Jordan picked me up at half past twelve, although we didn’t actually get out the door until one, after he’d met my mom and answered all of her questions. She pretended to be all friendly by asking him where he’d moved from (California), what house he’d moved into (one in Three Forks’ most elite neighborhood), whether his parents needed any help unpacking (his parents were divorced, but no, his mom had it under control), and what his mom was doing here in town. (She worked via the Internet as a freelance editor, so she could live anywhere she wanted. She chose Three Forks because her grandparents had lived here, and she’d visited their cabin up in Ruidoso every summer when she was a child. She’d just inherited the cabin and was turning it into a rental property.) I knew Mom wasn’t just making polite conversation but amassing enough information on Jordan to make sure he wasn’t some aspiring serial killer.
When she was finally satisfied that letting me go with him would in no way endanger my life, we walked outside. Our cars stood side by side in the driveway, looking like auto twins. I pointed to them. “See anyone could have gotten into the wrong car.”
He smiled as we walked to his. “I know. Never once have I criticized you for getting into the wrong car.”
I slid into the front seat, feeling an odd sort of déjà vu. Even the upholstery felt the same. Only the circular charm hanging from the rearview mirror told the difference. After I’d buckled my seat belt, I ran a finger over the charm. “What’s this?”
“The symbol of the Pima tribe. My dad’s half Pima.”
Well that explained the dark brown hair. In one moment he went from cute new guy to exotic cute new guy.
As we drove through town toward the highway I played unofficial tour guide. “There’s the library and the post office. Applebee’s is across that street by the IHOP. IHOP is the only thing open late besides the Taco Time. That’s the feed and tackle store, but just because we have a feed and tackle store doesn’t mean we’re a bunch of hicks.”
“Right,” he said. I could tell he didn’t believe me.
“Where in California are you from?”
“Los Angeles.”
Relaxing against the headrest, I let out a sigh. “Really? I want to live in Los Angeles.”
He didn’t take his gaze from the road. “You and me both.”
“Seriously, I want to go there after high school and become an actress.”
Now his head swung around, and he stared at me. “Man, I thought it was just people in L.A. who were delusional that way. Now the first person I meet in New Mexico wants to break into the business.” He shook his head and looked back at the road. “Isn’t there anybody left in the nation who wants a normal job?”
I straightened in my seat. “What’s wrong with acting?”
“It’s people pretending to have somebody else’s life.”
“So?”
He let out a grunt of disbelief.
“It’s art,” I insisted.
“Yeah, and ninety-nine percent of the actors I know are waiters and shoe salesmen. They’re just throwing away time waiting for a break that will never happen.”
I turned in my seat to get a better view of his face. “What about the other one percent?”
More head shaking on Jordan’s part. “I can’t believe I’m having this conversation already.”
“What conversation?”
“The conversation in which I immediately transform from a normal person into a sideshow attraction. Can we talk about something else?”
I tilted my head at him. “I’m not even sure what we were talking about to begin with. What do you mean ‘a sideshow attraction’?”
“Just forget about it.” He pulled onto the highway, a long stretch of road surrounded by mesquite and scrub brush. “Look, why don’t you tell me about yourself? What do you do when you’re not getting into strangers’ cars?”
Which meant he wasn’t going to tell me anything. I folded my arms. “Well, getting into strangers’ cars takes up a lot of my time. I think I have Hondas down, so I’m about ready to work my way up to Saturns. But besides that, I work at Wal-Mart, do homework, and participate in fund-raisers in an attempt to keep the drama club afloat. That’s sort of a touch-and-go venture. Mrs. Shale says if we can’t raise money for new sets, we’ll have to put on a reader’s theater this fall. Like, hello, who’d want to sit through that? That’s not acting . . . it’s an audiotape with real people.”
He stared straight ahead, and didn’t say anything.
“So if you’re in need of a magazine subscription or wrapping paper, I’m your woman.”
Still nothing. I began to think some of my mother’s views on strangers were justified. I mean, okay, so Jordan was good-looking, but this would turn into one awkward car trip if he refused to say anything for the rest of the way. I stared out the window and watched as a mile marker flashed by.
“Is it just the fame?” he asked.
“What?”
“Is that why you want to be an actress? You want your face on the cover of People magazine and have screaming fans snap your picture?”
“No,” I said, and didn’t mention my plans to gloat at Lauren and all her cheerleading friends during my Oscar acceptance speech. That sounded shallow.
“Because it isn’t all glamorous,” Jordan said. “You’ve got to worry about paparazzi, stalkers, and people asking for your autograph in the grocery store checkout line. Fans feel like they know you, so they have no problem walking up and telling you their opinion on every movie or episode you’ve ever shot. You have no privacy.”
He sounded like he spoke from experience, and I stared at him, examining every feature as though I might suddenly recognize him from a sitcom or something. “How do you know all of this?”
More silence. Jordan tapped his thumb against the steering wheel. Finally he said, “I know people will find out sooner or later, but I really hoped it would be later. I want to get to know everyone before they all categorize me.” He turned to face me, his eyes intent. “You’ve got to promise you’re not going to tell anybody this. I mean, I haven’t even started school yet.”
I shrugged. “Okay. I promise.”
“My dad is Christopher Hunter.”
My first reaction was disbelief. I mean, it just didn’t seem possible that I was riding in a car with the son of a movie star. That sort of thing didn’t happen in Three Forks. But even as my lips formed the words “No way!” I realized how much he looked like Christopher Hunter. Same dark hair and eyes, same prominent cheekbones and square jaw. Christopher Hunter was part American Indian, and a Pima charm hung in front of my face.
“Very cool,” I said.
He shook his head. “Well, I guess that depends on your definition of cool. If you mean having to act like some sort of fugitive to avoid reporters when you spend time with your father, then yeah, it’s real cool.”
“Sorry, I guess I hadn’t thought about that part of it.” I twisted in my seat to get a better view of Jordan. “Do you see your dad often?”
Jordan looked out at the road. “Not as often as I’d like. And now that my mom has moved us to Three Forks, he’s got to fly down to see me. He’s planning on coming here the day after Thanksgiving, I’m going to California for Christmas and spring break, and that’s about all I’ll see him this year.”
Christopher Hunter was coming to Three Forks for Thanksgiving. I repressed my immediate desire to squeal like a four-year-old. I mean, here Jordan was confiding in me, sharing how he felt about not seeing his father, and all I could think about was meeting a movie star. Would it be bad form to ask for an autograph? Would it be tacky if I asked who his agent was?
I tried to hide my excitement, forcing my voice to stay casual. “Why can’t he come down more than that?”
“I don’t know. He says he’s trying to get some projects going, but my dad has said that for a while. He hasn’t done a movie in three years. I think he just doesn’t want to get in my mom’s way.”
Until Jordan pointed it out, I ha
dn’t realized that his dad hadn’t been in any movies recently. For a while he’d been in every action flick to come through town. There had also been a police series called You Can’t Hide. I watched the reruns of it faithfully when I was thirteen. Christopher Hunter had been totally hot on the TV show, and I’d taken a distinct interest in crime fighting for an hour every night.
If real police officers were that good-looking, women would go out and commit crimes just so they could turn themselves in.
“Don’t your parents get along?” I asked, but my mind wasn’t on the question at all. It was running mental calculations that would have impressed my math teacher. You see, there are few times in life when your prayers are answered in the way you expect. There are even fewer times when God drops down gifts from heaven that are better than anything you imagined. I’d been praying the drama club would run into a string of wealthy residents who all desperately needed wrapping paper. Instead, Christopher Hunter’s son had moved to town.
I owed God for this.
Sometime in the future when I became fabulously wealthy, I would remember this moment and build a church, a homeless shelter, and a hospital wing all in an attempt to repay him.
The Drama Club was putting on the fall play at the end of October. Somehow Christopher Hunter had to see it. God didn’t drop gifts from heaven unless he intended you to catch them. Christopher Hunter would see me in the play, recognize I had the talent to make it in the business, and introduce me to the right people. I’d skip along the road to being discovered—that is, if I could work out a few details like making sure the Drama Club had the money for sets, making sure Mr. Hunter came to Three Forks in October, and making sure Jordan took him to the play.
“Kind of,” Jordan said. “It’s sort of weird between them.”
I looked back at Jordan with an interested expression, even though I’d forgotten what we were talking about. “Weird how?”
He shrugged. “It’s hard to explain.”
“Try,” I said. “I’ll understand.” And if I didn’t understand, at least I would remember what we were talking about.
He gave me a considering gaze. “You hardly know me. You don’t really want to hear about my parents’ relationship, or why it’s weird.”
His parents. That’s right. He’d been telling me his dad didn’t visit because he didn’t want to get in his mom’s way. “You don’t have to tell me about your family if you don’t want to.” I ran my hand across the dashboard and pretended none of it mattered. “Last night when we talked, you never did fess up to what your most embarrassing moment was. You can tell me about that instead.”
Jordan looked straight ahead, not at me. “Okay, so my mom and dad got married young. Right out of high school in fact. She had me, then worked part-time as a grocery store clerk while he worked as a plumber’s assistant in an attempt to pay the bills and make it through college.”
Folding my arms, I sat back against the seat. “You don’t want to tell me your most embarrassing moment? How bad could it be?”
“Dad took some acting classes in college, and the rest is history. He landed a part in a soap opera before he even graduated. After his character was killed off by a psychotic woman who was actually trying to murder his twin brother’s illegitimate child, he did the police show and then the movies.”
“You not only know my most embarrassing moment, you were directly involved in it. It’s only fair that I know your worst moment too.”
“Unfortunately, Mom got tired of seeing Dad only on TV, and not much in person. It caused a lot of fights. Finally he left, and for a while neither of us saw much of him except on the cover of the tabloids. He was always heading off to France with some sitcom babe or supermodel.”
“Well, okay, I can see how that would be weird.”
“That’s not the weird part. The weird part is that my parents aren’t together.”
I shook my head. “No, that doesn’t really seem all that strange to me. I can understand why they’re not together.”
He held out one hand as though trying to show me something. “Have you ever known two people who just seem right for each other? They have the same interests, the same sense of humor—they even like the same food?”
Yes, I knew those people. Brendan and me. His friends used to laugh at us because we both liked Canadian bacon and pineapple pizza better than pepperoni and sausage. I nodded at Jordan dejectedly.
“Well, that’s my mom and dad. Neither of them ever got serious about someone else, and I think it’s because they can’t find anyone who suits them as well as they suit each other.”
Even though I’d never met her, I immediately took Jordan’s mom’s side in the matter. “What about the sitcom babes and supermodels? Your dad apparently found quite a few people who suited him better.”
“That was all just an ego trip for my father. He was really a jerk for a while there, and I barely spoke to him for five years because of it. But the thing is, he’s changed. I’m not sure my mom sees it though. I don’t think either of them do.”
Jordan sounded so casual about it, but I felt a stab of sympathy for his mom. I wondered if she’d ever woken up in the morning thinking of ways to win her ex-husband back.
Jordan took his glance away from the road long enough to meet my eyes. “And I know what you’re going to say next. You’re going to tell me that all kids of divorce want their parents back together, and I shouldn’t set myself up for disappointment trying to hook them up again, because it will never happen. All my friends in California said the same thing.”
He turned back to the road, as though the matter were closed.
I tapped my finger against the armrest. “I wasn’t going to say that at all.” My mental calculations clicked through the possibilities of the situation. “I mean, if they’re really right for one another, why shouldn’t you try to get them back together? Maybe you should encourage your dad to visit you down here more, then he’d have to spend time with your mom.”
“I’ve already tried. He’s pretty firm on the not-until-Thanksgiving plan. Three Forks isn’t exactly his scene. He’s not really a tackle and feed store type of guy.”
Thanksgiving? Too late. The costumes would be back in storage by then, and my magnificent performance all but forgotten.
Jordan gave me a grin. “But I do have plans for them when he comes up. They honeymooned in Mom’s grandparent’s cabin, and one way or another I’m going to get the two of them to spend some time back there.”
“Oh, well, at least that’s good.”
It wasn’t good, but I didn’t know how to change it to a sooner date. For the rest of the car trip, I worried more about Jordan’s mother’s love life than I did about my own. Jordan and I talked about all sorts of things, but all the while, in the back of my mind I wondered how to get his father to Three Forks earlier.
When we finally got to the mall, I gave Jordan the grand tour of the best stores. Jordan outright refused to look at anything in Sears. I tried to explain to him that the clothes didn’t have PURCHASED AT SEARS stamped anywhere on them, so nobody would know where he bought his clothes. But no, he told me it was a matter of principle. He couldn’t buy clothing at a store that also sold dishwashers and wrenches.
Like that made any sense.
He decided Dillards was an acceptable store, where the employees wouldn’t get confused and try to sell him drill bits along with his jeans, so we went there. I sifted through the racks and handed him things to try on.
At first he took the clothes skeptically—because after all I worked in Wal-Mart and had tried to lure him into Sears.
“It’s not where you shop,” I told him as I handed him a sweater. “It’s knowing what styles are in and being able to put different things together to achieve the right look.” I added a shirt to his pile. “Trust me, I know guys clothes. I used to dress my ex-boyfriend all of the time.”
Over the stack of clothes, Jordan raised an eyebrow at me.
“I mea
n, I picked out clothes for him. At the store. Like I’m doing for you now.” I blushed despite myself. “See, that’s one more event to add to my list of embarrassing moments.” With a flourish I pointed him toward the dressing room. “Try everything on, and I’ll let you know what colors are best on you. I’m guessing green right now, but it’s hard to tell.”
He folded the shirts over one arm. “I just want to buy the clothes I like. I don’t care about the color.”
I took a shirt from a nearby rack and held it up against his chest. “Maybe blue . . . here, take this shirt too.”
He took the stack to the dressing room, then every few minutes stepped out with a resigned expression on his face. “I look suburban.”
“And that’s a good thing,” I told him.
I vetoed a couple of the shirts but put the rest in the “hot” pile, because Jordan made everything look good: green, blue, and—if he’d tried it—orange with chartreuse polka dots. He bought everything I had okayed without even looking at the price tags. As the clerk put the last of it into a bag he tucked his wallet back into his jeans. “Well, this should make my mom happy.” The clerk handed Jordan the bag, and we wandered out of the store. “Do you have anything you want to shop for while we’re here?” he asked.
“No, I can’t buy stuff for myself with you around. That would ruin the whole mystique.”
“Mystique? What are you talking about?”
As we walked down the hallway I gazed at the mannequins in the storefronts. “Guys aren’t supposed to know where girls get their clothes. We just appear in them at school like fashion goddesses. If I bought something with you today, then every time you saw me wear it you’d think, ‘Oh, that’s the shirt Jessica bought at Dillards, on sale for thirteen ninety-nine.’ It would ruin the whole image of the outfit.”
Jordan swung the bag against his leg. “But what about my image? You just saw me buy everything.”
“Yes, well, guys have very little mystique to begin with, so they don’t have to worry about preserving it. It’s better that girls help them pick out clothes so they match.”
“I match,” Jordan said. “I have mystique. I don’t know about Three Forks, but California is full of well-dressed guys.”