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A cacophony of yells rang out. Arms shot into the air. Kids wiggled in their chairs and bounced in their seats. “Pick me, pick me!” they yelled.
I scanned the room and the smiling faces when the door creaked open, and in came Connie with a camera crew in tow.
I quickly glanced away from them, back to the kids with a fist in my gut. “Okay, so we have to do this fair. The nurses will pass out slips of paper for you to put your names on, and then I’ll draw one lucky winner. But whoever wins, I want everyone to be happy for them and cheer, okay? No one gets upset, yeah?”
Their little heads bobbed in agreement as one nurse passed out sticky notes and pens to the kids while I silently thanked them for being quick on their feet.
Once they collected all the slips, I turned my backs on them to fold the entries and place them in the container. With a nod at one nurse, she headed my way, and I whispered, “Are there any kids who might need this a littlemorethan others?” I asked, hoping she caught my drift.
She said nothing for a moment as a slight grin curled the corners of her mouth and her eyes drifted down to the slips. “This one.” She pointed, giving it an extra fold so I’d easily find it. “Leukemia. Stage five. Her last bone marrow transplant wasn’t successful.”
When she met my eyes, the meaning in hers turned my heart to ice. I knew that look, the haunted expression. And so I swallowed over the thickness in my throat as I added the rest of the names and turned around with a flourish, smile bright, voice an octave higher than normal, trying not to think about the sick girl whose last chance recently failed her.
“Ready?” I asked.
Their voices rose, their excitement palpable as I reached my hand inside the glass bowl, swirling the papers around and around, searching for the one with the extra fold until I was sure I found it and popped it out.
“And our winner is . . .”
With a smile, I unfolded it to reveal a sloppy scrawl, the writing of a child, and my heart cracked. Speaking seemed like a monumental effort as a giant lump lodged in the back of my throat, my voice a quiet rasp as I said, “Abigail Benson!”
A girl, about eight, stood and made her way toward the front of the room. The light glared off her bald head while bright blue eyes stared back at me above a smile that I was sure would break hearts one day. If only she’d have a chance, if only she’d live long enough to see it.
“Let’s give her a round of applause, everyone,” I said, and around me, the room broke out into cheers as she took her seat in the cushy chair, and I pulled up alongside her in one of the plastic ones.
Reaching out, I took her hand in mine. “Hi, Abby, I’m Thorne. It’s nice to meet you.”
Her shaky grin spread, as fragile as glass. “I know who you are,” she said, her breathing slightly labored.
“Do you think you can help me by holding the book out while I read?”
She nodded, and I picked the book up off the arm of the chair. Looking out at the sea of faces, I announced the title of the book we’d be reading and said, “Okay, Abs, let’s do this.” Then I began to read, my voice clear and sharp like a bell.
After storytime, the question and answer session followed, making one thing clear. I’d rather answer questions from a group of kids as opposed to the media any day of the week. There were no references about my past transgressions or my poor behavior or how I might get booted from the set ofThe Soldiers Within Us. Instead, they asked simple things. Everything from what it was like filming a movie, were kiss scenes awkward, how did it feel to be famous, what was the weather like in LA, did I have one of those stars with my name on the sidewalk (I wish), to what car I drove and my favorite pizza toppings. Their curiosity was vast, but we went over time by a half-hour, and by the end, I could see the fatigue in some of their faces, so when Connie announced I had treats, I was relieved.
Abigail and I passed out the cupcakes to the kids, which consisted of plain vanilla and chocolate—the kind you bought premade in clamshells at the grocery store—and store-bought cookies, spruced up by cello bags, tied with colorful ribbon, thanks to Caroline being quick on her feet. And though it was a nice touch, it did little to make up for their lack of quality.
Embarrassment flushed my cheeks as they ate the cakes, and though they seemed happy enough, I was so used to my every move being scrutinized, I couldn’t help but feel judged by the parents and staff.
I watched as several people took a bite, then discreetly hid the remains of the cake in their napkin. My bank account proved I could afford to buy a million cupcakes for a million children. Heck, I could’ve had them flown in from the best bakeries in LA, but what I arrived with were subpar, semi-stale cookies and cakes that tasted like a dry sponge, and it showed.
Foolishly I thought the local bakery would accommodate me. My mistake.
I asked the kids how their dessert was, smiling at them through my humiliation even as they thanked me with their crumb-coated lips, and my embarrassment morphed to irritation. I imagined images of the generic cupcakes splashed all over the National Inquirer. The headline would read,Thorne Roberts Buys Kids with Cancer Stale Cupcakes from Local Grocer.Then they’d list my net worth, the value of my home and cars, and the last vacation I went on, and I’d look like an asshat. Another jerk celebrity. One that didn’t care enough to bring the kids something of quality, something special.
I clenched my teeth even as I waved at the kids and parents thanking me, saying their goodbyes, thinking maybe I should pay Batter and Bake a little visit. Because no one says no to Thorne Roberts.
Chapter 5
SCARLETT
Icrossedmylegson the floor as I sketched. Beside me, Penelope leaned up against the frame of my bed while she flicked through the channels on the TV, pausing on an entertainment news show.
With a growl, I set my sketchbook down. The shape of the gown I’d been working on was all wrong. It looked like something you’d find off the clearance rack at a thrift shop. It was like news of the lawsuit had sapped all my creative energy. My focus was shot and I hadn’t sketched anything I loved since. And it was no wonder. Instead of dreaming of textiles and shape and color, my thoughts filled with what-ifs and worst-case scenarios because, apparently, the meeting with lawyers hadn’t gone as well as my parents had hoped.
While their attorney assured them Cranky Lady wouldn’t win a lawsuit for choking, she could win a lawsuit if she proved I performed the Heimlich wrong and, as a result, caused her physical harm and mental trauma. My parent’s money, their business—everything they’d worked their butts off for—hinged on whether their seventeen-year-old daughter knew how to expertly utilize a life-saving maneuver she’d never had to perform before—unless you counted the dummy in health class. Even the fact that it was Saturday and I had the entire day and night free to do whatever I pleased wasn’t enough to break through my malaise.
My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten yet today, and it was already noon. But then I thought of my dreams falling into a dumpster and I lost my appetite.
