Page 37 of (Not So) Famous in Paradise

“One second, Ike!” Georgia holds up a finger but doesn’t wait for an okay before jogging to me. “This is the Ham scene,” she says under her breath.

“I know. I’ll work the nickname in.” I give her a confident nod, but I don’t miss the disappointment on her face. She expected me to argue with her.

“Action!” Stella—still on clapboard—shouts.

I walk into the bedroom. It used to be my grandparents’, and sometimes Georgia and I would sneak in here so she could look at Grandma’s costume jewelry. My granny loved bling, and Georgia loved Jennifer Lopez. She would clip on Granny’s sparkly earrings—the more they dangled, the better—and pretend to be J.Lo on stage. I’d forgotten that until right now when I see her standing in front of the closet with her hands on her hips. That was her J.Lo pose.

“I know that look,” I say, sticking to the script. For now, anyway. “What are you thinking about? Knocking down or tearing out?”

Georgia tilts her head to the side and grins. “This closet’s gotta go. We need an ensuite bath for this room, and we can turn this closet and the one on the other side of the wall into a bathroom.”

I nod, then say my line. “Grandpa added both closets back in the eighties.”

Georgia faces the camera for her lines. “Originally none of these houses had closets. My grandparents developed the property back in the fifties and wanted to stay true to a Danish aesthetic, which meant movable storage units—like armoires—instead of built-in closets.”

“People had fewer clothes back then too, so they didn’t need big, walk-in closets like newer homes have now,” I add while opening and shutting the bifold doors.

Suddenly, the one on the left comes off the top track and falls in the direction of Georgia’s head. Fortunately, I’m still holding the knob. My grip slows the fall long enough for me to grab the door with my other hand. Georgia ducks and covers her head, but I stop the door from hitting her.

She peeks over her shoulder at me holding the door, and we both bust up laughing.

“This door definitely has to go.” I toss it into the middle of the empty room.

None of this was scripted, but I have sneaking suspicion Ike may have had the crew loosen some screws so something like that would happen. It’ll make for good TV, for sure.

And the whole mishap has set up my plan perfectly. Without the door, a far corner of the closet is more easily visible—and the old box I just put there.

“What’s that back there?” I ask pointing at the floral-patterned cardboard box, slightly bigger and flatter than a shoebox.

“What?” Georgia leans close to me and goes on tiptoe. I’ve tucked it too far back for her to easily see. Sometimes I forget she’s a foot shorter than me.

“This.”

I reach way back until my fingertips reach the top of the box, then I slide it forward far enough that I can take it off the shelf. I blow on the top and brush at pretend dust. Then I turn to Georgia—and the camera—and lift the lid, but not wide enough for her to see, despite all her tiptoeing and angling to get a good look.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I moan, then quickly shut the lid.

“What?” Georgia reaches for the box, but I lift it above her head. “Let me see!”

“No way!” I shake my head and glance at the crew. Ike circles his pointer finger in a rolling motion and Nick moves in closer with the camera.

That’s all good, but Stella’s the one I want to make sure has a good angle to record. This moment is going on all theGeorgia Roseaccounts. Stella agreed to that as soon as I texted her about my plan. She gives me a thumbs up, so I let Georgia pull down my arms and take the box from me.

You’d think Georgia was in on the plan too, the way she turns so the crew and Stella can get good shots when she tears the lid off the box and tosses it to the floor. Of course, she has no idea what’s inside, she just has incredible instincts when it comes to being on camera.

But I do know what’s inside, so I go back to putting on an act and grab for the picture she’s pulling out of the box. She shoves the box into my chest, so I have no choice but to take it before she drops it. The picture, however, she keeps a tight grip on.

“Do not show that picture to anyone!” I set the box on the floor, then reach for the picture again, but she holds me back with one hand on my chest.

“Oh my gosh!” she squeals with exactly the delight I’d hoped for. “Look what it says on the back!”

“Don’t say it!” I could easily take it from her, but I only make a half-hearted attempt.

“My little Zandwich!” She reads off the back, then holds up the picture while Nick zooms in for a close-up. “Zach Thomsen was not always the glorious model of manhood you see before you now. Even he, like all of us mortals, went through an awkward phase. AZandwichphase, if you will.”

I drop my head and shake it, mostly to hide my smile. Everything is going like I’d hoped. And what do I care if millions of people see a picture of me as a buck-toothed, pre-orthodontia, nine-year-old reading a picture book and eating a sandwich? That’s a lot less embarrassing than if the whole world knew Georgia’s nickname used to be Ham.

Georgia elbows me. “Do you want to tell them the story, or should I?”

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