Read Shooting Stars for Free Online Page B

And then he retreated back to his house, saying he was busy working on a new album and would “see everyone soon.” Which, of course, led everyone (especially Melissa) to work themselves into a frenzy wondering just what he was up to.
    Was he planning to tour with this new album? The media went crazy. When in doubt, speculate.
    That was just over a year ago and the new album was set to be released within the next few months. So far, there hadn’t been news of a tour, but you never knew. Maybe there really 39
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    would be if he was out and about on the town again. But what was with him going to a retreat? You just never knew with Ned Hartnett.
    Back at the apartment, I park my bike and lock it up, all the while trying to convince myself that the job I’m taking on isn’t as bad as it seems. After all, Ned Hartnett can hardly whine about me taking covert shots of him, considering my taking covert shots was all his idea in the fi rst place.
    Right?
    Right?!?!?!
    Try as I might, I just can’t seem to convince myself.
    The other thing I can’t seem to convince myself of is that Ned isn’t going to recognize me. There are a couple things in my favor— the night he’d picked me up off the ground and scolded me, it was dark. I was wearing a hoodie. I still had my braces on back then. And my hair was covered by my baseball cap. Still . . . you never know. I probably should have told Melissa. But I didn’t.
    I fi sh my cell out of my pocket again and start texting.
    Not Melissa, but Mannie.
    You busy? Have news. Taken on big job.
    Leaving late to night.
    And then I start packing.
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    4
    “What’s the job?” Mannie greets me at the front door, breathless, only minutes later.
    “Do come in,” I tell him with a laugh. “Can I offer you any refreshment? Please, make yourself at home.”
    “I will,” he says, loping into my apartment and fl opping on the couch, his long legs hanging over one end and his scruffy mop of hair over the other. Mannie is only two years older than me, but at six feet two inches, he was never going to be into the covert papping thing. He kind of stands out a bit.
    It took me a long time to trust Mannie, but after months of him giving me tips when he didn’t have to and making me laugh by making stupid faces from across the other side of a star’s driveway or on the red carpet, I couldn’t help myself.
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    He wore me down. Even my dad likes him, which is saying something. When Dad’s home, he lets Mannie hang around and eat all our food.
    “So? Who’s it for?” is Mannie’s fi rst question.
    “Can’t say.” I smirk.
    “Who’s the target?”
    “Gee, I can’t say that, either.”
    “Okay then, what can you say?”
    “Sixty thousand, half up front and half on delivery, plus a seven and a half percent cut if they sell any of the shots elsewhere. Including foreign and online media.” Mannie almost hits the ceiling, which is an interesting sight. He’s kind of an expend- as- low- an- amount- of- energy-as- possible sort of person. Mannie “hitting the ceiling” really means he puts in the effort to sit upright on the couch. “Are you serious? You’re serious. It must be dirty. Really dirty.” His mouth hangs open.
    I sigh. “It is.”
    “Too dirty?”
    I nod. “Too dirty.”
    “But you’re still doing it? For the money?” I perch on an arm of the couch. “Let’s just say I’m doing it for school.”
    “Ooohhh, yeah. I forgot,” Mannie says, and nods. “You’d be way closer with your savings then, right?”
    “Right.”
    He clocks my unexcited expression. “But it’s still dirty.” 42
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    “Yep.”
    There’s a pause. “Maybe