Page 31 of A Summer of Stars

There was a line in front of me waiting to talk to reporters. Hats, hair, and more blocked my view.

Kelsey tugged on my dress. A makeup artist touched up mylipstick. Cecilia reminded me of a missed call from Walt. And Serena attempted to share logistics.

“Once the line minimizes, don’t make eye contact with any of the interviewers. We’re going straight to photo-op,” Serena told me, her face pinched with seriousness. I nodded.

I shifted my gaze back and forth, trying to see what was happening at the start of the line, when someone in front of me moved, granting me a view of the people behind the barricade.

It was like pulling a curtain back from a window. The crowds of fans wanting autographs and pictures were shouting, and journalists were spread out every ten feet with microphones and camera crews, interviewing people.

Once I digested the scene, the sound hit me like a tidal wave.

My attention was pulled in a million different directions; first I heard my name from a girl in the crowd, and just like that, my presence was known. Once everyone’s eyes were fixated on me, the questions started flooding in.

“Shit,” Serena muttered. She laid a hand on my back and ushered me forward, out of the line, and past everyone shouting my name.

“Ms. Aldridge, just one question!” a reporter on my left shouted. “Luna, are you dating Kieran Alexander?” another asked, trying to shove a microphone in my face that someone else shoved away. “Who are you wearing?” a different interviewer shouted from behind me.

The audience on my right was asking for photos, pushing out their hands to touch and film me.

“Just stay straight,” Cecilia reminded me.

“Luna, I love you!” I heard a girl scream. I couldn’t help but turn. The girl was young, in high school maybe. She still had braces. I recognized her immediately.

“Luna, no.” Serena tried to stop me, as I diverted our path and walked to the barricade on my right. Phones flooded my vision, and my name crowded me. Everyone closed in on us, trying to get closer.

“I remember you—Taylor, right?” I asked. Her eyes melted in surprise, and she smiled so big that I could see the color of the rubber bands on her teeth. (Sparkly purple.)

She nodded.

“You were at my match last year. I signed your tennis racket. It was hot pink, I loved it. Are you still playing tennis?” I asked.

“Yes.” She nodded eagerly. “Not with that racket, though, I would never. I have it hung above my door.”

I laughed lightly. “That’s so sweet.”

“I love your dress, and your hair, you look so beautiful,” she gushed, pointing out my belt and long hair.

“My friend actually picked this dress out. I’ll have to tell her you like it.”

“Can I get a photo?” she asked.

“Of course.” She excitedly pulled out her phone. I leaned in so she could snap a picture of the two of us, cheek to cheek.

I said my goodbye, telling her, “I look forward to seeing you play in the future!”

I turned and found an ocean of people behind me, watching us this entire time. But they spun in the opposite direction at the sound of his name.

“Kieran Alexander! Here, Kieran! Mr. Alexander! Just one moment here! Look here, Kieran!” Fans, reporters, photographers. There was a roar of excitement for him from what seemed like all of New York City.

Hollywood’s biggest star, Kieran Alexander, was here.

And he was staring right at me, confused.

He looked untouchable. His hair was arranged in that perfect, disheveled way. Chestnut in this light, rather than blond. The cut of his black suit swept around his chest and waist. He pulled a ring off and on his finger, standing still, watching me.

It didn’t matter how much I hated him. My hatred didn’t strip him of his ability to walk into a room and take the air away.

I averted my gaze before parting from the crowd and returning to my path.