Paparazzi Read online

  The glamorous life

  The crowd pressed forward. My crowd. I waved to them the way I had seen my mom and dad do a million times, pausing to make eye contact with a couple of the photographers long enough to let them get a good shot. Mom always said you had to control your image.

  “Right, Miss Diva,” Victoria said. Her smile was a little more relaxed as she slipped her arm through mine and turned me away from the cameras. “Let’s get you on that boat.”

  “It’s a yacht,” I sniffed.

  She laughed, but really? I was being serious. We were about to be hosted by one of Greece’s biggest movie stars, and the word boat didn’t quite convey the appropriate glamour of the situation.

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  episode two:

  Paparazzi

  by LINDA GERBER

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  An Imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

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  Registered Offices: Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Published by Puffin Books, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2012

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 42

  Copyright © Linda Gerber, 2012

  All rights reserved

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA IS AVAILABLE

  Puffin Books ISBN 978-1-101-56697-8

  Interior designed by Theresa Evangelista

  Text set in Adobe Caslon regular

  Printed in the United States of America

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  ALWAYS LEARNING

  PEARSON

  For Jenna, my Greek Adventure companion

  Acknowledgments: Many thanks to my agent, Elaine Spencer; my ever-patient editor, Kristin Gilson; cover designer extraordinaire Theresa Evangelista; and my new Greek friend Popi Papazoglou. I couldn’t have done it without you.

  Table of Contents

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  17

  A sign on the wall in the Athens

  airport said, GREECE WELCOMES A NEW MYTH. YOURS.

  I had to stop and take a picture of it because it fit my situation so well. Arriving in Greece, I felt like I was actually stepping into an adventure of mythical proportions.

  My mom and dad host a popular television travel show called When in Rome, and I’ve been all over the world with them, but this was the first time I was traveling on my own. Or at least without them. I did have my tutor, Victoria, with me. It was the only way they would let me go. And by “only way,” I mean it was one of a long list of rules and conditions.

  My mom and dad’s network had invited me to help host a travel special on Greece that would air on their sister kids’ network. The only problem was, my mom and dad’s show was already scheduled to shoot in Papua, New Guinea, at the same time. They wouldn’t have even considered letting me do the Greece special if it wasn’t for Victoria. And a good deal of pressure from the network.

  They wanted to cash in on the surge of publicity When in Rome had gotten since our recent visit to Spain. Without intending to, I had landed myself in trouble there, and landed on the front pages of the tabloids in the process. The attention got a little too intense, so my mom and dad sent me to stay with my gramma in Ohio to get me out of the spotlight and let things settle down.

  It didn’t work. Newspaper and television reporters swarmed Gramma’s farm. I probably did more interviews in the few weeks I was there than my mom and dad did in a year. Our executive director, Cavin, insisted that they should take advantage of my name recognition instead of hiding me away. Finally, my mom and dad gave in when I was invited to do the special.

  Thinking about Cavin made me think about his son, Logan, and that made my stomach flip. At one time, Logan had been my best friend. When we were kids, he used to travel on location with the show just like I did. We hung out together all the time. And then Logan’s mom made him go back to live with her in Ireland. I didn’t see him for over two years, until—without any warning—he came back to the show when we were in Spain.

  And I realized I liked him.

  I mean, really liked him.

  And the way he came looking for me before he left Spain, I had a feeling that he liked me, too.

  We’d been meeting online to chat as often as we could since then, and things had just started to get interesting when I was invited to come to Greece.

  I closed my eyes and remembered Logan’s smile. His green eyes, fringed with black lashes. His Irish accent and the way he let his words lilt up at the end of a sentence. I sighed.

  “Are you feeling quite all right?” Victoria asked.

  By then we were standing in the long immigration line, waiting to be processed.

  “I’m good,” I told her, even though my stomach felt like it had been inhabited by a vicious breed of attack butterflies. Excitement, I told myself, even though I knew it was much more than that.

  If I ever wanted to return to my parents’ show—and be with Logan again—I had to prove to them that I could keep out of trouble. That I could be an asset. A lot was riding on this trip. What if I wasn’t up to the challenge?

  Suddenly, I felt claustrophobic in the long line of people. Like I couldn’t breathe.

  “Actually,” I told Victoria, “I think I need to go to the restroom.” Anywhere to get away from the crowd for a moment. I had to pull m
yself together.

  She glanced at her watch. “Can it wait until we get to baggage claim? The producers said they would be sending a driver to pick us up, and I’m afraid we’ll keep him waiting if we lose our place in line now.”

  “You stay,” I said. “Save our spot. I’ll be right back.” I didn’t wait for her to say no, but sprinted to the nearest bathroom.

  You are la chica moda, I told my image in the mirror. You can do this.

  La chica moda, in case you didn’t know, is the nickname the tabloids in Spain gave me. It means “the fashionable girl.” And I swear, it’s not something I thought a whole lot about before Spain. Fashion, I mean. I just wore what I liked. But since I pick up clothes from all over the world and have developed what the papers called my own “sense of style,” they seemed to think it was newsworthy. Once I was already in the news, that is.

  That kind of a nickname can become a burden. I mean, it’s a lot to live up to, right? I try not to think about it, but it’s there in the back of my mind, ready to pounce whenever my confidence slips.

  Of course, my mom’s quick tutorial on how to behave like a television personality didn’t help much. “You never know when someone will be watching,” she told me before I left for Greece. “Or when your picture might be taken. Remember that whenever we are in the public eye, we are always on.”

  Thanks so much, Mom. Way to make me perpetually self-conscious.

  I splashed my face with water and stared at myself in the mirror. I hardly even recognized the girl who stared back. My eyes looked bluer that usual. Bright, eager. My cheeks flushed pink with anticipation. I usually straightened my blonde hair, but I’d left my straightener at home this trip on the advice of the makeup guy with my mom and dad’s show.

  “You’ve got naturally wavy hair,” Daniel had said. “You don’t want to fight the humidity in Greece by trying to straighten it all the time. Remember, natural is your friend.”

  Taking a deep breath, I repeated the affirmations that had been my mantra from the moment I left Cleveland. I could show my mom and dad. I could be on. I could be a star. I set my sunglasses on top of my head and tossed my natural waves and stared down the girl in the mirror. “Let’s do this thing.”

  I saw the sign with my name on it the minute we rolled our luggage out of the customs area. It’s the first time I’ve seen a driver holding up my name. Usually, it’s my mom’s or dad’s name on the placard. A little thrill rippled through me and I nudged Victoria. “Look!” I whispered.

  Holding the sign was a tall man in a black suit and a crisp white shirt. He had dark, wavy hair and even darker eyes that watched the passengers coming through the entry. Our driver, I guessed. He must have recognized me—or at least saw the way I reacted to the sign he was holding—because he tucked the sign under his arm and waved us over.

  “Miss Cassidy, Miss Victoria,” he said. “I am Magus Demetriou. Kalos irthate stin Ellada. Welcome to Greece.” His voice was big and deep, just like he was. Seriously. Besides being tall, the guy had thick, wide shoulders and a solid-looking build beneath his suit. He looked more like a bodyguard than a driver.

  “Mr. Kouropoulos asked that I bring you to the yacht directly,” he said, giving a little nod first to me, and then to Victoria.

  Oh, did I mention that part of the deal with the travel special was that we would be sailing around the Greek islands on a movie star’s yacht? Yeah. It’s a rough life, but I’m willing to make the sacrifice.

  “Is it far to the harbor?” I asked.

  “Perhaps far for some, not so far for others.” He smiled in a way that made me wonder if he was joking or giving me some kind of riddle or what.

  Which meant I had no idea how to respond. All I could come up with was, “Oh,” and that didn’t quite have the star quality I was going for.

  But then, he probably didn’t even hear the answer anyway. He was already in motion, taking the luggage cart from Victoria and motioning with his head for us to follow him.

  “I trust your flight was pleasant?” he said over his shoulder.

  “It was really nice,” I said. “Thank you.”

  He led us outside through a pair of sliding-glass doors. I squinted in the bright Mediterranean sunshine and pulled the sunglasses off the top of my head, but stopped short of putting them on. Right in front of us, a sleek white limousine with tinted-glass windows idled near the loading-zone curb. I barely had time to wonder if some big celebrity was flying into Athens that afternoon before Magus stepped up to pay the uniformed attendant and I realized the limo was for us. Niiice.

  We sometimes got limousine service when I traveled with my mom and dad, but I wasn’t expecting it for just me. Well, me and Victoria. I settled the sunglasses onto my nose and slipped my cell phone from my pocket to take a quick picture to post on my blog. And to show Logan how the network was rolling out the red carpet for this show. Not bad for my first gig.

  The attendant scurried to load our luggage into the trunk of the limousine while Magus opened the backseat door for Victoria and me. I slid gracefully onto the cool, buttery-soft leather seats inside, feeling like a star. Now all I had to do for the next week and a half was act like one.

  “Miss Cassidy,” Magus said as we wove slowly through the traffic surrounding the city, “You asked how long it would take to reach the port. As you can see, it could be a while, by the clock.”

  I leaned forward in my seat to hear him better. “You said it could be long for some, and not so long for others. What did you mean?”

  “Ah. You were listening. Are you a student of philosophy, Miss Cassidy?”

  Victoria leaned forward then, too. If there was anything she loved, it was a “teaching moment.” It sounded like she and Magus were made from the same mold. “Philosophy,” Victoria told me, “means ‘love of wisdom.’ A good many of the world’s great philosophers were Greek.”

  “That is right,” Magus said, pleased. “Philosophy teaches us how to look at the world and find truth. In this instance, we see that we are stuck in traffic. Does this make our journey longer?”

  His eyes met mine in the rearview mirror as he waited for my answer. “Not if you’re talking about distance,” I said. “I’m guessing it takes more time, though.”

  “But what is time?” he asked.

  Again, he waited for an answer. “Um. I don’t know?”

  “Protagoras tells us that man is the measure of all things. Do you know what this means?”

  When I didn’t answer, Victoria chimed in. “Things are as we say they are.”

  “So …” I said, trying to follow the logic. “If I say the trip is long, it’s long, and if I say it’s short, it’s short—even if it takes the same hour either way?” You tell me. Does that make any sense? I didn’t think so.

  But Magus said, “Yes.”

  And Victoria said, “Exactly.”

  And I wondered if philosophy was like one of those jokes that wasn’t supposed to make sense, but people laughed anyway.

  However you looked at it, before too long, we reached the port. I watched through the window for a glimpse of the yacht as the limousine rolled to a stop.

  “Oh, my gosh,” I breathed. “Look at that.”

  Victoria leaned over to look out my side. She didn’t say anything, but I could feel her next to me as she suddenly went rigid—not on account of the yacht, but because of what stood between us and the yacht.

  On the dock, maybe two dozen people shouted and pushed and waved at us from behind sawhorse barricades. A couple of burly-looking security guards were holding them back or I’m pretty sure they would have rushed the limousine.

  Victoria tapped Magus on the shoulder. “What is all this?” she asked. Her voice had gone as stiff as her posture.

  Magus shrugged one huge shoulder. “Not to worry; they simply wish to see you.” He killed the engine and unbuckled his seat belt.

  I realized how well the limousine’s soundproofing worked when he pushed his door open, and v
oices swirled in with the clean saltwater smell of the sea.

  “It’s her!”

  “Miss Barnett!”

  “Over here!”

  Magus climbed out of the car and closed his door firmly behind him, muffling the words once more.

  I watched the crowd for a moment, then turned to Victoria, practically bouncing in my seat. “Can you believe all these people are here to see me?”

  “Well, of course,” she said drily. “You are quite a star.” She smiled when she said it, but I didn’t miss the way she watched out the window. Guarded. Wary. And I had a pretty good idea I knew why.

  Victoria and I had been stalked by some aggressive paparazzi in Spain. She was probably thinking about how they chased us through the streets of Valencia, right into the lobby of our hotel. But this was different. There were barricades. Guards holding the paparazzi back. And besides, it’s not like they were going to be able to chase after us as we got onto the yacht.

  When Magus opened the back door for us, the voices rushed in again. Calling my name. Calling for me. I forgot all about Victoria and her hesitation and stepped out into the warmth of sunlight and admiration.

  The crowd pressed forward. My crowd. I waved to them the way I had seen my mom and dad do a million times, pausing to make eye contact with a couple of the photographers long enough to let them get a good shot. Mom always said you had to control your image.

  “Right, Miss Diva,” Victoria said. Her smile was a little more relaxed as she slipped her arm through mine and turned me away from the cameras. “Let’s get you on that boat.”

  “It’s a yacht,” I sniffed.

  She laughed, but really? I was being serious. We were about to be hosted by one of Greece’s biggest movie stars, and the word boat didn’t quite convey the appropriate glamour of the situation. Besides, even yacht was an understatement for the Pandora. She was practically a ship, long and sleek and glistening white against a backdrop of cobalt-blue water. Her name was painted in both Greek and Roman lettering on the bow. A crimson-carpeted gangplank stretched up from the pier to the deck. (Ha. I was right about rolling out the red carpet.) As soon as our backs were turned to the paparazzi, I snuck a quick photo of the Pandora for my blog.