Read Are You Going to Kiss Me Now? Online
Authors: Sloane Tanen
Are You Going to Kiss Me Now?
Copyright © 2011 by Sloane Tanen
Cover and internal design © 2011 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Cara Petrus
Cover images © Win Initiative/Getty Images; Henrik Sorensen/Getty Images
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and e
vents portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Sourcebooks Fire, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
Fax: (630) 961-2168
teenfire.sourcebooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the publisher.
PART ONE: WHAT KIND OF AN IDIOT WOULD DO SUCH A THING?
The Gerber Baby’s a Crazy Lady
Little Homer and the Odyssey Back Home
I Can Do Anything You Can Do Better
Careful, Your Roots Are Showing
Who Put the “Us” in Narcissus?
What Are You Doing in a Place Like This?
He’s Like God with a Moustache
The Man behind the Paperback Curtain
How Harriet the Spy Came to Worship Chaz Richards
One of the most surprising things about being stranded on a desert island is how difficult it is to live without a mirror. I never realized how dependent I am on my reflection as an affirmation that I exist. I also never realized how dependent I am on shade…and sunscreen. After three days, my arms and legs are completely covered in freckles. I can only imagine what a fright my face must be, not to mention my hair. The experience is oddly liberating until I remember that “they” can see what I look like. This makes me cringe. But I can see what they look like too. And believe me, that’s more important.
It’s funny how we have all these preconceived notions about experiences we’ve never had and people we’ve never met. Like, if I asked you how you’d feel about being marooned on an island somewhere off the coast of Madagascar with five celebrities, you might think it sounds romantic and glamorous, right? I know I would have. In fact, coincidentally, my best friend Jordan and I used to play a game called “Three Huts” where there are three imaginary huts on an island and in each one there is a different famous person who would serve a specific purpose.
For example, in Hut One is the celebrity you’d most want to hear talk, but you don’t get to say anything back. I’d usually put Stephen Colbert in Hut One because I figured I’d need someone to make me laugh and/or keep me informed about what was going on back in the real world. Shia LeBeouf is funny, too, so he’s my Hut One stand-in.
In Hut Two is the person you’d want to have listen to you, but she can’t talk back. This was always the hardest hut to choose because I could never come up with a celebrity who might be selfless enough to stop thinking about herself long enough to actually listen to what somebody else was saying. Now, if I was only on the island for a couple of days, I’d definitely stick Audrina Patridge in there so I could tell her what an idiot she is and how egregiously she’s overestimated her importance in the world. But, if I needed somebody to really listen to me, I’d go with the fat girl from
Hairspray
because she seems nice and like she wouldn’t judge me. Plus, if she turned out to be boring, I figured she could always just sing.
And in Hut Three, of course, is the celebrity you get to make out with, but there can be no conversation. I rotate among Johnny Depp (even though he’s kinda old), Chace Crawford, and Taylor Kitsch. I always figured if Huts One and Two were a bust, I’d just hang out in Hut Three 24/7. How bad could that be, right?
Well, speaking from the perspective of somebody who’s currently in the unlikely position of actually being stranded on an island with five and a half celebrities, I can testify that I will never again fantasize about being in a hut with anybody famous, for any amount of time, ever again! Granted, I didn’t get to choose my fellow castaways, but at this point I’m pretty convinced that all “celebrities” should be caged in Hollywood and confined to the pages of
US Weekly
. And, BTW, if you’re there, God, it’s me, Francesca, and I really want to go home.
WHAT KIND OF AN IDIOT WOULD DO SUCH A THING?
“I’m never going to be famous. My name will never be writ large on the roster of Those Who Do Things. I don’t do anything. Not one single thing. I used to bite my nails, but I don’t even do that anymore.”
—Dorothy Parker
I should start at the beginning, four months ago, on the night of the senior prom. I wasn’t a senior, or a prom person, so the fact that I hadn’t been invited wasn’t bothering me…much. I mean, I didn’t want to go, but it would have been nice to be invited.
“Stop hunching,” my mother said, as she blew through the front door, precariously balancing a messy stack of patient files and her bottomless pit of a purse.
I was watching
The Mayans
on the History Channel and chose to ignore her. In retrospect, I realize I should have helped my mom unload, but after a full day of texting Jordan, the fingers on my right hand were crampy.
“Why do you go out of your way to make yourself look unattractive, Francesca?” my mother asked with a faint air of disappointment. “You could be such a pretty girl if you just presented yourself a little.”
I remember thinking this was pretty funny because I never
tried
to look unattractive. In fact, I spent a lot of time applying my various lotions and potions, but the effect was clearly lost on my mother—and most everyone else, for that matter. That said, I suppose it was better to look like I was trying to look bad and succeeding than trying to look good and failing. As far as I was concerned, the grunge look was classic. I took pride in my flannel shirt collection. I’d rather die than show up at school dressed like my sister. I mean, maxi dresses and gladiator sandals? Unless it’s 44 BC and your name happens to be Calpurnia, it’s not a good look.
I’m not ugly or anything. It’s just that curly red hair and freckles aren’t exactly the high school standard of hotness. In a world where Scarlett Johansson is considered the ultimate in female beauty, a face that reads like a can of fish food hit the fan doesn’t stand a chance. I’m sure one day being “exotic” will be an advantage, but at Arthur Eddington High, blending in always felt like the way to go.
And really, what did my mother know? She and my sister Emily were catalogue pretty with golden skin and ever so slightly wavy blond hair. I, on the other hand, was the spitting image of my dad. My mom and all the old ladies thought my flaming bush head was just terrific, but they didn’t have to live with it. It was exhausting having to wake up an hour early just to blow dry and flatiron it into some form of normalcy. Like I said, I put plenty of time into looking like I didn’t care what I looked like. Not that my efforts paid off. By the time I got to school, it was always in a puffy ponytail with little frizzles sprouting around the crown like pubic hair. Red pubic hair. Jesus.
“Well?” my mother said, looking at me.
“Well what?” I asked, still staring at the TV.
“What do you think?” she said, moving closer.
“About what?”
“My hair,” she said indignantly. I looked at her.
“What about it? It doesn’t look any different.” Which was true.
“They took off five inches, Francesca,” she cried, stroking the blunted ends like a lost limb. “How can you not see the difference?”
“Oh, wow,” I said, opening a box of dry cereal. “I barely recognized you. That’s something.”
“Francesca!”
“C’mon, Mom, it’s not exactly an extreme makeover.” My mother’s hair was way too long that morning, and it was still way too long, especially for someone her age. I mean, wasn’t there a decency rule about that kind of thing?
“You never notice things, Francesca. For an aspiring writer, you’re not very observant.”
“Well, Mother, did you notice that I made soup for the week or that the garage door is now working?”
She paused.
“It is working, isn’t it?” She stopped to think. “Ha, I pulled right in. You finally fixed it.”
“Finally?” I squawked. “For a psychotherapist you could be a lot more sensitive.”
“You’re right, sugar loaf,” she said absently as she started digging through her hobo bag. “What would we do without you?”
“Cute hair, Mom,” Emily said as she swung into the kitchen wearing an avocado face mask and her running clothes. She was getting ready for her big night as prom queen. Blech. Is there anything more mediocre than the mores of a high school prom? My mother gave me a triumphant smirk.
“Thank you, Emily,” she said. “Francesca didn’t notice.” I shoveled a fistful of dry cereal into my mouth.
“Are you kidding? It’s huge,” Emily chirped, smacking me on the shoulder as she grabbed one of the apples from the fridge. Emily has always been of the school that People Thrive from Positive Encouragement. I’ve always been of the school of Never Trust Anyone Who Works on Commission.
“Maybe you could even go to here,” Emily said, holding her fingers at my mother’s collarbone and looking at me. “I think you’d look fantastic like that, don’t you, Fran?” She took a bite of her apple and waited for my response.
“Yeah, that’d be really outstanding,” I mumbled, not looking at either one of them as I texted Jordan.
J:
Where are you? In addition to Emily’s endless duties as captain of the track team and the swim team and senior class president, apparently she’s now a stand-in for my dad. Gross. And Mom is lapping it up. I have got to get away from here. I mean, just because I don’t join groups or give pep talks to girls in latex and swim caps doesn’t make me defective, does it? And besides, I’m too busy grocery shopping and cooking for them to join anything but the Super Savers Club.
I pressed send and watched Emily play with my mom’s hair. I would never do that. Touching totally freaks me out. Seriously, didn’t Emily find it exhausting being so affectionate and upbeat all the time? I preferred being “reserved” and “withholding,” the two adjectives my mother most often employed to describe my personality. I watched my mother smiling as Emily lifted her hair into a mock ponytail. She looked old, and I suddenly felt sort of sorry for her. I decided to channel Emily and see how it felt. After all, my mom was in a humiliating mid-life crisis. Her husband just left her. I was her daughter. The least I could do was offer up some beauty tips.
I put my phone down and gave my mom the once over.
“I don’t know,” I said, “I’d cut it to your jaw line and maybe do a color rinse to cover all the gray. At least you’ll look a little younger.” Channeling Emily felt pretty good.
“Francesca!” my mom yelled.
“What?” I said. I was staring at my mother, who was pretending to be mad even though she really wasn’t.
“Fran’s just cranky because nobody asked her to the prom,” Emily said with uncharacteristic bluntness.
“Oh yeah, you really got me there, Em. If only I could get poked with a cheap carnation before being whisked off to a Radisson hotel by a bunch of drunk idiots in rented penguin suits. I can’t believe I’m being denied this great American tradition. I’m so sad.”
“You can say that again,” Emily laughed before trotting back upstairs.
“Your mask is cracking!” I shouted after her in a lame attempt to have the last word.
Truth be told, I really was in a foul mood that afternoon. And it wasn’t just my general resentment about having to take care of my flighty mother and spoiled sister. Maybe Emily was right. Maybe I was mad about not going to the prom. Most of the juniors weren’t going, but the worthy ones were, and that included my best friend, Jordan.
Jordan Singh and I have been best friends since sixth grade. We both do well in school with minimal effort, and we both vehemently oppose team sports or anything that smacks of school spirit. She’s one of the few people who actually likes reading as much as I do who isn’t a sci-fi loser. In fact, Jordan’s verging on popular—but that’s due more to the way she looks than to her personality. Despite the fact that she’s totally gorgeous and cheerful and has a normal family, her inner geek is alive and well, and for that I love her. Aside from my father, she’s the only one who gets me. And that’s worth putting up with my being virtually ignored when the two of us are in the company of boys. Ever since eighth grade, when Jordan suddenly filled out, I’ve felt like her flatland mascot.
Whereas I’m pretty in an Isla-Fisher-stuck-her-finger-in-a-socket kind of way, Jordan’s gorgeous like a young Eva Mendes or Padma Lakshmi. People stare at her when we go shopping or go out to eat, and there’s always some guy giving her his phone number. It puts me in a horrific mood even though I know it’s not her fault. She’s just totally boy crazy and loves the attention. Last year, Jordan dyed her glossy dark hair red, and a modeling agent approached us in the mall about having
her
try out for a hair commercial. I freaked. I mean, I hate my red hair, but it’s my thing, and it must come with side effects like crispy texture, fish-white skin, and freckles. It’s just not OK to take the color and pair it with silky strands and a beautiful copper complexion. That’s cheating. I explained this to her, in softly hysterical tones, and she dyed it back the next day. Our friendship remains intact. Like I said, she gets me, and she loves me, even though I can sometimes be what she calls “a little abrasive.”
Finally a message came in.
Fran:
Sorry about your mom and Em. It’s like a bad reality show over here. The ENTIRE family is here “helping” me get dressed. My dad is lecturing me on female dignity while my mom keeps trying to cover my prom dress with a hideous, sequined pashmina. Ugh. I mean, did you think the neckline was “plunging”? Aunt Rani says I look like an American tart. Ha. Wouldn’t that be an excellent name for a movie? It could be about an Indian woman who opens a bakery. We should write it together. Why don’t you come over and rescue me?
X, J.
J:
Can’t. Having dinner with my dad. If he shows. American Tart sounds worse than a Vince Vaughn Christmas movie.
F.
In lieu of the prom, I was having dinner with my father. I’d totally been on my dad’s side since “the separation,” but lately he’d been acting like a real ass. He only called us about once a week now, and every time I went over to the restaurant he seemed really uncomfortable. What a cliché. It had been over six months since he left, but my mom was still under the impression that he was coming back. My mother was clueless like that. I mean, he had a new girlfriend. Her name was Chandra, and let’s just say she wasn’t exactly challenging Madame Curie in the brains department. That said, she was thirteen years younger than my mom, and she didn’t dress like a Santa Fe lesbian potter. I was still clinging to the hope that my dad would get bored with Chandra’s Mercury-in-retrograde chatter, but ever since I saw the matching yoga mats in the back room of the restaurant, I’d had my doubts. The image of my dad doing yoga is as unattractive as my working out to the
Pilates with Ashlee Simpson
DVD I spent eighteen dollars on last month. There’s also the
Buns of Steel
video I liked to watch while sitting on my bed working my way through a log of Starburst. Whatever. At least I had the dignity to confine my dreams of a better me to the privacy of my own bedroom.
After Queen Emily and her entourage finally left, my mom went upstairs to get dressed for dinner with my aunt. I was still outraged that my mom let Emily spend $350 on a dumb, slutty prom dress. The woman was obviously racked with guilt for driving my father out of the house with her ankle-grazing hemlines.
I was doing homework in the kitchen and waiting for my dad to pick me up. “Doing homework” meant reading the
US Weekly
I’d stashed in my backpack after school. My plan was to wait by the back door so I could sneak out as soon as I heard my dad’s old Volvo pull into the driveway. I knew he didn’t want to deal with my mother. I suspected her flare-ups were the reason he’d stopped calling the house.
I pulled out the magazine and the Skittles I’d hidden in the pantry and waited for the sound of his car. If my mother had any idea that both my allowance and my salary from the library went to buying candy and tabloids, she’d seriously kill me. The fact was, my love of candy was trumped only by my passion for gossip mags. Nobody knew. Not even Jordan. I mean, she knew I read them on occasion, like everyone else, but she didn’t know that I read all of them, every week, and that I knew on which days of the week each one was delivered to the grocery store. I could have happily done nothing but read tabloids all day. And if I didn’t have money to buy them, I’d log on to PerezHilton, TMZ, or the NeverBeenScooped site.
When I was finished with the mags, I’d roll them up and stuff them in the bottom of the trash outside so nobody would find them. I was addicted and ashamed. I hated all those celebrities, and yet I envied how special they got to be. It wasn’t fair. I mean, nobody cared that I let Andy Blank touch my boob last Saturday, so why did I care if Miley Cyrus got drunk at the CMAs or if Zac Efron wore eyeliner? But I did care. A lot. Maybe I secretly wanted to be famous because I felt underappreciated at home. Maybe I suffered from low self-esteem. I could have psychoanalyzed it to death, but what was the point? All I knew was that my fascination with all of it was disgusting and topped the list of the many things I truly loathed about myself. It just didn’t go with the package I was trying to present to the world. It wasn’t easy reconciling my innate sense of superiority with my inexplicable crush on Ryan Seacrest.
The cover of
Star
was a beaming Heidi Montag with what looked like another botched boob job. “Yes, I had plastic surgery again!” the headline read. I felt a quiver of excitement. And to think it was readers just like me who made this bimbox famous. Shameful. I was studying Heidi’s askew nipples when I heard my mom’s voice.
“When is your father supposed to be here?” she asked, coming into the kitchen in a ghastly long sack dress I’d never seen before. She also had on purple eye shadow that was obviously meant to complement the dress but merely screamed, rather than whispered, “I was born at Woodstock.” I cringed but didn’t say anything. I prayed my dad would be late so he could be spared this week’s episode of
What Not to Wear
. And to think she was giving
me
tips on how to present myself. Ha.
“Seven,” I said, sliding the magazine under my trig book as I typed a message to Jordan. I knew she’d already be in the limo, but I figured she could read it later.