I So Don't Do Famous Read online

“What’s happened to Grandma?” my mom asks, concerned.

  “Hip surgery,” Grandpa says.

  “Grandpa’s hanging out with her a bunch,” I say. “Still hoping she’ll make the connection that he’s no ordinary wren.”

  Grandpa shakes his little balding head to indicate that no, Grandma hasn’t figured out his true identity. My grandmother is all New Agey, with herbs and crystals and auras, but she can’t see Grandpa for who he really is.

  “I didn’t realize she was having surgery.” My mother sighs. “Some days life moves too quickly, and I feel that I’m missing out. Especially right now while I’m working for the foreign Academy.” Our branch jiggles. I bet my mom is sitting in her favorite position, one leg crossed over the other, her foot swinging back and forth. “Sherry, can you stay busy? With Junie? And try to keep your mind off Josh? Wallowing is not healthy.”

  I smack my forehead. I think this breakup is affecting my memory. “I have huge news. Huge California news!” I spill.

  “I am so proud of you!” my mom says, all enthusiastic.

  Grandpa’s beak opens, and out pours a long string of Russian-sounding syllables.

  I shrug. From the way his dark birdy eyes are flashing, I’m sure he said something enthusiastic too.

  “Grandpa believes that he and your grandmother helped you win because they’re an excellent example of true love,” Mom translates. “Obviously, true love is in your genes.”

  Nice to know, because at the moment it feels more like failed love is in my genes. I grimace inside.

  Grandpa flutters above me. He briefly places a tattered wing across his tiny feathered chest. “Back to Grandma.”

  I wave as he becomes a dark speck against the white moon.

  I turn to the space next to me. “Mom, guess where I’ll be staying? Three clues.” I extend a finger. “The year is 1929.” I hold up a second finger. “The address is 7000 Hollywood Boulevard.” I waggle a third finger. “The event is the Academy Awards.”

  “The Roosevelt Hotel!” My mother gasps. “What if your awards dinner is held in the Blossom Ballroom? My baby getting an award in the same room where the first Oscar was given out!” The branch shakes more. Her leg must be bouncing a mile a minute. “I have to be there.”

  “I want you to be there.” And now that I’ve said it aloud, I realize just how much I do want my mom to come to Hollywood. Some of my best memories are of watching the Academy Awards together. The two of us on the couch with a giant bowl of buttered popcorn, the TV blaring, our guesses written down in sealed envelopes on the coffee table.

  My hand clenches in excited anticipation.

  “And Marilyn Monroe’s ghost shows up in a mirror at the Roosevelt,” she says. “You know how long I’ve been fascinated by the mystery surrounding her death.”

  My elbow bends.

  “I’m sure the foreign Academy would love to tie up the loose ends on that case. Any academy would,” Mom says. “What if I approached the administration about working the Marilyn Monroe mystery? It wouldn’t exactly be a vacation for me, but I could attend your awards ceremony. We could hang out and do some touristy things together in Hollywood.”

  “Yes, yes, yes!” I punch the air with a victory fist.

  chapter

  five

  Things I do to get ready for Hollywood:

  •chores to earn extra spending money

  •shop for travel-sized shampoo, conditioner, deodorant, toothpaste; magazines and snacks for plane ride; swimsuit cover-up from Trendy’s

  •convince Brianna that we will not be constantly texting her our every move because we don’t have unlimited texting

  •give my brother explicit instructions on how to look after my fish

  •visit my grandmother

  Things I don’t do:

  •text Josh

  •phone Josh

  •see Josh

  •stop thinking about Josh

  Finally, it arrives—the day of our trip.

  The plane ride from Phoenix to LAX—Los Angeles International Airport—is short. Junie and I talk for the entire flight. My dad starts off reading a business book, but we’re barely in the air before his head is bobbing and his book tumbles to the pull-out tray table.

  The plane lands and we follow signs to the baggage area. While we’re waiting for the carousel to crank up, my dad pulls a packet of papers from the front of his carry-on. He slaps at his jeans pockets, trying to locate his reading glasses. “Let’s look at the information Paula typed up.”

  “Dad, seriously.” I watch for my bag as the carousel jerks to life. “Junie and I memorized the itinerary.”

  “Next is a limo ride to the hotel,” Junie says.

  We pull off our luggage, then head for the exit. Junie strides fast, which she can do easily, as her suitcase is the size of a tissue box. I’m a little worried that she didn’t pack enough clothes.

  We drag our bags through the automatic doors. It’s warm. It’s muggy. It’s noisy with honking horns and screeching cars.

  A hand on her forehead to shade her eyes, Junie scans the horizon. I dig through my purse for my new blingy sunglasses. My dad catches his breath.

  “Here it comes,” Junie sings out.

  Shining and gleaming in the California sun, a sleek black stretch limo glides up beside us.

  I run my palm along the fender. I thought I’d have to wait until my prom to snag a ride in a limo.

  Junie knocks on the front passenger’s window.

  The driver’s door yawns open, and a guy clambers out. A guy Amber would totally glom onto. He’s twentyish, with bleached-blond hair, a beach tan and mirrored sunglasses. He’s wearing a white T-shirt, cutoffs and flip-flops. This guy’s a WAB and a BUB all rolled into a cute California package.

  He holds up a piece of cardboard with one word on it: SHERRY. “This name apply to any of you?”

  “Me.” I give a half-wave.

  “Hollywood Girl sent me to take you to the Roosevelt.” He leans through the open door and presses a button to pop the trunk. “This your party?”

  “Yeah. My dad and my friend Junie.” I gesture with a shoulder.

  Dad sticks out an arm.

  “Hello, sir.” The chauffeur shakes my dad’s hand. “Welcome to the City of Angels. I’m Stephen.” He grabs our bags and swings them into the back of the vehicle.

  We hop in, scooting along the spotless white leather seats. Junie and I ooh and ahh over the adorable TV and the minibar.

  We’re barely buckled up when Stephen peels out into the airport traffic. Zooming away from a trail of horn blasts, we zip onto a freeway with about thirty different lanes, each one filled with vehicles speeding faster than their neighbors.

  Hello, California!

  And then we arrive at 7000 Hollywood Boulevard. The Roosevelt stands tall and white, with its name in block letters on the roof. We check in and ride the elevator up to the eighth floor and our adjoining rooms. Dad unlocks his door first. He drops into a corduroy chair like he’s arriving home from a grueling day at the office. With a yawn the size of the Grand Canyon, he stretches his arms up above his head. “I need to phone Paula and then make some business calls to set up meetings for the next few days.”

  And take a nap with ESPN on in the background, I think.

  “Do you girls want to watch cartoons or something in your room?”

  “Cartoons? Uh, Dad, we’re middle schoolers, not preschoolers?” And we’re on vacation in a hotel with a few resident ghosts and a load of movie-star history. A hotel that’s located right in the thick of things on Hollywood Boulevard. There will be no cartoons in our immediate future.

  “Actually, Junie and I want to scope out where the awards ceremony will be, find the pool and restaurants, and see if there’s a gift shop.”

  “Got it.” He yawns again. “Don’t leave the hotel grounds and stay in touch.” He picks up the remote.

  Junie and I take the elevator back to the lobby. By the check-in counter
is a white sandwich board announcing today’s various functions. We’re at the top of the list:

  6 p.m.: Blossom Ballroom

  Hollywood Girl Dinner and Awards

  (by invitation only)

  Across from the counter, there are groupings of coffee tables and overstuffed leather couches and chairs. We plop down at the side of the room. I stretch out on a wide chaise longue, crossing my legs at the ankles. My pink toenails wink in the dim light.

  Junie’s beside me, also reclining on a chaise longue. She hauls her backpack up next to her hip, tugs open the zipper and pulls out a spreadsheet. “I want to narrow down places we can visit while we’re here. Places I can write about, that is.” She gnaws on the end of her pen. “Definitely the attractions within walking distance, like Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, Madame Tussauds, the Walk of Fame and the Kodak Theatre.”

  “Those sound good,” I say. “And how about shopping on Rodeo Drive? Also, my mom mentioned Pink’s hot-dog stand. I’m salivating at the thought of a chili dog.”

  “It’s so cool that your mom’s coming out.” Junie looks up from her list. “When will she arrive?”

  I shrug. “In time for the awards dinner. That’s all I know.”

  Junie jots away in her no-nonsense cursive. “I want to write about some off-the-beaten-track places too.”

  “Not too off-the-beaten-track, though, right?” Sometimes I worry about Junie and how she doesn’t totally relate to the typical teen.

  She taps the pen on her thigh. “Well, like the Petersen Automotive Museum and the Museum of Neon Art.”

  “You might want to rethink that plan.” I hold my hand up like a stop sign. “I’m your target reader, and I have zero interest in reading about those places.”

  Junie juts out her chin. Just an inch or even less. But when you’ve been friends with someone for as long I’ve been friends with Junie, you can read all the body language. When Junie juts out her chin, she’s moving into stubborn mode. And once she’s in stubborn mode, there’s no budging her.

  Beep. She has a text.

  My chest tightens. Because only a few people text Junie: me, Brianna and Nick. It’s obviously not me. We’re supposed to text Brianna first so she doesn’t use up a bunch of our texts with boring stuff about her babysitting job. Which narrows it down to Nick. So, Junie’s relatively new boyfriend, Nick, is texting her. Nick, who sometimes hangs out with Josh!

  chapter

  six

  Junie reads her text message, smiles, then thumbs in a reply.

  “Is it Nick?” My heart speeds up. “What’d he say? Is he with Josh? How’s Josh?”

  “He’s not with Josh.” Junie looks at the floor.

  And that look speaks volumes. “But he was with Josh?”

  “How do you do that?” Junie stares at me. “It’s like you get inside my head.”

  “I don’t know exactly. I think partly it’s from hanging out with you for years and partly from learning to be an observant detective.” I fish in my purse for gum, slide out a piece, then toss the package at Junie. “So, what were Josh and Nick up to?”

  “Josh phoned Nick.” She hands the gum back to me, without taking a piece.

  “Because he’s überdepressed about breaking up with me and needed a friend to talk to?” I clasp a hand to my heart. “I almost feel a little sorry for him. It’s no fun going through a breakup.”

  Junie sits unmoving like the stone statue of the saguaro cactus in the courtyard at school.

  “Oh, I get it.” I unwrap the gum and pop it in my mouth. “He feels even worse now that we’re out here in California on the trip he gave up.”

  Junie closes her eyes.

  “What? What is it?”

  “Josh called Nick because the high-school water polo coach needed someone to videotape a few scrimmages,” she says softly.

  I slump down in my chaise longue, deflated like a day-old balloon. Josh isn’t überdepressed. He probably hasn’t wasted one fraction of one second missing me. I’d slide farther down the chair, but that would land me on the tile floor.

  “Josh hasn’t figured out yet what he’s lost.” Beside me, Junie slumps in sympathy. “But he will, Sherry. I just know it.”

  We sit in silence. I’m letting the waves of sadness wash over me, remembering my mother’s words about how this will pass and I’ll feel okay again.

  Trapped in my own little world, at first I don’t notice the two teen girls skipping around the lounge until one of them laughs loudly. They’re checking out all the little sitting areas.

  When they arrive at us, they stop. Both girls have chin-length brown hair, knit tank tops and short skirts. The kind of short skirt that’s against our school’s dress code. One of the girls has a ring through her nose and the cutest silver bracelet with a dog charm. The other has an eyebrow bar and lavender eye shadow. They’re wearing flip-flops with HOLLYWOOD HIGH SCHOOL stamped across the strap.

  They glance at Junie, smile vacantly, then turn to me.

  Eyebrow Bar Girl says, “Sherlock Baldwin?”

  “Uh, yes.” I scoot to a sitting position. These people do not look even remotely familiar.

  Nose Ring Girl squeals. “I can’t believe it’s actually you.” She punches Eyebrow Bar Girl in the arm. “It’s her. We found her. Yay us!”

  Junie’s forehead is creased with a thick line of confusion. These girls don’t look familiar to her either.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “Do I know you guys?”

  Nose Ring Girl’s eyes sparkle. “I’m Lorraine. I’m super happy to meet you.”

  “I’m Stef,” Eyebrow Bar Girl says.

  “How do you know Sherry?” Junie asks.

  “Sherry? So cute!” Lorraine’s eyes sparkle. “Does everyone call you Sherry? Not Sherlock?”

  “I only get Sherlock during roll call on the first day of school,” I say. “And when my parents are mad at me.”

  “Same for me with ‘Stefanie.’ ” Stef nods.

  “Why were you looking for Sherry?” Junie asks. She’s more suspicious of people, where I’m more open and friendly.

  “To say congratulations,” Stef says.

  “We love your essay about true love. Love it. Adore it. Dig it.” Lorraine tugs on the hem of her skirt.

  I don’t mention there isn’t enough material for that skirt to stay decent for any length of time. “Thank you.” I feel kind of floaty and rock-starrish.

  “I read the whole thing.” Lorraine beams. “And that’s saying a lot because I don’t read. Except for Dear Elle’s column.”

  “With your essay, it’s like you’re talking straight to my heart.” Stef taps her chest. “Direct, honest, real. You so know your stuff.”

  “Wow. Thanks.” I check my feet to make sure they’re still firmly on the ground. “I had to rewrite it a couple of times.”

  “And your photo?” Lorraine sighs. “Adorable. Great makeup.”

  “Thank you,” I say again. “I did it myself.” Who knew I’d have fans!

  “Sherry’s essay wasn’t on the Hollywood Girl website the last time I looked,” Junie says. “I wonder when they went live with it.”

  “Don’t have a clue.” Lorraine glances at Junie. “Sometime before lunch today. Because that’s when we read it.”

  “Guess what else was on the site, Sherry?” Stef says.

  “The scoop on Dear Elle’s diamond?” I feel my eyes go round like pizzas.

  “A purse with a diamond clasp!” Lorraine says. “First time she’s brought it out in public.”

  “It’ll be beyond beautiful,” I say.

  Lorraine hitches her purse up on her shoulder, then mimes opening it as if it had a huge diamond clasp. The dog charm on her bracelet dances and glints with her movements.

  “That bracelet is way cool,” I say. “Is it your dog?”

  “Oh no, I don’t have a dog.” Lorraine turns her wrist this way and that. “This is my absolute favorite piece of jewelry.”

  “Where’d
you buy it?” I ask. “I wonder if they have any with a fish charm.”

  “They don’t,” Stef says.

  “Did you get it near here?” I ask. “I could always check.”

  “She didn’t,” Stef says.

  “Online?” I ask.

  “No,” Stef says.

  What’s the deal with the bracelet? Maybe Stef bought it as a gift for Lorraine. And maybe she got it for really cheap, and she doesn’t want Lorraine to know.

  Pasted on Junie’s face is the look she gets when a math equation isn’t working out right. “Let me get this straight. You guys only came here looking for Sherry?” She lifts her shoulders. “What made you think she’d be here?”

  “Well, we knew from the magazine’s website that the awards are at the Roosevelt tonight,” Stef says. “So we guessed she’d stay in this hotel.”

  “And she looked super friendly in her photo,” Lorraine says. “And we’re down this way on Hollywood Boulevard a lot. So we took a chance and stopped by to say, ‘Hey, job well done!’ ”

  Junie’s frowning, not really buying it.

  It makes perfect sense to me.

  “I just wish we could see you get your award.” Lorraine sighs. Then she immediately claps a hand over her mouth.

  Stef rolls her eyes. “Sorry, Sherry. Sometimes Lorraine opens her mouth, and we don’t know what’ll fly out.” She glares at Lorraine.

  Why shouldn’t they come to the awards? They’re my first fans. I bet Dad brought the envelope with the tickets. Hollywood Girl sent enough for my family and one for Junie. So Lorraine and Stef could use The Ruler’s and Sam’s.

  “As it turns out, I have two extra tickets,” I say.

  “Uh, Sherry—” Junie starts to say.

  I cut her off with a wave. I know the tickets are for friends and family. But if I lived here, I’d be great friends with these girls.

  Lorraine and Stef gaze at me with big grateful eyes. “I could tell from your photo that you were generous,” Lorraine says.

  “More like crazy,” Junie mumbles under her breath.

  I only arrived in L.A. a few hours ago, and I’m already making friends and getting famous.