Page 8 of How to Kiss a Movie Star
I actually found him.
I resist the urge to look through my pictures to see if I captured a clear image before the Incredible Hulk scared me half to death. I’m desperate to know, but I don’t want to get into any more trouble than I already am.
The ground levels out before us, then turns to pavement, and Brucey Hulk eases us to a stop directly in front of a Polk County Sheriff’s car, lights still flashing blue in the fading afternoon light.
The house looms in the distance, thoughloomsisn’t really the right word. Itisbig, as big as I thought it was when I was seeing it across the ravine and through the trees, but from this angle, it’s surprisingly pretty, its muted browns and greens and grays blending into the surrounding mountainside like it somehow belongs here.
I’m still bitter I lost access to seventy-five acres of forest land so someone can live here, but even I have to admit—the house is really lovely.
The doors on either side of the cruiser open, and two deputies climb out.
Okay.
I’m also bitter that I’m about to get arrested.
This is really happening.
I’m going to have a mugshot and ink smears on my fingertips. I’m going to be given one phone call on a sketchy payphone while a heavily tattooed man looms behind me, telling me I’d better hurry up or else.
Will I have to wear an orange jumpsuit? Or stripes? Do they still make prisoners wear stripes?
Apparently,wordshave been exchanged during my existential crisis, and now one of the deputies is moving toward me, his mouth set in a grim line.
Next thing I know, my camera bag has been lifted over my shoulders and is in the hands of giant Mark Ruffalo.
And I’m in handcuffs. Real. Actual. Handcuffs.
“Do you understand your rights?” one of the deputies says from behind me.
“My rights,” I repeat. IknowI should be listening, but Hulky Banner has pulled out my camera and is scrolling through my pictures. If he would just turn to the side a tiny bit, I’d be able to see the digital display on the back. Even just a flash of white would make me happy—
“Ma’am, are you listening?” the deputy repeats.
“Yes, but—I’m sorry, can you just tell me if I managed to get a picture of the squirrel?”
Mark Bulky Man looks up. “The squirrel?”
I nod. “White? With a little pink nose? Dark brown eyes?”
He looks through a few more pictures. “You were taking pictures of a squirrel?”
I scoff. “Trying to,” I say, unable to curb the snottiness of my tone, despite my best effort. “Before you scared him away.”
The man levels me with a long look. “Why?”
Something like hope flickers in my chest as all the pieces click into place.
This isn’tjustabout trespassing. This is about my pictures. And this guy thinks I was taking pictures of an actual person—a personheis supposed to protect.
I square my shoulders. “Because I just finished my PhD research on the migratory patterns of Sciuridae as a response to climate change and the environmental impacts of urbanization and suburban sprawl.”
All three men—Incredible Bruce and the two sheriff’s deputies—blink in unison. Finally, Security Hulk clears his throat. “What?”
“Squirrels. Marmots. Small rodents. I’ve been hunting for white squirrels in these woods for weeks. And I finally spotted one.”
The man’s expression clears. “You’re a…” He hesitates. “Scientist?”
“A wildlife biologist.” I look toward the fancy house in the distance. “Look, I don’t even know who lives here. I promise I wasn’t trying to trespass, and I wasn’t trying to take photos of anything but the squirrels.”
