Starstruck. Lauren Conrad
been the best student. As Carmen listened to her friend rooting around in the cupboards and drawers, she wished, under her breath, that Fawn would get a break one of these days. Her voice-over work was paying the bills, but Fawn wanted to be seen. Maybe if she made it past Trevor’s edit, someone would notice her.
“These Cheerios expired last year,” Fawn called. “Also, I don’t get this fat-free half-and-half crap. It’s half what, and half what else? Just drink the coffee black, for God’s sakes.”
Alexis looked up at Carmen from the floor, where she was adjusting the cuff of the leggings. “If you don’t get her out of here in the next minute, I am going to throw her out the window.”
Looking into Alexis’s fiery black eyes, Carmen could almost believe this.
“Hey, Fawn,” she called. “I sort of have to deal with this now. Want to meet later?”
“Always,” Fawn said, coming into the room with a handful of Zone bars. “You don’t mind if I take these, do you?”
“No,” Carmen said. “I don’t. If I want to wear these costumes without passing out, I’m going to need to eat air for the next few weeks. Air and lettuce.”
“Don’t lose more than three pounds,” Alexis said sternly. “Or I’m going to have to do this all over again.”
Having this costume fitting had seemed so glamorous until Carmen was actually in the middle of it. In reality, it was about as pleasant as a trip to the dentist.
“I won’t,” she whispered.
“That’s what I want to hear,” Alexis said. Then she smiled, and it was like being smiled at by a spider.
“Later,” Fawn called. She let herself out, but then poked her head back inside. “Oh, and those leggings you’re in now? I swear I saw it on that guy over on Robertson who wears Rollerblades and carries a boom box on his shoulder.”
Carmen raised her hand as if to wave good-bye to Fawn, but instead she gave her the finger.
“Kisses!” Fawn called, and then she was gone.
Carmen shook her head in amusement. It was appropriate that she worked in entertainment, because she certainly knew a lot of characters.
Madison sat in the parking lot of Lost Paws, sipping the cooling dregs of her nonfat latte and gazing grimly at the dirty white building in which she would be spending three hundred court-ordered hours. Its paint was stained and peeling; steel bars covered its small windows. On the other side of its chain-link fence was a mini-mart (Slushees only fifty-nine cents!) and a dingy-looking Laundromat. It was a Southern California no-man’s-land—a place of barren streets and merciless sun.
Her phone buzzed on the seat next to her. ICED COFFEES BY THE POOL LATER—YOU IN?
The text was from Kate. Madison appreciated how she reached out now and then—her concern seemed genuine (unlike, say, Sasha’s). But Madison would not be joining Kate in the sun this afternoon. For one thing, she had to walk dogs all day, or whatever one did at a shelter. And for another, Madison didn’t want to encourage a real friendship with Kate. She might be tempted to confide in her then, which was an obvious no-no. Madison couldn’t afford to look back; she had to keep looking forward.
But the view forward was so depressing! Seagulls picked at little hills of trash while airplanes, descending into LAX, rumbled and roared overhead. She glanced down at her Rag & Bone skinnies, her Miu Miu top, and last year’s black Chanel flats. She thought she’d dressed down, but no: She didn’t even have the clothes in her closet to dress this far down.
Madison figured that working with the animals wouldn’t be too bad—even in a dump like this—but she wished it didn’t have to be filmed. Because every second Trevor showed Madison being punished was another second that the Fame Game viewers got to judge her. Or label her a criminal. (Or see her in an old pair of shoes!)
She’d asked Trevor if he could skip filming the whole community-service business, and he had laughed.
“Madison Parker asking not to be filmed?” he said, leaning back in his Aeron chair. “I never thought I’d see the day.”
“Don’t pretend I’m being unreasonable,” she’d argued. “This isn’t exactly the image I’ve worked toward.”
“Then you shouldn’t have pocketed a diamond necklace.” He scanned her face for a reaction, but she gave him none. “Listen, do you want to be on the show or not?” Trevor had asked. But it wasn’t really a question, because he already knew the answer. “This show is about your life in L.A. And right now, Madison, this is your life.”
Of course he was right. What else was there to say? She’d gotten up to go. But Trevor had stopped her at the door. “Oh, and Madison?” he called. “Move back into your apartment. That’s about enough hiding out at your dad’s place.”
She gritted her teeth. He knew everything. “No problem,” she said, making her voice breezy. “I’ve really missed tripping over camera cords all the time. Bret never puts everything away. You know that, right? I’m going to start selling your equipment on eBay.”
Trevor shrugged. “Well, apparently you could use the cash….”
She’d said nothing to that; she’d just clenched her fists and left.
Trevor hadn’t known it, but he was already getting what he wanted: She’d been planning on moving back into Park Towers. Not because she missed Gaby and her horrible boyfriend, Jay. No, Madison simply couldn’t afford the rent on the bungalow anymore—not with the Luxe payments.
Madison gave herself one last check in the rearview mirror before gracefully stepping out of her car. She made her way toward the crew van so they could slip a mike on her before documenting day one of her humiliation. The sound guy didn’t say anything as he peeled the backing from a strip of tape and quickly secured it to the inside of the neckline of her top. Come to think of it, none of the crew had had much to say to her since her incident with Luxe jewelers.
Laurel gave her a cool glance. “Can you get back in the car and pull out of your parking spot?” she asked.
Madison nodded silently. She knew what they wanted: one long shot of her driving in, stepping out of the car, looking up at the Lost Paws sign, and then walking in. Trevor would be milking this day for everything he could. And Madison had no choice but to let him.
She wasn’t inside the building for more than thirty seconds when a bubbly, silver-haired woman whose name tag read Glory said, “You’ll be wanting these today.” She thrust a pair of thick plastic gloves at Madison’s chest and smiled.
Madison took the gloves from her slowly, with narrowed eyes, wondering what sort of job required them. Glory winked at her. How did she manage to be so cheerful here in this small, dirty employee-break room, where even the smell of bleach and burned coffee couldn’t cover the rank tang of animal urine?
The other new volunteers—who had apparently all arrived early, bright-eyed, and bushy-tailed—included a seventy-something woman, as tanned and wrinkled as a golden raisin; a pair of twins around Madison’s age, with lank, dark hair and goth eye makeup; and a middle-aged man with forearms the size of Christmas hams. No one, in other words, that Madison was eager to get to know.
But the guy who stood quietly in the corner was a different story. He had light brown hair, sea-green eyes, and a body like a Greek deity’s. If she’d known that volunteers could look like that, she would’ve been giving back to the community all along. Who was he? Madison wanted to know. And why was he off to the side, so carefully avoiding the cameras?
Glory moved to the front of the room; all eyes followed her. “Lost Paws relies on its