One Night by Marsha Qualey

toward Simone. She held out a pen and paper. As the pack followed the autograph seeker, Ms. Whittaker, finally inspired to run interference, got off her perch and strode toward her boss.
    “Simone’s been discovered,” I said.
    From the safety of the car we watched her sign autographs and talk to strangers. She said something to her assistant, and then Ms. Whittaker headed back to the car. She opened the door, reached in, and dug into a bag on the front seat for a moment before pulling out a disposable camera. “She wants pictures. You two, out. She wants you in them.”
    The crowd was getting larger. Somehow word of the star’s presence in the neighborhood was spreading. “No,” Prince Tom said.
    Ms. Whittaker swallowed and licked her lips. “She thought you’d say that. She said to tell you the photo will never be released, it’s for her private scrapbook.’’ She sighed heavily. “She’s so into scrapbooks. She also said to tell you, Please.” Prince Tom and I exchanged looks, shrugged, then got out of the car and walked to Simone, following Ms. Whittaker, who wedged a path through the giggling fans.
    “…fabulous books,” Simone was saying. “I want you all to promise to buy them and read them. And she wrote the first one right here. Right here! There you are, you two. Pam, take our picture. Then Simone was gripping us both by the elbows and guiding us onto the porch. “Everybody, you would not believe it! This is—”
    “Don’t, Simone,” I muttered. “The spotlight stays on you.” She looked at Prince Tom. He nodded and mouthed a word, Please. Today’s magic word.
    “These are my friends Tom and Kelly. Give us a minute to snap a picture, then we’ll talk more.” After the shot was taken, they swarmed around her. Prince Tom and I were edged aside.
    A tall gray-haired woman reached out and grabbed Simone by the hand. “I live next door,” she said. “The woman who owns this house just ran out to pick her daughter up at soccer. She’ll be right back. I’m sure she’d be happy to let you in and see the house.”
    Simone swooned again.
    “Oh, hell,” Ms. Whittaker said. “Now we’re really stuck.”
    Prince Tom looked worried. He turned toward the car, glancing up and down the street. “The press will be here any minute,” he said. “Surely someone’s called by now.”
    “We can go,” I said.
    He chewed on his lip. “I never should have done this.”
    “We’ll leave and no one will know.”
    He still wasn’t hearing me. Probably running through in his head all the international implications of being on the lam with a swooning movie star. I tried once more. “Let’s go see the maps,” I said. “The campus isn’t far. There’s a new special collections archive that’s supposed to be wonderful. Maybe they have your valuable map on display. We could be there in minutes.”
    Now I had him. “Really?”
    “But we’d better go quick, before word gets out.”
    “I shouldn’t.”
    “You shouldn’t be here, either, but you did that.”
    “I don’t know…”
    “Make a decision, Prince Tom.”
    His eyes went cold. “All right, Kelly. Let’s see the maps.”
    I pushed through the crowd to Simone. Hard to figure why she kept bodyguards, because the lady was loving the contact with the pickup audience, everyone apparently a devoted Simone Sanchez fan. I caught her eye. “We can’t wait; we’re leaving.”
    She patted the air around her, trying to back the people up. “Give me a minute, dear ones; I’ll be right back.”
    She linked her arm through mine. “You don’t want to go inside? I can’t believe I get to go inside. You mean you don’t want to?”
    “He doesn’t want to be caught by the press, Simone. So we’re sneaking off to see—”
    “Don’t say, Delivery Girl. Then I can’t tell if someone asks me.” She held her arms out to the prince. “Wonderful boy, give my love to your sister. Tell her she’s inspired me to record another CD like Live.