The fanciest pen I own is a white plastic one with the green-and-red Dashaway Home and Hardware logo running down the side.
Surely this is the moment when I wake up. As soon as I look for a pen I don’t have, the limo, Ezer, the contracts, the Mojo energy drink endorsement, the supposed fans, even the book deal, will be gone in a flash, and I’ll find myself half-frozen, half-dead, and probably missing half my nose, still waiting for the bus back in Greentree.
“Front pocket of your backpack, Nick. Hurry! We’re two blocks away!”
It’s been fun while it lasted.
Sort of.
I take one last look around the limo, one last look at Ezer’s annoyed face, and reach inside my bag. My fingers root around for the pencil that’s usually there, the one with teeth marks running up and down the sides, when I butt against something smooth and slick. It’s one of those really expensive pens, like the kind you see in movies with big-shot lawyers and Wall Street guys closing billion-dollar deals.
This is the most insane dream I’ve ever had.
“Great,” Ezer snaps, snatching the papers out of my hand and shoving them back inside his briefcase. “We’re home. You need to get into wardrobe and makeup, ASAP. You can sign these tomorrow.”
HOLLY JOLLY
“Nick! Nick—over here! Give us a smile, Nick!”
The second we turn onto the next street, we’re bombarded by paparazzi shouting my name, banging on the limo doors, the windows, the roof, all of them chasing alongside us.
They beg me to stop, pose, answer questions—but when I start to lower the window, Ezer slaps a hand over mine and puts it back up.
“You kidding me? When’s the last time you looked in the mirror?” He shakes his head. “You’re seriously willing to be photographed in that?”
I gaze down at my mom’s Christmas creation, instantly overcome by a flood of shame.
Partly because Ezer’s right, the sweater is hideous.
And partly because my mom made it with good intentions and thinking about how hideous it is makes me feel guilty.
“I don’t know what you’ve been up to, but we’re going to get you cleaned up and pretend this whole thing never happened.” He frowns so deeply you could call it a grimace and not be exaggerating.
We turn into a long, winding drive bordered with palm trees, flowers, and hedges. The big iron gates close behind us, keeping the paparazzi out, but that doesn’t stop them from pushing their telephoto lenses through the bars, snapping pictures nonstop. And the next thing I know, Ezer is dragging me out of the limo and ushering me into an air-conditioned mansion he insists belongs to me, no matter how improbable that seems.
“Why don’t you head up and change, then get yourself over to hair and makeup so we can start shooting? Sound good?” He slips his cell phone from his pocket and starts to move away.
“Head up?” I glance around helplessly, taking in the walls covered with giant paintings of brightly colored blobs and shapes, the ginormous crystal chandelier hanging overhead that’s practically daring you to stand directly beneath its sharp, daggerlike spikes, the round glass table with no other purpose than holding a large vase of flowers—and that’s just the entryway.
“Nick, I’m gonna be honest here.” Ezer’s voice is so irritated I can’t help but flinch. “This little game of yours stopped being funny long before it started. So, please, I’m begging you, get to your room and start the process of reinventing yourself. You got an entire crew waiting on you, and I’m sure they’d all appreciate you getting your act together so they can get home before midnight.” He motions toward a large, wide staircase with metal rods standing in for banisters. “When you’re ready, meet us in the kitchen so we can shoot the cookie scene. Nick? You following?”
“I don’t bake,” I say, cringing when I see the face that he makes.
“No kidding.” He shakes his head and mutters something under his breath, then points toward the staircase. “Today, Nick.”
I take the stairs two at a time, acting on Ezer’s need to see me hurry, even though I have no idea where I’m going. And despite my being a huge celebrity with a global fan base, the people who pass me on their way down are too busy shouting into their headsets to be of any help.
When I reach the landing, I gaze down a long hall with chalky white walls covered with more giant paintings of brightly colored blobs and a bunch of doors that most likely lead to bedrooms, but which one is mine?
In Greentree my parents’ room is at the far end, so I figure I’ll start with the door closest to me, just to my right. This may be nothing at all like the house I grew up in, but there’s usually some sort of pattern all houses follow to keep people from getting lost.
I knock on the door, then instantly feel really stupid. If it’s my door, then clearly there’s no need to knock. Still, there’s no way to be sure it’s my door until I open it, and the last thing I want to do is guess wrong and walk in on something completely embarrassing.