Famous, Page 2

  1. Losing Nasim, which will break my heart.

  2. My mother, who predicted I’d want to stay out here and will throw an “I told you so” fit the size of Mount Olympus. Dad will be cool with it. He understands. You do what you have to do for your career. If you don’t, someone else will and you’ll miss your opportunity.

  I sit up. Is it my imagination, or is the light from outside brighter than on past days? Maybe my eyes are overly sensitive because I’m semiseriously sleep deprived? Whatever the reason, I turn away from the window and look at the bare off-white bedroom walls. I am in the back of Willow’s pink twenty-three-room Mediterranean-style palazzo, which once belonged to Madonna. And, before that, to Barbra Streisand. I wonder how many of my classmates know who Barbra Streisand is. Or the owner before her, Lana Turner. Who? Only the biggest movie starlet of the 1950s.

  Funny how this mansion has been owned by a series of super famous (in their time) Hollywood starlets, all of whom had major difficulty with relationships.

  I tug my fingers through the rat’s nest that is my hair and get caught on a knot. Lying on the floor are my new Manolos, red alligator pumps that cost more than most cameras and are without question the most beautiful shoes ever to embrace my ugly feet. How could I refuse when Willow insisted on buying them for me?

  Wait a minute. . . . Speaking of cameras, where’s my Nikon? Oh my god! Where’s my camera?

  New York Weekly

  THE YOUNGEST PAPARAZZO

  The last bell rings, and the academic day at the exclusive downtown Herrin School is officially over. Jamie Gordon’s friends leave for their after-school activities—music, dance, gymnastics, chess. Jamie, fifteen, a ninth-grader, heads for a different sort of after-school activity—one that involves hanging around outside a restaurant on Seventeenth Street in Chelsea, waiting with a dozen other paparazzi to see if Gabrielle Bloom, the star of the HBO series Tugboat Annie, will emerge with her new boyfriend, investment banker David Balkan.

  If they do, Jamie will do her best to get the money shot.

  Other parents have to pay for their children’s after-school activities, but so far this year, Jamie has grossed close to $3,000. Her celebrity photos have appeared in half a dozen magazines as well as on numerous websites. She is universally regarded as the youngest paparazzo New York has ever seen.

  “I really don’t like being called a paparazzo,” Jamie said on a recent afternoon while she waited with her fellow photographers on the sidewalk outside Chez Toi, where a tipster had said Bloom and Balkan were dining. “I consider myself a celebrity photographer.”

  While some might argue that she’s splitting hairs, most of the photographers who work alongside Jamie say that she displays uncommon poise and professionalism for someone so young.

  “Honestly, I’m amazed by the quality of her work,” said photo agent Carla Harris, who reps Jamie’s photos to the media. “A lot of people assumed that those shots of Tatiana Frazee were just luck. But the work Jamie’s done since then has convinced me that she’s both committed to this business and has the talent to succeed in it.”

  While none of Jamie’s recent shots have equaled the now infamous photos of the supermodel Frazee losing her composure in a Soho coffee shop, Harris says that Jamie has been tenacious and consistent in her production of celebrity pictures.

  “No one hits a home run every time,” said Harris. “Jamie’s okay with hitting singles and doubles. And that means that sooner or later she’ll probably hit another home run.”

  Some of Jamie’s fellow photogs are less charitable. “She’s just a kid who lives at home. Every time she sells a picture, she’s taking bread out of the mouths of guys like me who are trying to make a living,” said one paparazzo who asked not to be identified.

  “Face it,” said another. “There’s nothing really exceptional about her photos. If she were twenty-four instead of fifteen this would be a total nonstory.”

  But others offer grudging praise. “Jamie definitely has a knack for knowing where to set up and when to click the shutter,” says videographer David Axelrod. “In this business, what counts is being able to anticipate a star’s next move. I don’t know how she figured it out so fast. Guess she’s a quick study.”

  Jamie may be a quick study with a camera, but her mother, Dr. Carol Gordon, would prefer it if she were studying something else. “What she’s doing is unusual and exciting, but it can’t replace an education,” said Dr. Gordon, who is a dentist. She and Jamie’s father, Seth Gordon, a creative director at Shandler Advertising, divorced about five years ago.

  “Jamie’s curfew is eight o’clock on weekdays and eleven on weekends,” said Dr. Gordon. “If her GPA falls below A-minus, that could easily change.”

  Jamie’s father, Seth, takes a somewhat more laissez-faire attitude toward his daughter. “Obviously I’m biased, but I think Jamie’s very mature for her age,” said Mr. Gordon. “I trust her judgment. I was blown away when they wanted to send her out to Utah to cover the Sundance Film Festival. If it were up to me, I would have let her go.”

  But Jamie’s mother put her foot down. “I didn’t want her to miss school,” said Dr. Gordon.

  Speaking of which, what do the folks at Herrin think of Jamie’s after-school career?

  “We have many talented young people here,” said headmistress Pamela Wickersham. “To be honest, I wasn’t aware that Jamie was selling photographs to the media, but I’m not surprised. Herrin students are encouraged to pursue a wide range of extracurricular activities. Our job is to encourage and foster the pursuit of excellence in whatever fields interest our students.”

  When asked why she spends her afternoons and weekends hanging around restaurants and clubs waiting to photograph celebrities, Jamie said, “This may sound strange, but it’s actually fun and exciting. It’s cool if I make some money, but that’s not really why I do it. There’s something rewarding about getting a good shot. It’s kind of like fishing. You go to a spot and wait and wait. Sometimes nothing bites. But once in a while you catch a fish.”

  And perhaps that’s the answer. If Jamie Gordon lived near a lake, she might spend her time waiting for a trout to bite. But living in New York, she has no choice but to troll for a different sort of game.

  OCTOBER OF NINTH GRADE, NYC

  “YOU’RE FAMOUS.” THE SPEAKER OF THOSE WORDS WAS MY boyfriend, Nasim. It was the first time anyone ever said that to me, and I had to admit that it felt good. Right up there with “You’re pretty” or “You’re smart.” No, even better than “You’re smart.”

  “Thank you,” I replied.

  “You’re welcome.” Nasim was Persian and a sophomore at Herrin. He was tall and thin, yet broad shouldered, with long, straight black hair, olive skin, and the darkest almond-shaped eyes I’ve ever seen. Personally, I thought he was the best-looking boy at Herrin.

  At the moment of Nasim’s proclamation about my fame, we were hurrying along the sidewalk toward school, clutching paper cups of cappuccinos, and dodging the briefcase crowd trudging toward the subway to work. Nasim reached into his backpack and pulled out a copy of New York Weekly. “How many people do we know who have been profiled in a major magazine? New York City’s youngest paparazzo ever? I believe the correct answer would be one.”

  I grabbed his arm to stop him and we kissed in the middle of the crowded sidewalk, our lips pressed warmly as other bodies brushed past. “Thank you,” I said, our faces close. “Only, for the six hundred and seventy-fifth time, I am not a paparazzo. I am a celebrity photographer.”

  Nasim rolled his gorgeous almond eyes, and we started to hurry again, our shoulders now and then bumping. “There is no difference.”

  “There’s a big difference,” I insisted. “I may take pictures of celebrities, but I don’t stalk or harass them or try to get them to punch me so that I can sue them for assault.”

  Nasim changed the subject. “You never told me they wanted to send you to the Sundance Film Festival.”

  “I don’t
know why my father had to bring that up,” I said, although the truth was, I knew exactly why he’d done it: to bask, as they say, in the reflected glory of his daughter’s accomplishments. “I’m not exactly proud that my mother wouldn’t let me go. I mean, do you think that in the entire history of independent film festivals, there’s ever been anyone else who had to say no because her mother didn’t want her to miss school?”

  By now we were nearing the “hip, downtown,” but still academically excellent Herrin School, which our parents paid a fortune to so that we could get in to the best colleges and someday become rich and important and genetically prodigious. As we joined the ranks of our fellow movers and shakers to be, Nasim leaned close and whispered in my ear. “Don’t look now, but at least one hundred people are staring at you.”

  I would be lying if I didn’t admit the thrill that ran through me.

  We pushed through the wooden front doors into the warm, perfume-scented, emotionally charged world of Children of Privilege Trying Not to Appear Too Chic and headed for our lockers. Uncertain how to deal with the attention, I felt my face flush in response to the glances and whispers.

  “And what must be most exciting of all for you?” Nasim said. “That you are in the same magazine as your favorite couple, Willow Twine and Rex Dobro.”

  He was right. If there is such a thing as Fame by Proximity, then I was doubly blessed and privately delighted to be in the same issue that carried an article about the break-ups, the make-ups, and the shake-ups of Rexlow, Hollywood’s hottest couple. Recently, hardly a week had gone by without some report of a spat or fight, tearful reconciliation followed by an expensive truce offering. Rex gave Willow diamond rings, bracelets, and necklaces. She gave him fast cars, motorcycles, and a Jet Ski. One thing no one doubted was, they were crazy in love with each other.

  With the emphasis on “crazy.”

  “Oh my god! Kickin’ story, Wonder Girl!” Coming toward us was Avril Tennent, the nicest, sweetest, cutest chubby-guy-with-curly-brown-hair-who-was-convinced-he-was-going-to-be-famous someday that you’d ever want to meet.

  Postgush, Avy turned to Nasim and bumped knuckles. “Yo, dawg.”

  “S’up, pup?” replied Nasim. It was some sort of semiprivate inside joke they shared, a running satire on the macho school jocks who always greeted one another in a similar fashion.

  Avy turned back to me. “Do you know what this means? You, Jamie Gordon, are, at this moment, the most famous high school student in all of New York! So now we can be famous together! You and me! I mean, you’re in this week’s New York Weekly! This is amazing. Mind-boggling! How does it feel?”

  “Pretty cool,” I said, as his words floated though my thoughts. You, Jamie Gordon, are, at this moment, the most famous high school student in all of New York!

  I liked the sound of it. What’s the point of pretending? To be honest, it felt fabulous. Can you imagine? People all over the city. Thousands. Maybe even millions. People I didn’t even know. All of them knew who I was.

  We talked a little more and then at the next corner, Avy headed in a different direction saying he’d catch us later. Nasim and I continued down the hall. If the hallway that morning had been something of an obstacle course, I wondered if it was about to become a minefield. Planted in the middle of the corridor directly in front of us, chatting amicably and pretending to be totally unaware that they were forcing everyone to go around them, was Shelby “The Lioness” Winston and her pride.

  We’ve all seen enough teen movies and Gossip Girl to be familiar with Shelby. I suppose what truly puzzled me was how someone like her could go through life without realizing that she was the stereotypical rich, snotty, popular girl. So either she didn’t see it in herself, or she saw it and had made a conscious decision that she’d rather be rich, snotty, and popular than rich, snotty, and unpopular.

  On the other hand, I have a feeling Shelby would be the first to point out that I also fit a familiar stereotype—the sort-of maybe sometimes semipopular, sort-of artsy, sort-of pretty, sort-of-just slightly pudgy, sort-of-always questioning, sort-of-uncertain-about-a-lot-of-things type who probably grows up to write the very books and movies about girls like Shelby that I just referred to.

  But here’s the truth. And I know some people will despise me for this, but I’m just being as honest as I can possibly be. From the very instant that I learned New York Weekly was going to do a piece on me, I couldn’t help wondering how one person in particular would react. I mean, here I was, living in one of the great power, money, and media capitals of the world. By now the story in New York Weekly had probably been read, and my picture seen, by millions of people, some of them incredibly important—movie stars who made their homes in New York, the mayor, probably someone on the New York Yankees, perhaps a senator or two, surely the odd Rockefeller and Clinton. I knew this kind of publicity is way bigger than high school. I knew that someday I’d look back at Herrin and wonder how I could have possibly cared what anyone there thought. And yet, no matter how hard I tried, there was one person besides Nasim and Avy whose opinion was going to count. And that person was . . . Shelby Winston.

  APRIL OF TENTH GRADE, ON THE TIJUANA TROLLEY

  CAN’T SAY I’M THRILLED ABOUT GOING BACK EAST AFTER I HAVE my calves done. Out here it’s so different. Everybody has cosmetic work. Everybody! It’s like orthodontia. Had liposuction? Got a new nose? Chin? Some Botox? No one even blinks. Back in New York everyone has surgery too, but it’s all hush-hush. No one wants anyone to know. People disappear for a month and then reappear with a new nose and think no one will figure it out? Give me a break.

  Some of the kids from Herrin probably won’t even recognize me, but some will, and people are bound to make comments, right? So who cares? Love me, love my new look, okay? Besides, I am so past that high school scene. Those kids who still live with their parents, what do they know? They’re just tots.

  But then there are my parents. Can’t imagine what they’ll do when they see me. Not sure I want to imagine.

  Even in Mexico calf implants ain’t cheap. But there are ways to finance these things. It’s kind of ironic, but those ways involve going across the border, too.

  MARCH OF TENTH GRADE, FIRST DAY OF SPRING VACATION

  N,

  1st time in 1st class! The steward gave me Coke in a REAL glass before we even backed from the gate!

  First it was me and Actor Man wearing a silver gray suit. I’m sure I’ve seen him on TV. Next on was a woman in red high heels with Louis Vuitton beauty case. Then came woman #2 in black pants suit and stylish glasses, talking on a BlackBerry. Then 2 scruffy guys/jeans and sneakers. Carrying leather satchels stuffed with papers. SCREENWRITERS?

  The last to arrive was RACHEL MCEWEN! That’s right, the STAR!!!! N, UVE seen her! She’s got at least 1 Oscar and nominated a bunch of other times. She sat with personal assistant—chubby woman lugging 2 carry-on bags. Everyone in 1st class tried not 2 stare.

  During the flight the other passengers paid homage to Rachel. If they’d met her before (Actor Man and black pants suit lady), they reminded her of when and where. If they didn’t know her, they introduced themselves and expressed admiration for her work. It was like Queen Rachel giving audience to her subjects!

  WELCOME TO HOLLYWOOD!

  At LAX 2 men in dark suits and sunglasses were waiting for Rachel at the gate. (How did they get through security?) They escorted her and her assistant through the terminal.

  Dozens of heads turned. People asked for autographs. The dark suits stayed close. I think Rachel enjoyed the attention. Outside the terminal a long white limousine waited. The driver held the door. Just before Rachel got in, she looked around. . . . Hoping someone would ask for just 1 more autograph?

  She left, and Zach picked me up in a Honda (Where’s MY limo? ;-). He works for Willow. Hello LA—sun, palm trees! Smoggy air that makes your eyes burn. I can’t believe I’m here!

  Movie billboards everywhere. Entire walls of buildings covered by e
normous faces of stars. We drove up into the hills, past palms and lush green tropical growth, and stopped outside a tall iron gate. Beyond the gate and vast green lawn was a huge sunlit pink stucco mansion. Zach punched a code and we went through. A very large man with a very big frown was waiting in front of the mansion. I got out of the car, and he said, “ID please.”

  Luckily I had my Herrin ID. Then he pointed at my bag and said, “Any weapons or drugs?”

  Can you believe it? That was my welcome to Willow’s. More later. How did you spend first day of vacation? (See? I’m interested!) Miss you. Like, tons. Hit me back. xoxoxo

  JUNE OF TENTH GRADE, NYC

  YOU WILL LOCK THE DOOR TO YOUR ROOM AND TURN ON SOME music. Something soft and emo. A single voice accompanied by a piano or guitar. You will sit on your bed, listening to the melancholy tune, and stare at the FedEx box for a long time. The room, lit only by the small lamp on your night table, will feel dim and shadowy like a burrow, a safe place to hide. And yet you will feel afraid. Afraid to look inside. Afraid to learn what it will tell you about the end of your friend’s life. Afraid that somehow you were partly responsible.

  And yet from the moment Mrs. Tennent told you about the box, you knew you had to see what it contained. As if it might possess the answers to all the questions you wished you could still ask Avy. So after a while, even though you’re still not feeling ready, you will reach down, bend back a flap, and feel an instant of relief that the first thing you see is not a photograph of Avy near the end.