We barely left the house that trip, and when we did, it was to sneak off to Nashville in the early hours of the morning under the cover of dawn. Now that I think of it, I can imagine the neighbors around here didn’t appreciate the disruption of their usual peace and quiet.
“No, just me,” I reassure Patsy. In other words: don’t worry, I don’t attract a paparazzi mob or hordes of stalker fans. “I’m staying here for a little while to get a break from LA, so we’re keeping it quiet.”
“Oh.” Patsy seems relieved. “I won’t say a word.”
“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it. Once the new movie hits theaters and the hype dies down, I can go home – but not until the heat on my father is off. For now, none of us can afford to have the neighbors selling stories to the media.
I am about to say goodbye and part ways when I remember the real reason why I’m even standing on this porch. “I was wondering . . . Is Savannah around? I think we were in the same elementary class.”
Patsy’s eyes light up. “Yes, you were! Let me just grab her for you.” She turns and disappears deep into the house. “Savannah!”
Thank God for the reassurance – I was worried I was imagining this link to Savannah Bennett, and then how awkward would this have been?
I play anxiously with my hands while I wait for either Patsy or Savannah to show up in front of me. The AC from the house cools my legs and I can’t help but edge closer to the door, fanning my face. Even in the shade of the porch, the humidity is crazy. I stand there for a minute, maybe longer, listening to the faint sound of voices from somewhere inside the house. Maybe Savannah doesn’t want to meet her childhood friend who has crawled, completely unexpectedly, out of the woodwork. Maybe Patsy is having to beg her to come and say hello.
This is kind of mortifying, actually.
“Eavesdropping?” a voice says.
I spin around, heartbeat rocketing, and lay eyes on a boy. “Who are you?” I say defensively.
The boy doesn’t appear that much older than me. There’s dirt on his face and his pile of blond hair is unruly. He’s leaning against a shovel that he’s dug into the ground, his rubber boots covered in caked earth.
“Sorry,” he says. “We don’t usually get strangers wandering in here. Are you looking for something?”
“I’m waiting for Savannah,” I say, but I feel like an immense idiot. Waiting for someone, who probably doesn’t even want to say hello to me, let alone hang out with me for the entire summer. “I’m not an intruder, I swear.”
He plucks the shovel out from the dirt and tramps over to the lowest step of the porch. “Myles,” he says, stretching up the stairs to offer me his slightly grubby hand. “The smarter, more good-looking one of the Bennett offspring.”
Oh, Savannah has a brother. And her brother has hands covered in dirt. “Uhh,” I mumble, staring at his outstretched hand.
Myles smirks. “Someone’s not a ranch girl,” he remarks. I guess it really is that obvious. “Where’s that accent from, anyway? ’Cause you aren’t from around here.”
It depends how you look at it. Does being born here count as being from around here? I purse my lips and tell him, “California.”
“Nice. I really want to learn how to surf one day,” he muses. “How do you know Savannah?”
“We were in the same class back in first grade.”
It’s immediately clear that Myles thinks it’s a bit bizarre for such an old acquaintance to be showing up out of the blue after all this time. Maybe he expected me to say something normal. Something like, “Oh, we met at a party a couple months ago.” Something that would actually justify me being here.
But then I hear footsteps from inside the house and I turn my back on Myles, facing the front door to see who has turned up.
Savannah Bennett has decided, at last, to come and say hello. It’s most likely just to satisfy her curiosity, but I’ll take what I can get.
She’s smaller than her mom – like, a-tiny-smidge-over-five-feet tall – and her scrubbed face makes her appear young for our age. Strawberry blonde hair frames her round, full cheeks and her eyes are big and bright, long eyelashes defining them. She’s the only person I’ve met so far today who isn’t wearing flannel; she’s got on faded denim overall shorts with a striped tee instead. She offers me a smile that’s warm and kind, and it eases the tightness in my chest a little.
“I thought Mom was pulling my leg,” she says, stepping out onto the porch in front of me. She studies me up and down, head-to-toe, the exact same way her mother did. “But you’re really here, huh?”
I wonder if she even remembers me, or if my name simply jiggled her memory a little the same way her name did mine. We were so young when I left Fairview that for a second it crosses my mind that maybe she has no idea what actually happened to me. I’m pretty sure we left without much warning, so was there even time for explanations? I can’t remember if I gathered my friends on the playground and said goodbye. Maybe I just disappeared one day, and everyone forgot I ever existed by the following summer. Even those handful of times I’ve come back to visit over the past decade, I was too young to leave Mom and Dad’s side. No catch-ups with old friends, just the constant ushering into minivans and sneaking into buildings via back doors to hide from paparazzi.
“Yeah. Alive and in the flesh,” I joke.
“What are you doing back here? Don’t you live in LA?” Savannah questions, her accent softer than her mom and her brother’s. So, she does remember me to some degree. She catches the slight arch of my brow, then blushes. “I’ve kept tabs on you. Is that weird? It’s only every once in a while when I see something about Everett Harding on Twitter and it reminds me to check in.” Her face falls in horror, as though she can’t stop the words from tumbling out of her mouth. “Oh, crap, I sound like a stalker now. I do, don’t I? And why did I call him Everett to you? Why didn’t I just call him your dad?”
“Savannah,” I say, and she ceases her babbling. “It’s cool.”
She covers her face with her hands, unable to look at me now. She even groans a little.
I stifle my laughter. This is kind of amusing, mostly because I’ve never personally experienced any sort of freak out like this. At Thousand Oaks High, my friends couldn’t care less who my father is. Because their mom is a model. Or their own dad is a rock star. Or their grandmother is a fashion designer. In Thousand Oaks, pretty much everyone has some sort of connection to the celebrity world, which means famous relatives is the norm. And that means no one cares.
“Ohhhhh.” Myles takes a sharp intake of breath as he connects the dots and somehow his expression is one of both fascination and horror. “The ranch down the road. That’s your folks?”