Shooting Stars Read Free Page B

circuit as much as he used to be now that he’s traveling to and from Japan all the time, trying to establish himself in the industry there 15
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    and take it to new levels, but any paparazzo who’s been working for more than fi ve minutes still knows who he is.
    And who I am.
    Dad loves being a paparazzo and he’s superproud that I’m in the game alongside him. Papping is his everything and he wants it to be my everything, too. And sometimes I feel like I’m almost there— like to night, scoring those great shots of Ned Hartnett. It’s times like these that I have to mentally pinch myself to remember it’s not my dream like it is my dad’s. My dream is photography classes— but there’s no way I’m giving up the paparazzi game right now. The money is too good and I’ll need it for school.
    Speaking of school, I’d gotten a call from the school counselor, Ms. Forman, this afternoon. She’d said she was checking on how the summer vacation photography workshop I’d taken had gone ( just okay, nothing special), but I could tell she was really checking up to see if I’d be back at school in the fall. The thing was, I’d gone through this phase a while back where I fell asleep a little too much at my desk and my grades were starting to slip. When the school found out why this was (too many paparazzi hours— late nights and little sleep), I became an “at- risk” student and developed an unwanted close relationship with Ms. Forman. She was always quizzing me about my grades— which actually weren’t too bad, since I’d managed to pull them up again— and my friends. Okay, fi ne.
    So my friends were kind of non ex is tent (I went to school on a be-there-only- when- you- absolutely- have- to basis).
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    Anyway, however many times I told Ms. Forman I wasn’t going to drop out of school (hardly— I couldn’t wait to grad-uate and go on to study something I actually loved), she didn’t seem to hear me. Thus, the checking if I’d be back in the fall, which was getting closer.
    A knock on the wall makes me jump slightly. Wendy must be home. I knock back, letting her know that I’m still awake, and within a few seconds, I’m IMing my next- door neighbor and cousin. When my dad decided he’d be working more in Japan, he bought the apartment next door and gave it to Wendy rent- free in exchange for keeping an eye on me during the weeks he is away. Like approximately 95
    percent of people living in West Hollywood, Wendy once wanted to be an actor. Now she’s a fl ight attendant who works the LA- to- London route. She only covers fi rst- class cabin and is really pretty and really tall. In fact, her legs are probably the same height as I am. No doubt about it, she got the good genes.
    Me? I got the short genes. My dad, Australian, isn’t tall, and my mother, Japa nese . . . sorry, boring. Who wants to talk about their parents? The point is, I ended up a ge ne tic shrimp. On the evolutionary scale, I’m crawling back to the sludge. Still, being tiny comes in handy at times, to night
    being a good example.
    Wends: Hey kiddo! Just get in, too?
    ZoJo: Yep. Big night. Ned Hartnett. Good shots.
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    Wends: Ned Hartnett? Cool. Love his music. But isn’t it your night off?
    ZoJo: It was. How was the fl ight?
    Wends: Long and demanding. The usual. You off to bed?
    ZoJo: Just going to stuff down my cold pizza and then go to bed.
    Wends: Okay. Night- night, sweet cuz. I have three days off, so we’ll catch up?
    ZoJo: Defi nitely. Will wait for your knock.
    I manage to throw down two more pieces of pizza before I slink off to bed. And it isn’t until I’ve brushed my teeth and fallen onto the sheets, fully clothed, that I realize something.
    In all the