Size 12 and Ready to Rock
Page 10
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“Of course they questioned us,” says the girl with the braids. I was guessing from her clipboard that she was the production assistant. “At the scene. What could we tell them? One minute Bear was standing next to us, and the next he was on the ground, and Jordan and Chris had his blood all over them.”
“Exactly. The thing about a random shooting is that it’s random,” Christopher says. “None of us saw anything. It wasn’t a drive-by. The shot seemed to come out of nowhere.”
“The police think it might have been teenagers,” Stephanie explains, “playing with a gun on a nearby rooftop. So far they haven’t found anyone.”
“It’s not like any of us shot him,” Jordan protests. “Bear’s our friend.”
“I can tell.” Cooper is scowling. “Such good friends that you stuck around the hospital to make sure he’s all right.”
“Jared, our field producer, stayed with him,” the camera operator says.
“Yeah,” grunts the guy with the boom. “With the assistant camera operator to get footage of them putting in the stitches.”
“Bear’s fine.” Stephanie cuts everyone else off. “His injury did create some unwanted attention from the press and has also put us way behind schedule, in addition to upsetting Tania, as you can see. So now that all this nonsense about not being allowed to film in the building is cleared up, could we please—”
I’m not listening to her anymore, though. Tania—who was named one of People magazine’s fifty most beautiful people—looks terrible. Her painfully thin shoulders are slumped inward, her hands limp in her lap, her bony knees knocked. Her normally cappuccino-colored skin tone is yellowed, though whether this is a reflection from the gold of her dress, the suddenly insufficient lighting, or what she’s been through, it’s hard to tell.
I do know jaundice is never a good look for a pop star. It’s especially worrisome for one who should be glowing. Tania’s going into her second trimester. The cover of Us Weekly recently crowed that she and Jordan are expecting a little girl.
The baby makes me feel especially protective of Tania, even if its mother has always treated me like crap.
“You still can’t film in here,” I say flatly. “In fact, I need everyone to leave in order to give Tania some privacy while the EMTs take a look at her.”
Stephanie narrows her eyes. “Excuse me?” she says.
“Someone called an ambulance,” I remind her. “I’m assuming that wasn’t done to add drama to your show, because it’s unlawful to place a call to emergency services for any reason other than to report an actual emergency—”
The ambulance attendants have been watching our exchange like spectators at a tennis match. “That’s true,” the female EMT says. “What’s this show called anyway?”
The vein in the middle of Stephanie’s forehead has begun to throb again. “Jordan Loves Tania,” she says. “We’re hoping it’s going to be CRT’s first hit, and next season’s number-one-rated husband-and-wife-themed reality show. That’s why we certainly didn’t place any unlawful calls to emergency services. We can’t allow any scenes to roll off camera. Jordan’s and Tania’s fans are going to want to share this emotional moment—”
Jordan, still on the couch with his arm around Tania, looks uncomfortable.
“I know you wanted to film them examining her, Steph, but I think Tania would rather—”
Jordan is doing something I’ve never see him do before: putting another human being’s best interests before his own. It’s sort of sweet, especially the way Tania is looking up at him with her humongous brown eyes so weepy and trusting.
Too bad “Steph” has to ruin the moment by interrupting him, waspishly. “Jordan, that wasn’t the agreement you signed. Nothing off camera. That’s what we said. That’s what your father said.”
Jordan looks dejected. “Right,” he says. “No, of course, you’re right.”
I see Tania’s gaze drop to the floor in defeat. I’m not surprised that Jordan has failed to stand up for his wife’s rights. Unlike Cooper, Jordan has always done whatever his father told him to—including getting rid of me—and Stephanie has clearly figured this out. All she has to do, apparently, is say the words, “That’s what your father said,” and Jordan snaps to it. I glance at Cooper, and see that he looks as disgusted with his brother as I feel.
Before Cooper can say anything, however, I come to Tania’s rescue. I don’t really want to. I certainly don’t owe either her or Jordan anything. But I can’t help it. Fischer Hall is my island—of misfit toys, as Cooper pointed out—and I don’t like seeing people pushed around on my island.
“Well, once again, too bad,” I say, “because there’s no filming allowed in the building.”
Tania lifts her heavy layer of false eyelashes, and I’m reminded of why she’s such a popular performer. It’s not only because she has such a great voice—she does—or looks so great in her skimpy costumes—that’s true too. It’s because her face conveys such a wealth of emotion in a single glance . . . or seems to at least. Right now it’s conveying overwhelming gratitude toward me.
I’m a little confused. Tania Trace has sold more than 20 million albums, topped the charts in over thirty countries, won four Grammy Awards, and now she has a baby on the way with Jordan Cartwright, who’s produced a record number of hits of his own (with his dad’s help, of course). The two of them have their own TV show. She’s a diva. Why she can’t tell Stephanie Brewer no herself is beyond me.
“And we ain’t signing no waivers,” the male EMT says loudly as he and his partner cross the living room to Tania’s side.
Stephanie’s vein begins to throb so wildly, I’m scared it’s going to burst.
Cooper must have noticed the same thing, since he says, “Maybe we should go outside. Isn’t that a terrace out there? It might be a little cooler.”
Cooper’s being polite. He knows perfectly well that there is a terrace outside the Allingtons’ apartment. I was almost murdered on it once.
“Yes, great idea,” Christopher says quickly. He claps his hands. “Okay, hey, everyone, let’s take five and give our star some privacy while she gets checked out by these nice, er, ambulance people. Drinks in the fridge in the kitchen if anyone wants them—”
“Exactly. The thing about a random shooting is that it’s random,” Christopher says. “None of us saw anything. It wasn’t a drive-by. The shot seemed to come out of nowhere.”
“The police think it might have been teenagers,” Stephanie explains, “playing with a gun on a nearby rooftop. So far they haven’t found anyone.”
“It’s not like any of us shot him,” Jordan protests. “Bear’s our friend.”
“I can tell.” Cooper is scowling. “Such good friends that you stuck around the hospital to make sure he’s all right.”
“Jared, our field producer, stayed with him,” the camera operator says.
“Yeah,” grunts the guy with the boom. “With the assistant camera operator to get footage of them putting in the stitches.”
“Bear’s fine.” Stephanie cuts everyone else off. “His injury did create some unwanted attention from the press and has also put us way behind schedule, in addition to upsetting Tania, as you can see. So now that all this nonsense about not being allowed to film in the building is cleared up, could we please—”
I’m not listening to her anymore, though. Tania—who was named one of People magazine’s fifty most beautiful people—looks terrible. Her painfully thin shoulders are slumped inward, her hands limp in her lap, her bony knees knocked. Her normally cappuccino-colored skin tone is yellowed, though whether this is a reflection from the gold of her dress, the suddenly insufficient lighting, or what she’s been through, it’s hard to tell.
I do know jaundice is never a good look for a pop star. It’s especially worrisome for one who should be glowing. Tania’s going into her second trimester. The cover of Us Weekly recently crowed that she and Jordan are expecting a little girl.
The baby makes me feel especially protective of Tania, even if its mother has always treated me like crap.
“You still can’t film in here,” I say flatly. “In fact, I need everyone to leave in order to give Tania some privacy while the EMTs take a look at her.”
Stephanie narrows her eyes. “Excuse me?” she says.
“Someone called an ambulance,” I remind her. “I’m assuming that wasn’t done to add drama to your show, because it’s unlawful to place a call to emergency services for any reason other than to report an actual emergency—”
The ambulance attendants have been watching our exchange like spectators at a tennis match. “That’s true,” the female EMT says. “What’s this show called anyway?”
The vein in the middle of Stephanie’s forehead has begun to throb again. “Jordan Loves Tania,” she says. “We’re hoping it’s going to be CRT’s first hit, and next season’s number-one-rated husband-and-wife-themed reality show. That’s why we certainly didn’t place any unlawful calls to emergency services. We can’t allow any scenes to roll off camera. Jordan’s and Tania’s fans are going to want to share this emotional moment—”
Jordan, still on the couch with his arm around Tania, looks uncomfortable.
“I know you wanted to film them examining her, Steph, but I think Tania would rather—”
Jordan is doing something I’ve never see him do before: putting another human being’s best interests before his own. It’s sort of sweet, especially the way Tania is looking up at him with her humongous brown eyes so weepy and trusting.
Too bad “Steph” has to ruin the moment by interrupting him, waspishly. “Jordan, that wasn’t the agreement you signed. Nothing off camera. That’s what we said. That’s what your father said.”
Jordan looks dejected. “Right,” he says. “No, of course, you’re right.”
I see Tania’s gaze drop to the floor in defeat. I’m not surprised that Jordan has failed to stand up for his wife’s rights. Unlike Cooper, Jordan has always done whatever his father told him to—including getting rid of me—and Stephanie has clearly figured this out. All she has to do, apparently, is say the words, “That’s what your father said,” and Jordan snaps to it. I glance at Cooper, and see that he looks as disgusted with his brother as I feel.
Before Cooper can say anything, however, I come to Tania’s rescue. I don’t really want to. I certainly don’t owe either her or Jordan anything. But I can’t help it. Fischer Hall is my island—of misfit toys, as Cooper pointed out—and I don’t like seeing people pushed around on my island.
“Well, once again, too bad,” I say, “because there’s no filming allowed in the building.”
Tania lifts her heavy layer of false eyelashes, and I’m reminded of why she’s such a popular performer. It’s not only because she has such a great voice—she does—or looks so great in her skimpy costumes—that’s true too. It’s because her face conveys such a wealth of emotion in a single glance . . . or seems to at least. Right now it’s conveying overwhelming gratitude toward me.
I’m a little confused. Tania Trace has sold more than 20 million albums, topped the charts in over thirty countries, won four Grammy Awards, and now she has a baby on the way with Jordan Cartwright, who’s produced a record number of hits of his own (with his dad’s help, of course). The two of them have their own TV show. She’s a diva. Why she can’t tell Stephanie Brewer no herself is beyond me.
“And we ain’t signing no waivers,” the male EMT says loudly as he and his partner cross the living room to Tania’s side.
Stephanie’s vein begins to throb so wildly, I’m scared it’s going to burst.
Cooper must have noticed the same thing, since he says, “Maybe we should go outside. Isn’t that a terrace out there? It might be a little cooler.”
Cooper’s being polite. He knows perfectly well that there is a terrace outside the Allingtons’ apartment. I was almost murdered on it once.
“Yes, great idea,” Christopher says quickly. He claps his hands. “Okay, hey, everyone, let’s take five and give our star some privacy while she gets checked out by these nice, er, ambulance people. Drinks in the fridge in the kitchen if anyone wants them—”
