Parallel

the maid. But Bret Woodward is standing in the hallway, wearing a blazer and holding flowers. He’s the A-list actor who’s generating all the buzz about our movie, the one whose face is on the cover of nearly every major magazine this month, promoting the other eighty-million-dollar action flick he’s in, which opens this Friday. And he’s at my door. With flowers .
    “Crap!” I whisper violently into the phone. “Crap, crap, crap!”
    “What?” Caitlin whispers back.
    “Why are you whispering?”
    “Sorry.” Normal voice again. “Who’s at the door?”
    There’s another knock.
    “ Abby. Who’s at the door?”
    “Bret,” I manage to choke out.
    “Bret Woodward ?!?”
    “Shhhh,” I hiss. “I’m pretending I’m not here.”
    “Hey, Super Stealth,” comes Bret’s voice from the hallway. “I can see your feet under the door.” My eyes drop to the floor: There’s a three-inch crack between the door and the hardwood floor. Damn old hotel.
    Caitlin cracks up. “I’ll call you back,” I mutter. I punch the end button and open the door.
    “Hiding from me?” Bret asks with a wink. Yes, a wink . The Sexiest Guy Alive is standing at my door, holding flowers and winking.
    “Hiding? HA! Why would I hide?” I hold up the phone. “I was just on the phone. My friend was in the middle of a story, and I didn’t want to interrupt.” I put on what I hope is an offhand, totally-at-ease smile. The opposite of how I’m feeling.
    Bret grins. “Good. Then these are for you.” He holds out the flowers. I take them, stepping back to let him inside the room.
    A brief word about my gentleman caller. Officially he just turned thirty-three, which means in real life he’s probably pushing forty. So, best-case scenario, the man has fifteen years on me. Worst case, he’s old enough to be my father. “So what’s the occasion?” I ask, admiring the eclectic bouquet. I’ll say one thing: The man has excellent taste in flowers.
    Bret rolls his eyes. “Very funny.”
    “But my birthday’s not until tomorrow,” I point out.
    “I know that,” he says. “But the celebration starts now. So go change.”
    “Celebration?”
    “Yes. No arguing.” He walks over to my closet and opens it. It’s empty. Bret gives me a quizzical look. I point at my suitcase, jammed into a corner with clothes spilling out of it.
    “I haven’t exactly unpacked yet,” I say.
    “You haven’t unpacked? You’ve been here all summer!” Bret eyes the explosion of clothing. “How do you live like this?”
    “I don’t like to be tied down?” I offer. This isn’t even remotely true, but it sounds less lame than any of my real reasons—all of which have to do with my obsessive fixation with getting out of here so I can start college on time and proceed with my Plan. Bret nods knowingly.
    “I get that,” he says in a low tone, which I think is supposed to be his meaningful voice. “Permanence is suffocating.” I nod in what I hope is an equally meaningful way as Bret lifts my suitcase onto the bed and begins riffling through it, examining each article of clothing before folding it and setting it aside. Yes, folding. Bret Woodward is folding my clothes. “How about this?” he asks, holding up my black pajama top. I laugh. Bret doesn’t blink.
    Oh. Right. He’s serious.
    “Uh, okay . . . with what?” I ask, afraid to hear his answer. Bret tosses me the pajama top, then pulls a pair of cowboy boots out from under the bed.
    “With these,” he says, holding up the boots. “Now, go change,” he instructs, steering me toward the bathroom. “We have to be somewhere in fifteen minutes.”
    To Bret’s credit, the pajama top sort of looks like a dress. A really, really tiny dress. If only it weren’t a PAJAMA TOP. I contemplate telling Bret there’s no way I can go out in this, but then, something in me gives way. My eighteenth birthday is less than five hours away. After that many years of model child behavior, I’ve earned the right to bend the rules a little bit (in this particular case, the rule that says that a self-respecting girl should not go out in public wearing nothing but a pajama top and boots). And it’s L.A.; it’s not like I’ll be the most scantily clad girl on the street—not by a long shot. I strip out of my jeans, spritz on some perfume, say a quick prayer of thanksgiving that I shaved my legs, and slide the pajam—er, dress—over my head.
    Even though I’ve worn this top to bed a zillion