Life Uploaded Page 7

  “You are so cute,” he says. “I’m so happy you agreed to go out with me. I was worried you’d cancel last minute.”

  Dalton James thought I would flake out on him? What world was I living in? “What?! Why would I do that?”

  “Well, who knows, I could be a psycho killer. Maybe you’d have been smart to cancel.”

  “A true psycho killer would never say something like that. What would be the point in telling me you’re a psycho killer if you actually are a psycho killer? That would just scare me away and you wouldn’t get a chance to do to me whatever psycho killers do.”

  “Well, kill, normally. Butcher. Bludgeon. That sort of thing.”

  “I think at this point I’m just going to have to trust that you aren’t planning on butchering or bludgeoning me,” I say.

  “Whoa, this conversation got dark,” he says, seeming a little flustered, “Anyway, thank you for meeting me. I’ll work on making more normal and less creepy jokes.”

  Wait a minute! Is Dalton James socially awkward too? The way he’s jabbering on it almost seems as if he might actually even be nervous to be on a date with me. Me! Little old me! This night is shaping up to be pretty interesting, and it’s just getting started.

  Suddenly the lights dim all the way until the room is pitch-black.

  “Ooh, it’s starting.” Dalton lightly squeezes my shoulder in anticipation. A spotlight appears in the center of the stage and a short man with long black hair walks out in a smoking jacket and top hat.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the magician announces, his voice full of bravado and drama, “you came here tonight to see the impossible take place, to see the impossible become quite possible right before your very eyes.” He wriggles his wrist and a deck of cards appears. The audience goes bananas. “Now, I’ll need a quick volunteer. You, in the dress.”

  It’s a good few seconds before I realize he’s talking to me.

  “Yes, you. I’m going to have you pick a number between one and five.”

  “Seven,” I say too fast. By the time I realize my mistake it’s too late. The whole room is roaring with laughter. “Oh god, I mean, uh, I mean three.”

  “Maybe a little less liquor for this one,” the magician quips, prompting more laughter. I want to jump up and shout, “I’m not drunk, I’m just nervous!” but instead I keep my eyes to the ground, hiding my face from the world, so embarrassed I miss the rest of the trick.

  “That was adorable,” Dalton leans in and whispers in my ear.

  “It was so embarrassing! I made myself look like a total ditz.”

  “That’s not how I saw it,” he says, kissing me quickly on the cheek. Oh my god, did Dalton James just kiss me?! For the first time, I understand the sentiment in books and on TV when characters newly kissed by their crush say, “I’ll never wash my cheek/hand/other body part again!”

  Then the show picks up and becomes truly magical. The magician hides a lemon in a thimble. He cuts a deck of cards in half and heals it back together with the power of his mind. He makes a parakeet disappear with the wave of his hand, then reappear, this time with a twin. He changes a card from an ace to a king just by flicking it with one finger, before he makes the same card change from black to glittery blue.

  “That’s impossible!” Dalton cries out. “Harper, did you see that? How’d he do it!” He’s practically jumping out of his seat with excitement before he realizes what he’s doing and slowly sits back down. “Okay, I’ll stop making a fool of myself now.”

  “Not at all. It’s cute,” I say, and blush.

  Dalton smiles at me almost shyly. “Now you know how I felt when you said ‘seven.’ ”

  * * *

  After the show, it’s time for dinner in the main dining hall. A waiter in all black wearing a red bow tie comes by to take our drink ­orders. Roger orders a scotch neat. Jake orders a Corona. Diane, Angelica, and Lilly order apple martinis. Then it’s my turn.

  “I’ll have a Pellegrino, please,” I say, “with lime. Thank you.”

  The waiter jots down the order and exits through swinging double doors.

  “Pellegrino?” Roger says. “Dalton, she’s almost as boring as you are.”

  “Shut up, Roger,” Dalton says casually, like he’s said it before a million times.

  “Yeah, Roger, shut up,” Lilly says, then turns to me. “Sorry about him. He’s just not a very nice person.”

  I can’t think of what to say to this, so I just shrug.

  “So where’d you two meet, anyway?” Jake asks.

  “A New Year’s Eve party at the Chateau.”

  “Oh, really? Well, that’s a change,” says Jake.

  “A change from what?” I ask. The waiter comes back effortlessly balancing all our drinks on a platter.

  “He mostly picks up fangirls off the Internet.”

  “What the hell, man?” Dalton scowls.

  “What did I say wrong?” Jake feigns innocence, but his eyes betray a guilty glimmer.

  “Um, well, you just told my date that I pick up random girls all the time, for starters.”

  “Well, was I lying?” Jake challenges. Dalton is quiet. “Look, it’s actually a good thing. Harper should be pleased, actually. I mean, my whole point was that she’s obviously not just some random fangirl. She’s classy and cool and means something to you. Otherwise you wouldn’t have invited her to Roger’s stupid birthday party.”

  “My party isn’t stupid.” Roger pouts, gulping down his beer.

  “Look,” I speak up and everybody seems to be surprised, “it’s none of my business who Dalton has dated or is dating. I literally met him a week ago.”

  “Oh my god, I love that attitude,” Diane gushes. “I like you, you’re sweet.”

  “Thanks.” I don’t really know how to respond. I run my finger through the condensation on the glass of sparkling water sitting between Dalton and me.

  “Okay, so tell us more about yourself.” Jake leans his chin onto his palms. “We barely know anything about you.”

  “Yeah!” Angelica agrees. “What do you do?”

  I can feel myself blush as the attention turns back to me. “Oh, ha, I’m one of those YouTube people.”

  “What does that mean?” asks Jake.

  “One of what YouTube people?” asks Angelica.

  “You like make videos and post them to YouTube?” asks Diane.

  “Like, who doesn’t make videos and post them to YouTube?” asks Lilly. Yep, like I mentioned, I get this a lot.

  I’m gearing up to hit Lilly back with my usual response when Dalton chimes in. “It’s actually really cool,” he says. “She has a channel where—no, I’m sorry, you tell them! It’s your life.” His smile is warm and open and interested, not at all condescending or holier than thou, the way you expect celebrities to be.

  “So, I have a channel where I post videos on, like, how to do makeup, or how to style yourself for different events—all kinds of do-it-yourself type videos too.”

  “And her channel has a million subscribers,” Dalton adds proudly. Awww, he’s proud of me, I think. What a cutie pie.

  “Oh, I get it,” says Roger with a majorly cynical tone in his voice. “You make silly videos of yourself putting on makeup and loads of people watch it, so next thing you know you have makeup companies paying you to say you use their products.”

  “Well—”

  “And magazines write up little pieces on you and you get invited to all the coolest parties, and people call you an ‘influencer,’ so you think you’re really important.”

  “Well, no—”

  “And you end up hanging out with all these celebrities, so you start to think of yourself as a celebrity even though you’re not an actress or a musician. You’re just a girl who puts makeup on and expects to be treated as if you’re talented.”

  “Excuse me, bro?” Dalton places his palms flat on the table. I have to admit, I’m on the verge of tears. Roger has successfully hit me where it hurts.

&nb
sp; “What? I’m just stating my opinion. I think YouTube stars are total phonies.”

  “Why are you such an asshole, Roger? Did no one teach you how to be a civilized human being? And what’s so legit about what you do? You’ve had minor roles in, like, two movies and live in your dad’s garage. I mean—”

  “Okay, that makes it sound like I live in an actual garage. It’s a guest house, man. It’s two stories.”

  “That is so far from the point, man. You’re way out of line and I think you need to apologize.”

  “For thinking YouTube stars are phonies? No way, the whole thing is a total scam. She probably doesn’t even use the products she promotes in her videos.”

  “All right, you know what?” Dalton pushes his chair out and stands up. “We don’t have to stay here. Harper, let’s go, I’m sorry about this crap.” He glares at Roger. “Happy birthday, asshat.” Then he grabs my hand and starts to lead me away from the group.

  I give Roger a dirty glare and follow Dalton’s lead.

  Now, can you blame me for falling head over heels? I’d have to be crazy not to.

  * * *

  “Let’s take my car and we’ll come back for yours later. I’m so sorry about that, Harper,” he says, opening the door to his black Audi R8 for me and then jogging around to the other side. “I don’t know what Roger’s deal was tonight. He’s normally not like that.”

  I slide onto the seat, relishing the feel of the plush leather, and lay a hand on Dalton’s shoulder.

  “You don’t have to apologize for him. I’m actually really used to it.”

  He looks at me. “Used to jerks?”

  “No. Well, yeah. But more specifically, people who are bitter about YouTube stars. Or think YouTube stars aren’t deserving of success because we’re not like real artists or whatever. This opinion is not uncommon, as it turns out.”

  “I don’t get it. Why are they bitter? Hasn’t anyone heard of a little thing called Live and let live? It’s not like you claim to be an artist. Why does everything have to be art?”

  “I know, right? Let’s call a spade a spade! I make DIY videos, I’m not trying to reinvent the wheel. I just want to share what I know with the world, and people happen to like it.”

  “So why do people get bent out of shape about it?”

  “I dunno.”

  “I think I know.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you want to know what I think, honestly?”

  “Honestly, yes.”

  “I think they’re jealous.”

  “Jealous? Of what? We’ve already established that I’m not a real artist. Or even a fake artist. I’m actually not any kind of artist at all.” The words leaving my mouth sound so ridiculous, I have to laugh at myself.

  “Okay, well that’s beside the point.” He turns the car on and the leather seat starts to emit warmth from under my butt. Yummy. “The point is, you make a living doing what you love, and you’re not even an adult yet. Do you realize how rare that is? I mean, even I’m a little bit jealous.”

  “You are?” My jaw practically hangs open. “I mean, you are?”

  “Yeah, a little.”

  “But you’ve got the same thing going for you. You make a living doing what you love and you’re not an adult yet either!”

  “Well . . .”

  “Well, what?” The more we talk, the more I feel myself loosening up around him.

  Gradually it becomes almost comfortable to say what’s on my mind.

  He pauses for a minute as though he’s not sure he wants to continue, and then he lets out a large breath. “I don’t love acting anymore. Lately.”

  “That seems normal, right? To go through phases of not liking what you do? I mean, there are times where the last thing I want to do is make another video, but I push on for my fans. And then I love it again and it’s all okay.”

  “I guess, sure, maybe. But I don’t know, it doesn’t make me happy anymore. It’s depressing, actually. All I do is pretend to be someone else all day and then all of the world sees me and thinks I’m that person. Everyone assumes they know me, so they don’t bother getting to know me. You saw what my friends are like—they don’t know me, they’ve never taken the time.”

  “Forget those guys, though, you were right before when you said they’re just jealous.”

  “Oh god, I’ve let the conversation get dark again. You must think I’m the most downer date of all time.”

  “No, I really don’t. I’m having a nice night.” Better than nice, I think to myself.

  “Oh yeah? Nice? Well, you ain’t seen nothing yet. Get ready for the night of your life.”

  “I was born ready,” I say, and he smiles a sexy sideways half-smile, then turns up the volume on Explosions in the Sky as we race west on the 10 Freeway, swoop onto the Pacific Coast Highway, stars shimmering in the water to our left like they’ve fallen into the softly rolling waves and are too comfortable to pin themselves back to the sky.

  * * *

  Moonshadows is a restaurant and bar built on the small strip of land pressed between the Pacific Coast Highway and the ocean. The sign looms big out front, glowing bright blue. A hostess in patent leather pumps and impressively impeccable makeup leads us to the outdoor lounge, where Dalton has a table perpetually reserved.

  Tables is a bit of a loose term for the seating scattered around the lounge. They’re actually big cushy blue mats that might as well be small beds with drink trays rising out of the center. We recline into ours, which is right up against the glass barricade looking over the ocean, ink black and turbulent in a good way, romantic. Dalton orders us two Shirley Temples and a basket of mozzarella sticks and fries, which is honestly so far the highlight of the night, because to be quite honest (hashtag TBQH) I love, love, LOVE mozzarella sticks and fries. And as I slowly sip my Shirley Temple, I remember how much I used to love those as well. Shirley Temples are major hashtag TBT goals.

  “For most of my life I thought the ocean was this made-up, mythical invention,” Dalton says, breaking a french fry in half, then into thirds and sixths. It’s the kind of thing I would do, actually. “I saw it in movies and on TV and stuff, but it seemed too good to be true.”

  “Oh my god, how old were you when you finally got to see it?”

  “Fourteen, I think. And I’ve been in love with it ever since. Got a house in Malibu right on the beach, actually.”

  “Wow. That’s . . . the life.” That’s the life? I sigh inwardly at myself. Well, maybe I’ll never master the art of being cool around guys, but the good news is it doesn’t seem to matter, because whatever I say only makes Dalton’s smile light up even more, so maybe just being myself really is the way to go after all.

  “It’s a nice life. What about you? You must have gone to the beach practically every weekend as a kid.”

  I shake my head. “Honestly, no. We really took the beach for granted when I was a kid. I think my whole childhood I only went, like, three or four times. We didn’t realize how lucky we were to have it close by.”

  “Oh, I would have killed to live near the beach as a kid.”

  “My dad used to always say, ‘You know, we’re really lucky to live near the beach. Most people have to pack up their cars and drive for miles if they want to see the ocean. Some people never get to see the ocean as long as they live,’ and blah, blah, blah. But he barely ever actually took us because he has this weird fear of sand crabs.”

  “Sand crabs?” I can’t tell if Dalton has no idea what sand crabs are or if he just can’t believe a grown man would be afraid of them.

  “Yeah, you know, those disgusting wriggly crabs that live under the wet sand that you can go digging for?”

  “Yes, yes, I know what sand crabs are, but does your old man know he doesn’t have to go digging for them? I mean, theoretically, if one never wanted to see a sand crab as long as he lived, this would be very easy to accomplish.”

  “Oh, tell me about it! It’s totally ridiculous. He said he didn�
�t feel safe just knowing they were nearby. Even if he couldn’t see them. Now, mind you, he wasn’t afraid of sharks, just sand crabs. Still is.”

  “Hilarious,” Dalton says. “And what about you? Do you have any irrational fears?”

  “Definitely. Lots, actually.”

  “Name one. No, name three.”

  “Three? Fine, okay. Let’s see . . . So there’s my fear of flying.”

  “That one’s not so weird. Loads of people are afraid of airplanes. Especially after 9/11.”

  “Sure, but statistically you have a bigger chance of getting crushed to death by a vending machine than dying in a plane crash.”

  Dalton laughs. “Hey, don’t make light of the danger that is vending machines. Would you want to get stuck under one? I wouldn’t.” He takes a sip of his drink. “What else ya got?”

  “Okay . . . There’s my fear of spiders, which you might say is common and understandable, but there is nothing common or understandable about the nature of my fear. Sure, I freak out if there’s a spider nearby, but I can’t even handle being around fake spiders, seeing pictures of spiders, or hearing stories about spiders. At the end of each day I search my hair and my clothes to make sure no spiders are hiding on me somewhere, even if I haven’t been anywhere that spiders would theoretically be around that day.”

  “Okay, that’s pretty intense. You’ve got one more.”

  “I saved the best for last.”

  “Okay, go.”

  “Tinfoil.”

  He almost spits out his mouthful of cheesy, gooey mozzarella wrapped in crispy breading. “Tinfoil? You’re afraid of tinfoil? Why?”

  I throw up my hands, as mystified as Dalton seems to be about that one. “I’ve never really figured out why. It’s, like, is it metal? Is it paper? I don’t trust it.” That’s it, Harper, let your freak flag fly.

  “I don’t think tinfoil is the sort of thing that requires trust. It just is what it is. It does its own . . . tinfoil kind of thing.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s part of the problem for me. It’s unpredictable! It looks harmless and boring, but then all of a sudden it can cut you out of nowhere.”

  “But, like, not very deep or anything. You might get a paper cut at the very worst.”