Famous

WHAT DO YOU IMAGINE WHEN YOU THINK ABOUT BEING FAMOUS?

Your photo on omg! and TMZ? Or on the cover of People? That long white limousine gliding to a stop before a crowd of adoring fans? The blinding caress of flashing cameras? The eager outstretched hands offering photos and scraps of paper for your autograph? Do you imagine strolling up the red carpet? The doors that open only for you? The embrace of the world? The admiration and envy . . . everyone craving and wanting you?

The you, you, you of it all?

But you know, don’t you, that what you imagine is an illusion? Just a frail, fleeting flower offered up by a vast, thorny jungle? Yes, you know about fame because you’ve read the magazines and seen all those stars on TV and on the Web. But that’s only the flower, only the part they want you to see. It’s not the reality. There’s so much they don’t let you see. The needle-sharp thorns. The climbing, choking vines. The hungry, sucking roots.

Or maybe you’re one of those people who doesn’t really want to know. You prefer the fantasy. Just the flower, please. Fame as you imagine it. The mansions, private yachts and jets, all those adoring fans, all that attention. All that you, you, you. Because you really don’t care about the reality. It’s not your problem because they’re them and you’re you. And even though the magazines say They’re Just Like Us! they’re not really. They’re prettier, smarter, richer, and, to be brutally honest, just better.

Oops! I said it, didn’t I? That they’re better than you. And better than me.

Sucks, doesn’t it? That deep down you believe they must be better, different, special. They have to be better.

Because they’re famous.

And you’re not.

But maybe that’s not the whole truth either.

Maybe the truth is, they’re no better than you or me or anyone else.

Then why do we think they are?

Perhaps because we want to. We need to.

Suppose I told you that I was once famous. People on the street recognized me. They asked for my autograph and wanted me to pose for photos with them.

Suppose I told you that there were stories about me in magazines and newspapers, and interviews on TV. On network TV, not that cheesy joke that passes for your local news and weather channel.

Suppose I told you that for a brief period of time photographers and videographers followed me everywhere, taking my picture and filming me, posting the shots and footage on the celebrity gossip sites and publishing the photos in the tabloids.

Cool, huh? Being famous like that. All that attention. All those people knowing who I was. All that me, me, me.

Can you imagine?

Only, whatever you imagine is so not the way it really is.

Suppose I told you that I hung out with one of the most famous stars in all of Hollywood? A name known by everyone who hasn’t spent the past twenty years in some cave in Siberia. I stayed at her mansion, and we shopped and partied together. We hung around her pool and gossiped about hair and clothes and guys. We went to the homes of other huge stars and to the after-hours clubs only the superfamous can get into.

Suppose I told you that I knew her secrets.

Suppose I told you that she knew mine.

Dear Willow,

You still have not answered any of my letters maybe it is hard for someone as famous as you to find the time to read letters. Maybe Doris reads my letters and does not tell you about them. But there is a reason why I think you should answer this letter it is because you saw me today outside Sheen. I was the one on the sidewalk with the Angels baseball cap. You smiled at me remember it was when all those idiots were taking your picture and asking for your autograph. I was the one who did not ask you for nothing. I just waved and said, Have a nice day. That was when you smiled at me. I know you have to remember me.

I have been writing letters to you because I know you have felt my love and concern for you is why you smiled at me. You could feel our connection. We connect in a way that no one else understands I know that you have to let them take your picture and sign autographs because it is your job. But I know that what you really want is for someone to take care of you and protect you from all those people who want to hurt you.

It makes me angry the way they dont protect you better you have to be more careful that big bald head guy with the diamond in his ear is useless. Dont you know that when you are in a crowd like that he cant protect you? Anyone could step right past him and shove a knife in your heart if you had me beside you I would make sure that never happens. I promise I would always be there whenever people looked at pictures of you in magazines and on TV I would be there so they would know you were protected.

You should be more careful and stop taking these risks if something happened to you I dont know what I would do. All those people who want your picture and autograph just want things from you. They take and take and this hurts you I know I dont want nothing. I am the only one who wants to protect you.

I am sure you will write back to me when you get this letter because you smiled at me today. You felt our connection. I am so happy that you finally know who I am it is the first step to the day we are together forever and then you will be safe.

Love Forever

Richard

MARCH OF TENTH GRADE, SEVENTH DAY OF SPRING VACATION IN LA

I OPEN MY EYES.

I am lying on a bare mattress in a bedroom I’ve never seen before. The mattress has that slightly chemical smell of newness. I am still wearing the jeans and spaghetti-strap top from the party last night. Sunlight floods through the uncovered window. Squinting, I sense from the angle of the California sun that it is early afternoon.

I am sixteen years old, a high school sophomore, on a week-long photo assignment 2,779 miles from home. Is it strange that someone can be a professional photographer at sixteen? I don’t know why it should be. My agent says I’ve got a natural eye, a gift. I’ve even been called a prodigy. Does it feel odd to wake up in the middle of the afternoon in a strange bedroom? A room where the only piece of furniture is this bare mattress. No curtains, no chairs, no dresser. Did someone start to decorate it and then forget?

Or just get bored?

It doesn’t matter. I’ve been in LA for seven days, living in a world where the things that usually matter don’t seem to matter at all. Time, age, money, parents, school—none of those things means anything here. Is that really the way things are in LA?

No, not really.

It’s just the way they are when you’re staying at Willow Twine’s Hollywood mansion.

APRIL OF EIGHTH GRADE, NYC

IT STARTED WITH A CAMERA AND A COFFEE SHOP.

No, that’s not right. Any shrink will tell you it started way before that. Like, when my brother Alex developed muscular dystrophy around the age of three, and five years later when my parents got divorced, and all that deep, twisted psychological gobbledygook.

But that camera, a black Nikon P90 with a 24x zoom lens, a fourteenth-birthday present from my father, was the charm that changed everything. It was the bridge I crossed from being a typical, everyday eighth grader to someone completely different.

An atypical eighth grader. A slightly almost-famous eighth grader. Not that it was my plan. It just happened.

The day was gray, wet, and chilly. The outdoor light muted, shadowless, robbing my shots of contrast. The coffee shop was called Cafazine, and it provided two of life’s great pleasures—coffee and gossip. Inside, the warm air was pungent with the scent of espressos, lattes, and cappuccinos. The gossip came in the form of magazines, tabloid newspapers, and wall-mounted HD screens tuned 24/7 to the celebrity channels. As I stood in line, my gaze drifted over to the shelves and racks filled with dog-eared glossies and wrinkled tabloids. All the covers featured variations on the same story:

ODD COUPLE! WILL BAD BOY REX

KILL WILLOW’S GOOD GIRL CAREER?

WHAT CAN WILLOW TWINE BE THINKING?

STUDIO EXECS WORRIED ABOUT REX’S BAD INFLUENCE!

As the entire world now knew, the adorable teen singing and acting sensation Willow Twine had recently fallen in with the heavily tattooed rock-’n-roll rogue Rex Dobro. The magazine covers showed the couple nestling on a blanket at the beach and loaded with shopping bags on Rodeo Drive. The gossip shows and websites led with a new angle on the love affair each evening, and even the late-night television hosts were making wisecracks.

After a quick scan of the headlines, I turned my attention to a tall woman in front of me holding the hand of a small, towheaded boy. She was wearing a long gray raincoat, wide-brimmed hat, and sunglasses, and recognition struck like a bolt from above—it was Tatiana Frazee, the supermodel! I’d seen enough pictures of her in magazines and on TV to know. Besides, why would anyone not famous wear a hat and big sunglasses inside on a cloudy day?

The boy was additional evidence. He was Conner Frazee, Tatiana’s son with the fashion photographer Clayton Rodbart. Conner was tugging at his mother’s gloved hand and pointing at a large blond brownie with chocolate chips inside the glass counter.

I want that, Mommy! he whined.

Not before dinner, Tatiana answered firmly with a Germanic accent—yet another piece of evidence that supported my hunch.

But I want it! Conner persisted.

Other people on line glanced at the elegant woman, but they merely appeared annoyed by the boy’s whining.

I said no, Tatiana repeated.

Yes! The boy pulled at the gloved hand again.

No, Tatiana replied icily through her teeth. Her dark glasses turned in my direction, and I quickly looked away. The code of behavior for a hip New York City prep school student required pretending that seeing someone famous was no big deal, especially when some of my friends and classmates had pretty famous parents of their own.

Still, having recognized Tatiana in Cafazine, it was impossible not to feel just a little bit awed. I reached into the pocket of my hoodie and fingered my new Nikon.

By now Tatiana and Conner had reached the counter.

What would you like, ma’am? the young man by the cash register asked. As the supermodel turned away from her son to answer, Conner suddenly yanked her hand as hard as he could.

Tatiana Frazee lost her balance and toppled forward, banging her perfect chin on a display of CDs, sending them crashing.

To this day I don’t know what compelled me to yank the camera from my pocket and slide the shutter into quick-shot mode just in time to catch Tatiana, her sunglasses askew on her face, as she wheeled around and slapped Conner on the cheek.

The next shots caught Tatiana glaring at me with a mixture of horror and fury. An instant later she scooped Conner up under her arm and charged out of the shop.

A photo agent friend of my dad’s sold the shots to a tabloid and to a website that specialized in celebrities’ most embarrassing moments. A few weeks later I received a check for what seemed like a fortune to a fourteen-year-old.

Just for taking some pictures.

JUNE OF TENTH GRADE, NYC

THE APARTMENT ON FIFTH AVENUE WILL FEEL COLD AND LIFELESS.

The oil paintings hang in perfect alignment, the silk pillows placed with exactness on the couches, each window shade drawn to precisely the same height. You will sit on the couch, your hands compressed between your knees, feeling nervous and uncomfortable. In the middle of what often seems like the noisiest city in the world, this vast apartment will feel deathly still.

A door will open, and Avy’s mother will come through it carrying a white cardboard FedEx box. She will move stiffly in her tastefully plain black dress and single string of pearls, her face pale with just a trace of makeup, her neat dark hair falling to her shoulders. She will look nothing like the glamorous corporate lawyer you’ve met in the past.

Mrs. Tennent will sit down on the couch kitty-corner to you, her knees pressed together demurely, the box resting on her lap, her eyes red-rimmed and downcast. She will attempt a weak smile, but it is merely a ghost of one, like something left over from a former life.

You will both look at the box—open at one end—on her lap, and then your eyes will meet.

You’ll be careful with this? she will ask.

I promise, you’ll reply.

You were his closest friend.

At the funeral, Mrs. Tennent told you about the package that had arrived from California. Knowing how close he and you were, she had offered to let you borrow it for a while.

Now she will look down at the box in her lap. It’s all we have from this past year.

I won’t keep it too long.

Avy’s mother will breathe in deeply and exhale regret like someone who has fought long and hard before deciding to surrender and let go. She will hold the box out to you, and you will take it.

APRIL OF TENTH GRADE, ON THE TIJUANA TROLLEY

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