Life Uploaded Page 8

  “I also don’t like the sound it makes,” I admit.

  “Tinfoil doesn’t make sound!” He’s visibly delighted at my wackiness and I’m proud of myself for opening up.

  “It does! If you rub it against itself. It makes an awful scratching, scraping sound that has a weird tinny echo.”

  “But why would you rub two pieces of tinfoil together in the first place?” Dalton asks.

  “Well, I wouldn’t, but when I was in elementary school, kids would do that with their lunches. They’d collect all the tinfoil their parents used to wrap their sandwiches or apples or whatever, and they’d crunch it into balls and use the balls to play catch or to try to juggle. The balls would always bump against each other and make that awful sound. It’s like nails on a chalkboard, only I don’t think anyone else hears it that way.”

  “There isn’t a chance you were attacked by these tinfoil balls in, let’s say, a sort of dodgeball scenario, is there?” Dalton’s eyes twinkle.

  “How did you know?”

  “There’s clearly some deeper trauma involved than just an unpleasant sound.”

  “Elementary school kids can be so mean.”

  Dalton’s voice drops a level as he wipes his hands on a cloth napkin and looks out at the ocean. “They were mean to me, too.”

  “Really? Even though you were already a well-known stage actor?”

  “Are you kidding me? That made it so much worse. They called me ‘pretty boy’ and spread rumors that I wore makeup.”

  “Did you wear makeup?”

  “Onstage only! It’s part of the job.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Hey! How did you know I used to be a stage actor? Have you been stalking me?” he teases, tucking my hair behind my ear so that my whole face is exposed, vulnerable. I have nothing to hide behind now.

  “I, uh, well, small confession.” I’m blushing harder than I’ve ever blushed before, but there’s no turning back now. “When I was a kid my mom took me to see you in Oliver Twist when it was in New York.”

  “She did? That’s incredible! I mean, I’m sorry you had to sit through that, but I absolutely love that you were there.”

  “You do?”

  “Uh-huh, I only wish we had met that night. Think of all the wasted time! It’s tragic, really.”

  “You were very talented, even back then. That was the year I first wanted to be an actress, and I remember just being in awe that you could perform that way in front of so many people.”

  “My god, you’re beautiful, smart, and feeding into my ego. You better stop that or I’ll fall madly in love with you.”

  We laugh, eyes locked in a magnetic pull. I hear my mom’s voice in my head (it’s his job to impress you) and coolly break the gaze.

  “So what about you,” I ask. “Any weird fears?”

  “None. I’m a guy, guys don’t have fears,” he says jokingly.

  “Oh, sure. Come on, I told you mine.”

  “If I tell you, you won’t make fun of me? Or go telling Perez Hilton?”

  “Oh my god, I would never.”

  “Okay.” He leans forward and lowers his voice conspiratorially. “Did you ever see The Brave Little Toaster?”

  “Yes.”

  “So there’s this one scene where the toaster has a dream—­actually it’s a nightmare—that he’s caught on fire.”

  “And the clown firefighter shows up!”

  “Yes! You know what I’m talking about?”

  “Of course. He’s a firefighter, but his face is a clown’s face, an evil clown’s face, and he rises up out of nowhere really slow and ominous until he’s looming over the Brave Little Toaster with his big evil clown face. Oh, and also it turns out he doesn’t fight fire, he sprays fire out of his hose. Chilling.”

  “Yes! And then he looks down at the Brave Little Toaster and whispers—”

  “Run,” we say in unison.

  “Oh my god, yes, no one has ever known what I’m talking about before,” Dalton crows.

  “I watched it a few years ago and could not believe how scary that scene was, like, it’s insane that it’s meant for kids.”

  “Exactly. That’s what I’m saying. And then the Brave Little Toaster starts trying to run away from the evil clown firefighter, but there’s this big tidal wave catching up with him, and the tidal wave starts morphing into a sea of forks trying to impale him, and—”

  “And then suddenly he’s hanging above the bathtub filled with water and trying to hang on, but he falls and gets electrocuted. Then he wakes up. That’s pretty creepy stuff.”

  “I had a babysitter who played it for me once when I was four, and it freaked me out so badly I couldn’t sleep for weeks. Then literally just last year I watched it again for the first time since then, thinking, Well, of course I won’t be scared of it now, but I totally, ­totally was. I swear to God whenever I close my eyes I see that clown face and it chills me to my very core.”

  “Wow. A grown man afraid of a cartoon clown,” I tease.

  “A cartoon evil clown who sprays fire out of a hose. Do you think I’m totally lame? It’s not too late for you to leave. I’ll close my eyes to make it easy on us both.” Dalton screws his eyes shut and leans his head back against the lounger. I roll my eyes good-naturedly. So dramatic, a true actor to his very core.

  “I don’t think you’re totally lame. I think it’s adorable.”

  Dalton opens his eyes and they blaze at me, rendering me speechless. “Hey, I have a question.”

  “Yes?”

  “Can I kiss you?” His voice is soft, a small smile playing around that perfect mouth.

  Oh my god, oh my god, I think, here we go. Be cool, Harper, be cool.

  “Uh-huh.” I smile and nod, biting my lip. He leans in and presses his lips gently against mine.

  I can feel the blood drain from my head and my heart rate spike. Okay, I’ve made it sound really unpleasant, but it wasn’t, it was amazing: time stood still and it was like we had been elevated into the starry sky, just us two. There was no high school or stupid Ashley Adler, there was no Jack Walsh or @ThatBitchHarper or any of the other girls Dalton had picked up at bars or whatever in the past. There was only us, only this moment suspended in time.

  He kisses me lightly at first, then with more urgency, with his hands in my hair, with his hands holding firmly onto my shoulders, his lips kissing the icy sting of Sprite and grenadine onto my neck and ears, with—

  “Excuse me?” a female voice says, and we look up to see three girls in uniform American Apparel spandex and stilettos. “Hi,” the one in the middle—blond and sort of British sounding—says directly to Dalton. “Sorry to interrupt, but you look really familiar. Do I know you from somewhere? Did we meet once?”

  “I don’t know,” he says, slightly annoyed, running a hand through his hair, “I think I just have one of those faces. People think they know me all the time.”

  “Wait, did you go to Brentside High School? In England?”

  “No, but I had friends who went there.”

  “Unbelievable. I swear I remember you from back then. Maybe we were at the same party once or something. I’m Stephanie, and this is—”

  “I’m sorry”—he interrupts her and I want to shout out ­HALLELUJAH—“but we’re sort of in the middle of something. It was lovely speaking with you. Have a great night.”

  “Oh,” British Blondie’s face falls, defeated. “Okay, see ya.” She grabs onto the elbow of one of her friends and teeters away, her nose in the air.

  Dalton shakes his head back and forth disbelievingly. “Harper, I’m so sorry. That’s so annoying.”

  “It’s okay, I get it. Let’s face the facts: you’re a really big celebrity and people are always gonna want to come up and talk to you. I don’t blame them, really, even if they are annoying.”

  “Well, fame fades. I’m hoping this isn’t going to last forever. I’d like to know what it’s like to go out and not be interrupted, and honestly I ju
st wish they’d be up front and ask for a picture instead of pretending like they know me from somewhere.”

  “That was ridiculous!” I laugh and he joins me. “Do they do that a lot?”

  “Yes! It’s shocking. They actually pretend they don’t know who I am, and come up with some plausible story about where we might have met. It’s always something plausible, so I can’t outright say no, I don’t know you, because I actually might have met that girl at a party in high school. She obviously knows that I grew up in that neighborhood—thanks, Internet—so she asks if we met at a party, betting on the chance that her accent and name-dropping a neighborhood high school will make me see her as a nonthreatening peer, instead of a potentially dangerous fangirl.”

  “Dangerous?”

  He nods seriously. “Oh yes, fangirls can be quite dangerous. Fanboys too, actually. We have to learn how to differentiate the good-intentioned fans from the psycho ones. The ones who want to send you locks of their hair and such. Stay away from those, for sure. And the thing is, it’s always the ones who pretend you look familiar who end up being wacky.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, think about it. If you’re a normal, sane person, you don’t have a problem with admitting up front that you are a fan and would like a picture or autograph. I mean, maybe you’re going to choose to be respectful and not approach celebrities when they’re on a date”—he gestures between the two of us—“but if you are going to approach, the sane thing to do is just be honest about your motives. It’s always a bad sign if someone is pretending that you look familiar but can’t quite place you.”

  “Not to play devil’s advocate or anything, but isn’t there a chance sometimes people actually just think you look familiar and don’t know where from?”

  “Totally possible, but unlikely. Two years ago that would be so much more realistic, but now that Sacred has blown up, my stupid face is plastered all over every major city on billboards and the sides of buses and on TV. And that girl was British. Sacred is even bigger over there. It’s practically like the Twilight of England.”

  “Yikes. Good point.”

  His cheeks color a bit. “I hope that didn’t sound insanely arrogant. I’m more embarrassed than proud to be famous for being a ghost in a supernatural love story for teenagers and Middle American housewives. No offense to teens or Middle American housewives, it’s just not what I want to be remembered for.”

  “What do you want to be remembered for?” I ask thoughtfully.

  “You know, I’m not sure exactly yet. I’m thinking of getting back into theater. Or doing something else, something more meaningful. I want people to remember me as someone who changed the world for the better. We all love Sacred, me included, but it ain’t no world changer, that’s for sure.” He dips into the impressive and very authentic-sounding southern accent he uses on the show, reminding me just how talented an actor he actually is. He can do it all.

  “That would be awesome, for you to get back into theater.”

  “Do you ever consider acting?”

  “Oh, yeah, a little, I think it could be fun. But I’m way too shy.”

  “Shy? No you’re not! You broadcast videos of yourself to millions of viewers on a regular basis!”

  “That’s different, trust me. I have control over those and I film them more or less all alone by myself, so I’m not actually performing in front of everyone. It’s super easy to pretend like no one is watching me. I cannot imagine having a bunch of cameras and a crew watching. Or even worse, a whole audience of people. Oh my god, I would die. I don’t know how you do it.”

  “Eh, that part is easy. I just focus on my craft and forget they’re there.”

  “That seems . . . challenging.” He has gone back to that intense way he was staring at me before, and it makes me lose my train of thought. My head goes blank. Again.

  “Hey, wasn’t I in the middle of kissing you?”

  “Hey, yeah, I think you were.”

  “Why’d I stop doing that?”

  “Some girls wanted to know where they knew you from.”

  “Damn those girls,” he says, leaning back in. We kiss for a moment. Then he pulls away abruptly.

  “Would it be crazy if I asked you to come back to my place? Not to sleep over or anything crazy like that, I just don’t want the night to end yet. I’m really enjoying just . . . being with you.”

  Whoa, there. I’d be lying if I said this night was anything but straight out of a fairy tale, but a girl has got to keep a guy wanting more. And I’m just not that girl; things feel like they’re moving fast, and while it’s exciting, it’s also a little scary. “It’s getting late,” I say. “I mean, I don’t want the night to end, don’t get me wrong, it’s just—”

  “Of course, a girl’s gotta get her beauty rest.”

  “Exactly!” I say, relieved.

  “I want to do this again, though, okay?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Come on.” He kisses me on the nose. “Let’s get you home.”

  * * *

  As we step out of Moonshadows, we are immediately swarmed by an attack of flashbulbs, blinding lights bursting in every direction.

  “Dalton, over here! Dalton!” the paparazzi holler out, talking over one another in a chaotic mess that is awful but somehow, at the same time, totally thrilling.

  “Jesus Christ,” Dalton mutters, shielding his eyes with one hand. “I’m so sorry, Harper, follow me.” I follow his lead as he ducks back into the restaurant, away from the noise and light. We walk into a darkish corner near the bathrooms. He takes out his cell phone and starts typing as he speaks.

  “Normally I have them pull my car around so it’s ready when I leave, but for some stupid reason I didn’t think it would be a problem tonight. They must have gotten a tip.”

  “Maybe it was those British girls,” I suggest, trying to be ­helpful.

  “Probably.” He hits send and slides his phone back into his pocket. “Okay, now they’ll bring my car around right to the front. We just have to wait a few minutes.”

  “Hey, it’s totally not a problem. This is actually my first real run-in with the paparazzi. Kind of cool.”

  “Oh, definitely.” His eyes light up. “The first few times were so exhilarating. It was a bit of an addiction at first. Back in the day Christina and I used to call them and tell them where we were. Don’t tell anyone that—it’s so embarrassing.”

  “My lips are sealed.” He trusts me, I think. He likes telling me things about his life. The feeling is so warm and pleasant that I don’t even mind him mentioning his superstar ex-girlfriend Christina Rush.

  His phone buzzes and he looks down, then grabs my hand. “All right, ready to go back out?”

  “Sure, let’s do it.”

  “Okay, just walk a little bit behind me; it will protect your eyes from the light. And feel free to just put a hand up. I’ll guide you so you won’t trip.”

  I nod and follow him out the front door for a second time.

  “Dalton!” FLASH! FLASH! “Dalton, where’ve you been lately?” FLASH! FLASH! FLASH! “Dalton! Who are you with? Is this your girlfriend? Who are you, sweetheart? Can we have a smile, mystery girl?”

  We duck into the Audi and slam the doors. As Dalton drives off, the flashes become distant and tinted by his dark window glass, but my heart rate stays up. Way up.

  “Mystery girl,” he repeats. “I like that for you. It fits.”

  “Yeah,” I agree. “That was pretty awesome. Makes me sound a lot cooler than I actually am.”

  “Oh no, you’re so wrong. You’re the coolest.”

  “It’s adorable that you think that, but I promise you I’m not.”

  “Well, you are in my eyes.” Swoon. What’s a girl to do?

  He reaches over to grab my hand again, and holds it tightly while we drive.

  When he drops me off at my car back at the Magic Castle, I’m sad to leave him, and it takes all my effort not to say this out loud.<
br />
  “Wait, don’t go,” he fake-pleads, “stay with me. We’ll stay up all night and get breakfast in the morning.”

  Reluctantly I shake my head. “My parents are pretty cool, but I do have a curfew.”

  “Ah yes, see, that’s why I left my parents in London.”

  “Good call.”

  “Will I get to see you soon?”

  “Very soon.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  I have to laugh. “We’ll see,” I say, my best attempt at playing hard to get. I give him a little wave and get into my car.

  I swear when I close the door there are hearts in his eyes. And mine.

  * * *

  TUTORIAL #4

  A Perfect Day in My Life

  What do you do after you’ve had the most perfect night ever? Well, you have to follow it with the most perfect day. What does that look like? you ask. Well, ask no further—or, um, look no further! Here is the play-by-play of one perfect day in the life of Harper Ambrose.

  On the perfect day I have nowhere to be, and that means I’m sleeping until noon. No judgments!

  When it’s finally time to get up, I start the day by brushing my teeth and washing my face to get the blood flowing. then head to the kitchen for breakfast, which is the best part of my day. Quick shout-out to my cat mug, which is an important part of any perfect morning. So, normally I’d eat fruit or something healthy, but on a perfect day, that doesn’t happen. On a perfect day there’s really only one thing appropriate to eat for breakfast, and that is . . .

  DOUGHNUTS!!!!!!!!

  There they are, just sittin’ on my table. I approach them cautiously; you never know how doughnuts are going to behave. Or rather, you never know how I am going to behave when put in front of doughnuts. Ohhhhh, they look good.

  The weather has been warming up, so I love to eat my breakfast slash dessert slash doughnuts out on the balcony. I grab a blanket and my Microsoft Surface Pro 3, which basically just replaces my laptop, so I can do my daily stalking of people on social media—it’s fun! Then I have a really important decision to make: which doughnut shall I eat first? The one with Cinnamon Toast Crunch on top or the one with Lucky Charms? And the winner is . . . LUCKY CHARMS! Yeah, I’ll have to eat a salad for lunch, but it’s totally worth it. Then I spend a little bit of time just reviewing my calendar (NOTHING going on today, I repeat NOTHING), checking up on important things like the weather and Instagram, then head back down to my lair and WHAT? My bed is magically made! Thanks, Mom.