Chapter 1: The Interview

Friday came much too fast, as is to be expected. Friday afternoon found Lindsey lounging on my bed and watching me bring out my entire closet. I was trying to find something suitable and business like to go to dinner in but I didn't want to look like a lawyer. My first choice, a navy blue, sleeveless V-neck dress with thick straps and a flowy hem Lindsey decided was much too pretty and it looked like I was going on a date with him. Definitely the wrong impression. I was rather upset by this too true fact – I'd been wanting to wear that dress for weeks and hadn't had the chance. Probably because it was too fancy for church and since I wasn't dating, I couldn't wear it out on dates.

After a long hour of searching through my closet, I found my cleanest pair of dark denim jeans, and a black babydoll shirt with short sleeves. I put on my favorite pair of black boots, my silver belt, and I curled my hair into gentle spirals (with a large amount of help from Lindsey and hair product), brushed on some sparkly brown eye shadow, put in my contacts and Lindsey helped me with my eyeliner. My favorite step I saved for last – strawberry flavored lip gloss (It tastes really good just incase the waiter took a long time and I got hungry).

"Jenna, I still think you look way too pretty to go out to dinner with this guy for an interview," Lindsey commented blankly as I came out of the bathroom.

"What do you want me to do, go in my sweatpants?" I retorted, still irritated that I had to do this. When I'm irritated I tend to take it out on innocent victims. "Besides, I'm sure I'm not nearly as beautiful as all of the other women that are constantly drooling over him and his stupid perfect teeth," I snapped the last few words – quite obviously envious. Stupid and arrogant as he may be, there is no denying that Joe Kingman has amazingly perfect teeth. My teeth are not exactly 'white' no matter how many times I whiten and brush them, and they're straight enough, but compared to his, I look like a hillbilly. That didn't matter, however, because I wasn't trying to impress him. I just had to be business like about this and do my job. After that, I would never have to associate with stupid, arrogant, perfect-teethed Joe Kingman ever again.

"Well, good luck," Lindsey mumbled as I pulled on my tight-fitting but very warm white coat. The weather had been extremely cold lately; Boston was just experiencing its first cold draft of fall. I'd been waiting for the cold to come in for a while, and just now in late October it was beginning. "Do you want me to stay here and watch Peanut?" She asked, referring to my large, Newfoundland-Sheltie dog. His head came up an inch above my hip (and I am five foot six). Peanut's real name is Mr. Peanut Man, which is a funny name for him because Peanut is nothing near peanut-sized. He is a big, furry dog, with copper and white fur, pointy yet floppy Sheltie ears, and a big feather-tail. His paws are the size of my fist and his nose is the size of a nectarine orange. However, there is no dog that is sweeter than Peanut. His favorite thing to do is lay as much of his body as he can in my lap and fall asleep while I watch a movie.

"Would you mind?" I asked.

"Of course not," Lindsey replied instantly. She loves Peanut. "His dog food is in the cupboard under the sink, right?" she checked.

"Right, and try to take him for a walk around the block after he eats. As long as he takes one good walk, he doesn't have to go out for the rest of the night. You can eat whatever you can find and watch whatever you like. Help yourself to anything except my toothbrush. I'll try to be back by eleven, hopefully sooner," I rolled my eyes and checked my watch. It was seven o'clock, and I had to meet him at seven-thirty. The restaurant, thankfully, was only a few blocks away. "Thank you so much," I sighed.

"No problem, you know I love staying here and watching Peanut. Hey, try to have a good time, maybe if you just loosen up a little you can have an almost okay time," she laughed.

"Thanks, I'll try," I muttered and hurried out the door calling good-bye over my shoulder.

I hurried downstairs and out the door of my apartment building where the door man insists on bringing my car to me no matter how many times I ask him to stop. He says that it isn't safe for a girl like me to go into the parking lot by myself. I disagree. Well, either way it saved me time tonight, which I was very thankful for when I got into my black Mustang and saw that the clock read 7:10. I played "I Got Nerve" (which is still my favorite song) while I was driving until the car shook from the volume. The lyrics seemed to help me gain some confidence, I know where I stand, I know who I am, I would never run away when life gets bad it's everything I see, every part of me, I know I can change the world, yeah, yeah, yeah. I know what you're like, I know what you think, not afraid to stare you down until you blink, it's everything I see, every part of me, gonna get what I deserve, I got nerve! Yes, I would never run away when life gets bad – I did know what he was like, I did know what he thought, I wasn't afraid to stare him down until he blinked!! Finally, the confidence I'd been waiting for. Thank goodness for Hannah Montana!

As I reached the restaurant and found a parking space, I was feeling much better about tonight and I walked to the door with my head held – well not high exactly but higher than before. Just as I was about to open the door of the restaurant, a hand reached out from behind me and opened it for me. I turned around to thank the person and who do you think it was but Joe Kingman! I stood for a moment with my mouth agape, trying to figure out what to say. After a second, I remembered why I was even here, and said, "Mr. Kingman! Hi, I'm Jenna Bodnar," I introduced myself, extending a hand.

"Oh, you're the one that gets to interview me!" he said, flashing one of those perfect smiles.

"Yeah, lucky me," I tried not to sound too sarcastic.

"Well, after you, Jenna," he said, gesturing at the open door. I entered, angry that he had decided to call me by my first name when I hadn't given him permission and I had called him Mr. Kingman. Grrr…. Celebrities.

The hostess asked how many and Joe stepped up next to me. "Two please," he said and smiled making the girl blush. I rolled my eyes. I was beginning to think he only did that to see the reaction that they had when he smiled at them. He liked to be reminded that he was handsome, rich, famous, popular – how disgusting.

The hostess led us to a table, though I was sure I'd seen a long waiting line at the door when we had come in. I suppose being the owner of a restaurant had its advantages. As the hostess laid our menus on the table and reminded us that our server would be with us momentarily I thought, no dur, of course the server will be with us momentarily; if they aren't, they'll get fired. I was just pulling my coat off when I felt hands at my shoulders. Thick, meaty, football-player hands. He was helping me take my coat off! I managed to mutter a thank-you before he held my chair out for me and I sat down, awed. How strange – the big, mean arrogant football player was being nice!

Joe sat down on the other side of the table and smiled again. I smiled back merely out of courtesy. "Would you like me to order some wine?" he asked me.

NO! Not wine! That's waaaaaaaay too date-ish!! "I don't drink," I replied, smiling.

"Really?" He seemed genuinely stunned. I nodded. "Odd," he muttered.

The waiter came by to ask us what we'd like to drink. I ordered water, and with his eyes still on me, scrutinizing me as if he still didn't believe that I refused to drink alcohol, he ordered water too.

"So, let's get down to business," I said, pulling my notepad out of my purse. I couldn't stand the way he stared and I had to change the subject – fast. I hadn't thought it informal until now to bring my Harry Potter purse. As I put it on the table to search for a pen, Joe started to laugh. "What?" I muttered, looking around for something funny.

"Is that purse made out of a book?" he asked. I looked down at my purse, perfectly made out of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. It was in nearly perfect condition still, and I had only received compliments about it. In fact, in ninth grade a football player commented several times on the 'awesomeness' of my old purse, made from Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. He had enjoyed pretending he was reading a book, and then doing his makeup. Later I found out that the awesomeness of the purse was just a way to talk to me, but still, it was a good thing. No one had ever laughed at it before and I was offended. Like a child, I suddenly wanted to grab the purse and clutch it to my chest protectively as if to shield it from the scoffing of the big mean football player. However, I was a professional and professionals calmly take critique.

"Yes, it is made of a book," I answered, trying hard to keep my voice level.

He reached for it, but seeing the frantic look in my eyes asked, "Do you mind?" I hesitated before shaking my head no. He grabbed it delicately and turned it over in his hands, still laughing.

"Why are you laughing at my purse?" I asked quietly, trying not to sound as sad and offended as I felt.

"This is the strangest," he started, put it down in front of me and smiled, "and yet the coolest purse I've ever seen. Did you make it?" he asked me.

I pulled the purse closer to me, and said, "No, there is a woman who goes to a craft fair in Florida where my aunt lives and she makes all sorts of purses like these. Aunt Juli gets me one every year for Christmas but this one is my favorite."

"I like it," Joe added. "Do you think they would make me a wallet with my picture from last October's issue of Sports Illustrated on it?" he asked.

I tried hard – you have no idea how very hard – not to roll my eyes. "I'm sure they already have one," I replied instead.

He laughed. "Yeah, cuz I'm Joe Kingman!"

I forced out a laugh and took a sip of the water that the waiter had just brought. He asked us what we would like to eat but neither Joe nor I had glanced at the menu once so he said he would come back.

After deciding that spaghetti and meatballs would have to do, I pulled my pen out of my purse and opened my notepad to the first page I had written a question on. Joe had decided what he was going to eat – probably a ten pound steak – and noticed the front of my notepad. After the publishing of Niveus, I was no longer ashamed to carry around random unicorn stuff. So naturally, my notepad had a rearing unicorn in front of a sunset on it.

"Unicorns?" he asked, giving me another skeptical look similar to the one I had received when confessing my non-alcoholism.

"Yes, I love unicorns," I admitted. He probably had no idea that I'd written five books about them.

"Oh yeah, aren't you the one that wrote that series about unicorns when you were like, what twelve?" I was wrong.

"Eleven, actually, and yeah, that's me," I replied, flashing a quick smile which he instantly returned. Either he was naturally a very happy guy or he enjoyed showing off his perfect teeth. I chose to believe the latter option.

"Wow, eleven years old and writing novels, that's… unusual," he muttered. There was that skeptical look again. Ha! He had no idea!

"Speaking of starting at a young age, how old were you when you first started playing football?" I asked him. It was my first question in my notepad.

"On a team or in general?" He asked.

"Both," I replied. It was best to get as much information out of each question as possible, I had only thought of a few questions.

"Well I was five when my dad taught me how to play and eleven when I joined the sixth grade football team at my middle school," Joe replied.

I wrote down the facts as the waiter approached our table. Still scribbling on my notepad, I told him what I wanted without looking up from my work. As I had predicted, Joe ordered a medium-rare steak. Yuck.

As the waiter left I asked him a few more questions and found out that he had attended Boston University (who knew?), won his first football game in ninth grade, scoring the winning touchdown and beating the other team 17 to 10. How did he remember all of these facts? After adding a few more miscellaneous facts about Joe Kingman and his thoughts about the upcoming playoffs, I decided I had enough material to write my article. The salads had come but I'd been so busy writing I'd barely had time to eat.

"So anything else you want to know about me?" he asked. His salad plate was bare. Mine hadn't been touched.

"Do you have any outstanding facts that you would like to share with me?" I asked, and ate a forkful of salad. I still hated the stuff, but I should at least eat a little.

"Well, some people say I sound like Elvis when I sing," he bragged. Whoop-dee-doodle-doo.

"Really?" I said, "Show me."

"Right now?" he asked.

"Yeah," I replied.

He cleared his throat and sang, "Are you lonesome tonight, do you miss me tonight? Are you sorry we drifted apart? Does your memory stray to a brighter sunny day when I kissed you and called you sweetheart?" It sounded nothing like Elvis to me. "Well, what do you think?" he asked.

I hesitated, not wanting to be rude. "You sound as much like Elvis as I do Hannah Montana," I replied vaguely.

"Do you sound like Hannah Montana?" he asked.

"Not even close," I laughed and was relieved when he laughed too. However, when he was done laughing, he was still giving me that strange, skeptical look.

"So what about you?" he asked me.

"What about me?" I replied. My salad was as good as finished, and I wasn't hungry for it anymore.

"Well, I don't know, did you play any sports in middle school?" Joe asked.

"I rode my horse, but as for team sports, no, I'm not a big sports fan," I answered.

"How come you're writing the article about me if you're not into sports?" He asked me, I could see the quizzical stare creeping back into his eyes but my logical explanation erased it.

Soon, our food came and we were quiet for the first few minutes while we ate. He attacked that poor steak like he hadn't eaten in months. I tried to be very polite about the way I ate my food and made no mess, surprisingly enough.

"How did you write a book when you were only eleven?" he asked me suddenly, looking up with a piece of meat hanging out of his mouth. I instantly looked down and coughed to stop from barfing.

"I don't know, I'd been trying to write a story since I was in third grade, but that was the first one I finished. I've always had an overactive imagination and a love for writing and fantasy. I love creating my own little world and changing whatever I want until it's just right," I answered, looking up and thankfully finding that the meat was gone from his mouth, and most of it was gone from his plate too. Gross.

"That's really something," he muttered, "so what is your book about?"

I told him the basic summary of the first book and he nodded intently. Yet the whole time, the unbelieving look clouded his face and eventually when I finished he murmured, "Sounds interesting. Where do you get your ideas from?"

"Sometimes I use real life experiences and tweak them so that they fit into the magical world. For instance, the strange dog-horse characters at the end of the book are called the 'Woos' and they are based on my first dog, Baden. I talked to him in a language of my own called the 'Woo Language' which was how the Woos in my book talked. I loved writing them; it preserved Baden and his personality forever," I replied.

"How do they talk? How would you say 'Hey, Joe Kingman'?" Joe asked.

"Evvo Djow Kingmen," I wepwied.

Joe laughed and I did too. It had been a long time since I'd spoken Woo. After the death of poor Badey, who had lived to be seventeen years old, I had given up speaking Woo to my dogs. It reminded me of Badey too much and made me sad.

"So do you think you'll put a character based on me in your next book?" He asked, grinning again. I was about to laugh before I realized he was being serious. He would make a very interesting character – he could be the basis for one of the boys that asks Molly out and she thinks they're too arrogant. Somehow, I don't think that was the kind of character Joe had had in mind.

"If I find a suitable place for you, anything is possible," I answered, trying hard not to gaurentee anything.

"Are there any atheletic people in your book with lightning speed and ridiculous agility?" He asked me and I was sure those were the exact words the man on ESPN Sports Center had used when describing him in the interview I'd watched a week ago.

"Well," I paused trying to think of a response, "there's no one quite like you in it so far." It was true. I try to keep the mean people I don't like out of my fantasy world.

"Is there anybody quite like me out there?" he asked, as if this were a compliment.

"I certainly hope not," I muttered.

"What's that?"

"No one I've ever met," I said.

I continued to eat my spaghetti in silence for a while until he said, "Have you ever been to a Boston Rebels game?"

"No," I answered, uncertain why he was asking this.

"Well today is your lucky day because I just happen to have two tickets with me. One for you and one for a friend." He pulled a pair of tickets out of the pocket in his leather jacket.

Aw come on! I thought, does this guy have any idea what he's doing? He's sentencing me to an afternoon of torture! "Wow! Thanks, thanks so much," I squealed as I took the tickets. I told mom those few years of acting in high school would pay off.

He grinned and winked at me. How gross. I wanted to run as fast as I could out of the restaurant, away from this egomaniac, and be around normal, humble people.

"So when's the game?" I asked.

"Two Sundays from this Sunday," he answered.

"Sounds like f-fun," I coughed the last word out and forced a smile.

He saw that I was done with my dinner and stood, putting on his jacket. I had forgotten again that he owned the restaurant and didn't have to pay for anything. However, he left a fifty dollar tip on the table. Show off.

I stood up and before I could realize what he was doing, he held my coat out for me and helped me put it on. What was it with this guy and his egotistical mood swings? One minute he's bragging about himself and the next he's helping me put my coat on and holding the door open for me.

"Do you need me to drive you home?" he asked once we had exited the restaurant.

"No, that's all right, I have a car," I replied, not bothering to hide the stiffness in my voice. How poor did he think I was? Just because I couldn't afford to be handing out fifty dollar bills left and right didn't mean I was poor. In fact, I was very successful; I had a brand new black Mustang, payed my rent at my middle-class apartment (which let me assure you wasn't cheap) and I payed to board my horses at a barn a half hour outside of Boston and payed for the gas that took me there and back every other night. Not to mention many other miscellaneous payments. How is that poor?

"Where did you park?" he asked. Why was he so intent on seeing me to my doorstep?

"Just around the corner," I replied.

The wind gushed and I buried my hands into my pocket and ducked my head against the breeze.

"Cold?" he asked.

"I'm fine," I said.

He was walking closer to me than before and it was starting to scare me. I didn't like him in the least and I didn't need his body heat. I could make it to my car just fine without getting frostbite. I tried to walk farther away from him but the sidewalk was only so wide.

As we got to my car, I admit he did seem a bit flabbergasted that I owned a Mustang. I don't understand why he thought he was the only one in the world with money? I pressed the automatic unlock on my keychain and made it to the door before he caught up to me and cornered me with my back against the driver door.

"Hey, I had a nice time tonight," he said quietly. If he was going to try to make a move he was badly mistaken. "Maybe we can do it again sometime."

"Maybe," I said in a perfectly clear, normal tone.

He sighed, gave me that same scrutinizing look I'd seen all night, and opened the car door for me. I eagerly climbed in and put the key in the ignition, using the temperature as an excuse to start the car immediately.

"Good night," Joe said.

"Night," I replied back and smiled. He gave a half smile and closed my door. I buckled my seatbelt and drove off, seeing the skeptical look he still wore in my rearview mirror for the last time that night.

"Strangest dinner ever," I said loudly to myself as I turned my Hannah Montana CD on again. "If we Were a Movie" started playing loudly and I groaned to myself as it started. How true the lyrics were but I did NOT like him in the least. Why did this song have to play right after he was being nice to me? Why not "East Northumberland High"? UGH!

Uh-oh, there you go again talking cinematic. Yeah you, you're charming, got everybody starstruck, the CD sang. How incredibly true. Well, not incredibly – he didn't have me starstruck. So take that! Big, mean and occasionally really nice, arrogant football player!!

I walked slowly up to my apartment with my head spinning. How did I get stuck with this interview again?

Author's notes:

Once again, the character of Joe Kingman is the property of Disney. I do not own any part of him!

I should probably mention references and lyrics taken from songs by Hannah Montana/Miley Cyrus. These songs include "I Got Nerve", "If We Were a Movie" and "East Northumberland High". Once again, I own no part of these songs, the copyrights belong to Hannah Montana, Miley Cyrus, and Disney.

Please review! Tell me what you think, but please be nice!