoarsely.

  “Would food help?” he asks. “A breakfast burrito from across the street?”

  “Definitely.” I sit straight up.

  “Sherry?” Junie rubs my back. Her eyes are wide, sending me a settle-down-be-less-enthusiastic message. “Maybe some food in an hour or so?”

  “Tell me what to do,” Dad says. “I can’t leave you in here for hours. Ginger ale? A thermometer? Read out loud to you?”

  “No, no, Dad. Don’t give up touristy fun in Southern California. Just because I need a day of depression.” I wipe under my eyes where tears would pool, if there were tears. “I’ll only feel worse if I rob you of a day too.”

  “Seriously, Mr. Baldwin, go do something cool. Otherwise, Sherry’ll end up taking two days of depression,” Junie says. “I’ll stay with her and catch up on my writing for the school paper.”

  “Really?” My poor dad looks completely confused, like he’s a gerbil trapped in a maze.

  Junie opens the adjoining door. “Did you know the Comedy Store is offering stand-up classes? Sherry would feel better if you did something like that.”

  “I would,” I say.

  “Really?” He shuffles through to his room. “I’ll leave my cell on loud. And I’ll call you every few hours.”

  “Bye, Dad. Love you.” I raise a hand and wave weakly. “Thanks for understanding about this day of depression.”

  I loll around for about an hour while Junie’s hunched over her keyboard.

  “Junie, I’m bored out of my mind,” I say. “Let’s go hang out at the pool and get something to eat.”

  “Sure. If you’re over your depression.” She giggles.

  We change into our bikinis. I grab the nail polish supplies. We manage to snag chaise longues again. We relax in the sun and do each other’s nails.

  My mom breezes in. “Where’s your dad?”

  “Taking stand-up comedy classes.” I roll over on my back.

  “Excellent!” my mom says. “He has such a great sense of humor.”

  “Uh, Mom”—I frown—“have you forgotten all his lame jokes?”

  She sighs. “No, Sherry, your dad’s humor is something I always appreciated about him.”

  Parents!

  After my mom takes off, Junie and I trek across the street to the Mexican place. I branch out and order a California burrito. It’s überdelicious with carne asada, cheese and fries.

  After lunch, Leah joins us. We order a comedy movie to the room, which she watches and actually laughs at. After she leaves, Junie and I nap and text back and forth with Brianna. All in all, it’s a mucho enjoyable day.

  Finally, I’m dozing off for a second nap around three o’clock, when my phone pings with a text from Stef.

 

  It’s on.

  chapter

  thirty-four

  I call Detective Garcia. “They want me in the parking lot in fifteen minutes.”

  “Be careful,” she says tersely.

  I change into a cute dog-walking outfit: denim shorts, patterned red-and-blue T-shirt with scoop neck, sandals.

  I toss my phone back in my purse, redo my mascara, then open the hotel room door. I stick my nose out into the hall, sniffing like an anteater. No root beer gloss.

  Junie and I stride to the elevator. Everything about me is alert. I’m like an appliance, plugged in, always on, with a low buzz.

  Downstairs, we separate. Junie goes to the sitting area in the lobby. I push open the glass doors to the parking lot and step into the hot sun and an undercover sting.

  A shiny gray van pulls up. A magnet sign on the passenger door reads BEVERLY HILLS POOL SERVICE. The side door slides open. I enter.

  I briefly think about how my dad would kill me if he knew I was getting into this van. But at least Detective Garcia has my back.

  Alone at the front, David’s got the wheel. “Grab a seat and buckle up.”

  Lorraine and Stef sit on the middle bench. A small black poodle lies at their feet.

  I plunk down in the back, next to Taylor. She hooks a strand of purple hair behind her ear, gives me the briefest of nods and stares out the window.

  “Hi, Sherry,” Lorraine says. “Adorable shirt.”

  “Thanks.” She and Stef are in jeans, two layers of tank tops, and sneakers. They must coordinate their outfits every day. Taylor is also wearing jeans, but with a solid black crew-neck T-shirt.

  We take off from the parking lot at a normal speed. Everything about this operation is normal. It’s all about not sticking out and calling attention to ourselves: a clean pool-company van keeping to the speed limit with non-scruffy passengers seat-belted in. These guys are pros.

  The poodle rubs against my legs. “What’s your name?” I lean over and scratch her neck.

  “Dorothy,” Taylor answers in a monotone, still gazing out the window.

  Dorothy jumps up beside me and lies down. Obviously, she’s attracted to noncriminals.

  In Beverly Hills, I recognize a few of the streets and houses from the tour. We approach the hill leading up to Kira Cornish’s house. My hand grips the edge of the seat. This is it.

  David clicks on his signal. And turns in the opposite direction!

  “Excuse me,” I call out. “You just missed the turn to Kira Cornish’s.”

  “Kira’s at home,”
Lorraine says. “Word is she’s got the stomach flu.”

  “More like cosmetic surgery,” Taylor mutters.

  “We’re hitting Sarah Sutherland’s instead,” Stef says.

  Ack! Eek! Ike! I’m trapped in a van with David and his teen thieves! And Detective Garcia is headed to the wrong location!

  I take a deep breath. I’ll call the detective when I’m walking Dorothy. Everything will be fine. Everything is still on track. So why is my heart pounding?

  David cuts the engine by the curb of a large two-story white stucco house. It has fat round columns and a couple of armless statues in front.

  He turns around. “Pass me your cells, girls.”

  Lorraine, Stef and Taylor act like this is no big deal, just your run-of-the-mill procedure for heist day.

  “Sherry, your cell.” David holds out his hand.

  “But I need mine,” I say, trying not to look as nervous as I feel. “Remember? I’m the dog walker. I have to call you if I see something suspicious.”

  David unzips his backpack, tosses in the girls’ phones and pulls out three walkie-talkies.

  “Give me your phone, Sherry,” he says in a no-nonsense voice. Negotiations are obviously not his strong suit.

  I have zero choice. I pass the phone to Stef, who passes it to David. My phone, which has Detective Garcia’s name and number in it. Plus, she was my last call.

  “No cells because I don’t want anyone taking photos in the house. Next thing I know, they’ll be plastered all over the Internet,” David says. “Here’s a walkie-talkie for inside the house.” He tosses one to Stef. “A walkie-talkie for the van.” He places one on the dash. “And a walkie-talkie for the dog walker.” He tosses the last one to Taylor.

  Ack! Eek! Ike! “But I’m the dog walker,” I say.

  David gestures with his shoulder to Stef. “Tell her to shut up.”

  “Taylor convinced David it’s her turn to walk the dog.” Stef’s large round eyes tell me to quit making comments.

  A little smile sneaks onto Taylor’s face.

  I have no cell. The heist is at a different location. I’m off dog-walking duty. I don’t even know exactly what I am doing now. Other than breaking into a house and robbing it. I’ll be back in the limelight on the World Wide Web for the Dead. The Academy will hate me forever and never let me work with my mom again. I literally feel all the blood drain from my face. What else can go wrong?

  My cell phone rings.

  David throws me my cell. “Answer it on speakerphone.”

  I’m shaking.

  “Hi, Sherry. It’s Sam.”

  My little brother, who rarely calls me, couldn’t have picked a worse time.

  “Hey, Sam,” I say. “Can I call you back later?”

  “Act normal,” David whispers. “Talk for a minute.”

  “Sherry, I’m really sorry. But I don’t know what to do about your fish. They’re acting crazy. I swear I didn’t overfeed them.” Sam’s talking fast and nervous.

  “What’re they doing?”

  “I think they’re gonna kill each other.” Sam’s voice chokes.

  “What’re they doing?” I repeat.

  “They’re going after each other,” Sam says. “Paula called the pet store, but they didn’t have any advice for us.”

  David makes a cutting sign across his throat. “Enough,” he whispers. “Tell him they’re just fish and end the conversation.”

  “They’re just fish, Sam. I’ll call back.”

  There’s stunned silence from Sam. “They’re just fish?”

  “They’re just fish. Bye.” Freaking out, freaking out, freaking out.

  David snaps my phone shut. He throws a leash to Taylor. “Do your thing.”

  She clips the walkie-talkie to her waistband, then hooks the leash around Dorothy’s collar and squeezes by me. Through the van’s windshield, we watch her sashaying down the street, letting Dorothy sniff here and there.

  An older woman with silver hair and a cane hobbles toward her. They chat. Taylor points to Sarah Sutherland’s house and to the van, then holds Dorothy for the woman to pat. I’ve never seen Taylor so animated. Completely different from how she was at the library and in the van. She’s a good actor.

  After the woman limps off, Taylor’s voice crackles in on the walkie-talkie. “The coast is clear.”

  “Stef and Lorraine, I want you to find a painting of a silver mine. Should be a decent size. It’s worth a mint,” David says. Then he reels off two other artists’ names that are meaningless to me. “Those paintings are worth something too. Although the silver mine painting?” He gives a low whistle.

  “Sherry, you locate a key, then pick up electronics like laptops and iPads.” David hands us all disposable gloves, which we pull on immediately. “There’s no security system,” he says. “When Taylor scoped out the place this morning, the side door was unlocked. Try that first. If it’s locked, go through a back window.” He points. “Pile the stuff outside the side door. I’ll pull into the driveway for fast loading.”

  He looks at me. “If I give a signal on the walkie-talkie that you gotta get out, you obey. Pronto. You get caught in Sarah Sutherland’s house? Well, just think of how famous you’ll be back in Phoenix.”

  “But I so don’t do famous,” I wail.

  David frowns, then jerks his head at me, Lorraine and Stef. “Go!”

  I plod up the drive, several steps behind Lorraine and Stef. The side door is open and we scoot in.

  The ground floor is a huge living room, a huge dining room, a huge kitchen and a huge bathroom. I stand in the living room, in the middle of rich.

  Lorraine pockets a small wooden elephant from the metal and glass coffee table. “Love this.”

  “Let’s start on the top floor,” Stef says to her.

  “Look around on this level for a key,” Lorraine says to me. “Maybe in the kitchen.”

  They skip up the stairs, chattering like they’re at the mall on a shopping trip.

  “Sarah’s most recent movie was Baltimore Blues, right?” Stef says.

  “Yeah,” Lorraine says.

  “ ’Cause she looked like about our size in that flick,” Stef says. “I could use some new jeans.”

  My hands shoved deep in my pockets, I walk from the living room to the dining room to the kitchen to the bathroom and back to the living room. I can’t bring myself to touch a thing. It’s so weird to be in a movie star’s house. On the end table by the couch is a copy of Dear Elle’s book. In the kitchen, there’s the same kind of light green juice glass that we have at home. Maybe celebrities are just like ordinary people.

  The more I wander around, the more nauseated I feel. This really sucks. A burglary is going down. And I’m in the middle of it. Without my cell, I can’t contact Detective Garcia or Junie or my dad for help. And I promised Mrs. Howard and my mother that I wouldn’t get involved with this case. I’ll be dead meat with the Academy.

  “Did you find a key yet, Sherry?” Stef calls from the landing at the top of the stairs.

  I look up. “No.”

  “Get on it!” Stef says. “We need you. A couple of these paintings are too heavy for just Lorraine and me.”

  She’s holding the edge of a picture frame. Two stairs below her, Lorraine’s hanging on to the bottom half of the painting. “Come on, Lorraine. You know how impatient David gets,” Stef says.

  Lorraine’s walking backward. “This isn’t easy, Stef. The floor’s slippery.”

  “Sherry, get up here and help,” Stef orders.

  I brush my gloved hands against my shorts, take a deep breath and start climbing.

  Lorraine’s left foot dangles in the air, between stairs. Her toe draws circles, trying to find solid ground. She teeters, listing.

  “Sherry!” Stef yells.

  I bound up, two steps at a time.

  At the last second, Lorraine catches her balance. But she pulls hard on the frame, yanking the picture from Stef’s grip.

 
The painting spins from Lorraine’s fingertips.

  Toward me.

  I reach out my arms. The painting lurches at me. My left hand makes contact with the frame. My fingers curl and hang on tight. My right hand misses the edge and hits the canvas.

  Rip!

  My hand goes through.

  Lorraine and Stef arrive on the stair above me. They pull the picture off my arm.

  They stare at the ruined painting, their mouths open and their skin greenish.

  “David’s going to go ballistic,” Lorraine whispers.

  “Idiot!” Stef says. “You tore through the middle of the mine shaft. You destroyed a priceless painting.”

  “We can’t give it to him in this condition,” Lorraine says. “Let’s put it back in the room where we found it and tell him it just wasn’t here.”

  Stef frowns. “He’ll hear about it on the news or something. Our best bet is to tell him the truth. Sherry wrecked the painting.”

  A shiver snakes through me, like someone injected ice water in my veins. “It wasn’t really my fault.”

  “It was an accident, Stef.” A thin blue vein beats against Lorraine’s pale neck. “You know what David’ll do.”

  “My point exactly.” Stef’s lips are a grim line. “That’s why we’re throwing her to the dogs.”

  “Sorry, Sherry,” Lorraine whispers. She really does look sorry.

  Stef and Lorraine cart the picture downstairs and out through the side door.

  “What are we supposed to do now?” Lorraine says, reentering the house. “No way we can carry those last two paintings down by ourselves.”

  “She has to help,” Stef says. “Sherry, if we get the paintings down the stairs without messing up, we’ll ask David to go easy on you.”

  “Like I have any choice,” I mutter.

  “That’s true.” Stef starts up the stairs. “You don’t.”

  Stef and I follow. At the top, we hang a right and head down a long hall to an almost empty office. There’s a desk and a chair and a couple of paintings leaning against the wall, waiting to be hung.

  Taking baby steps, the three of us maneuver the largest painting all the way down the stairs without mishap. We prop it outside, by the door, and trudge back inside for the last painting. I think we’re all sweating.