Are You Going to Kiss Me Now? (4 page)

His speech sounded painfully rehearsed.

“So, you’re flying these guys over to Africa today?” a lady photographer I hadn’t noticed until now asked.

“You bet,” Joe responded.

A gasp from the crowd.

“Why not?” he asked as casually as if he’d ordered the pasta instead of the fish. “We save time and money using my Boeing. I’ve piloted her on a fifteen-city, 35,000-mile tour. I’ve logged over seven thousand hours flying time. I’m an Ambassador-at-Large for Virgin Atlantic.” Did he always talk like this? If I hadn’t been so freaked out by what he was actually saying, I’d have been asleep. And wasn’t he being just a little defensive?

The guys burst out in applause and barraged Joe with questions.
This
was a story. My feet were lead. Joe Baronstein was flying his plane,
my
plane, all the way to Johannesburg? Don’t get me wrong, I thought the guy was a good actor and all, but I’d have been much more comfortable with a pilot who wasn’t worried about the dismal premiere of
Hoggalicious Two
a month from now. I was certain nobody had told my mother about this.

I managed to sit down on one of two wooden slat benches just outside the terminal door. I was paralyzed with fear and heat. Just two feet behind me, through the glass, I could see the inside of the hangar. It was a sparsely decorated waiting area with the black-haired girl and what looked like her entourage taking up about half the massive room. I still couldn’t make out who she was, but I was afraid of her, and walking in there alone was out of the question. My phone rang. I scrambled to turn it off but not before seeing it was Jordan. I switched it to vibrate and sent her a quick note.

J:

Joe Baronstein is flying us to Johannesburg! No, I’m not kidding so don’t ask me if I’m kidding. I’m going to die a virgin.

F.

I felt a blast of icy air as I looked up and saw Joe Baronstein walking through the automatic doors. As he got closer, I had to restrain myself from jumping up and giving him a hug. Between all the movies and the magazines, I really felt like I knew the guy. I’d seen him in bed, chasing down bad guys, water-skiing in Hawaii, eating fries and burgers with his kids. Really, my sense of intimacy was totally creepy. He paused and looked right at me.

“Hiya,” he said with a wave and walked inside.

I guess we weren’t friends after all. Honestly, I can’t think of anything quite as dismissive as a “hiya,” but I guess it was polite. If I looked like Jordan, he would have said “hello” and probably introduced himself. Stop it, stop it, stop it. My phone vibrated.

F:

Are you kidding? I’m calling now. Pick up.

J.

I turned it off.

Another limo pulled up, followed by what looked like a red version of my mother’s gray Prius. Both cars opened their doors simultaneously. The flashes and screaming started up again. It was hard for me to see anything from my bench, but I figured that standing on it for a better view might make me look a tad too eager. Surprisingly, the cameramen all seemed to have turned their lenses away from the limo and onto the Prius. They were all backing up, giving whoever was in the car a wide berth.

From the limo emerged a chubby young guy with a big head and white, spiky hair, wearing khaki shorts and a crisp purple Izod. His walk was inappropriately diva-licious considering his reception was about as warm as mine. He had an unobstructed walk to the hangar. Apparently, nobody wanted to take his picture either. He was pulling four piled-up pieces of neon-yellow luggage, and he had a long brown cigarette dangling casually from his lower lip. There was a big bulge in his pants pocket that I assumed was a cell phone from 1999. At least, I hoped that’s what it was. He did look sort of familiar, but I couldn’t place the face. I thought he must have been one of those chameleon-type actors who are so respected because they’re not so easy on the eyes.

“Hi!” I said cheerfully, as he walked past me, staring at the pavement. He shot me a dirty look. Strike two. He looked like a younger, gayer version of my uncle Allen. Maybe he was a flight attendant.

There was such a scene over at the curb that I was simply dying to know who was in the Prius. Whoever it was would have to pass me on the way in, so I just sat and waited. I reached into my pocket and took my phone out to jot down notes before I transferred everything on to my laptop. Maybe I could capture some of my first impressions before I forgot how it felt. I had decided that if I made the
Seventeen
diary truly spectacular, the magazine would feel compelled to run it, even after they found out that Jon Manning was not in fact dead but practicing sun salutations with Betty Crocker in Lake Oswego, Oregon.

My thumbs were paralyzed. What could I say? It was too much to absorb. I pretended I was typing anyway. I instinctively understood that gawking like a fan wasn’t a good move. Appearing to look busy and uninterested was the way to go. I thought of Heidi Montag and that stupid, camera-ready smile she always had on. Nobody likes her. People definitely like you better if you’re not available.

And, by the way, the fact that I knew so much about celebrities did not, in fact, mean that I was starstruck. I just enjoyed seeing a little cellulite on America’s unofficial royalty. Who didn’t? I mean, if you think about it, celebrities are the most overrated, self-absorbed, indulged, and superficial group of people on the planet. Sure, they’re living the fabulous life, but at what cost to their soul? I didn’t envy them, I pitied them.

And then I heard the voice rise from the crowd. That magic, unmistakable voice. “Oh my
god
,” I said out loud—even though I meant to say it in my head only. I dropped my phone. An evil, guttural snicker erupted behind me. I whipped around. It was the Izod boy, staring down at my empty lap, smoking a cigarette and drinking a cup of coffee. I didn’t know how long he’d been standing there. I was sure he had gone inside. Why would anyone voluntarily stand in this heat drinking hot coffee?

“Who
are
you?” he asked, in the most condescending tone I’d ever heard from anyone under the age of twenty. He exhaled, and a hateful, Joker-like grin crossed his pointy little face. He looked about twelve.

“I’m a writer…for
Seventeen
,” I said, with as much confidence as I could fake. “Francesca Manning.”

“Is that so?” he smirked, giving me the once over. “How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“And you’re a staff writer at
Seventeen
?” he asked.

“Well, I won an essay contest, and the prize was—”

“Ahh,” he said, interrupting me mid-sentence. “That’s sweet.” It seemed he had the information he came for, and he looked satisfied that he could now place me firmly below him on the feeding chain.

“Chaz Richards,” he said, introducing himself and giving me a sidelong appraisal as he waited for the impact of his name to sink in. He took a deep drag on his cigarillo.

“Who?” I asked, knowing full well who he was, but if he thought I was giving him that satisfaction, he had another thing coming.

“Mmm, hmmm,” he smirked, “I s’pose you’ve got absolutely
no
idea who I am, right?” looking at me knowingly and taking out his BlackBerry. So that’s what was in his pocket.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“That’s for sure,” he snapped back.

Chaz Richards (aka Dicole Richie) is only eighteen and has a celebrity blog that’s all but wiped out the popularity of
US
,
OK!
,
People
, and
Life & Style
. Maybe not quite, but you get the idea. It’s updated every five minutes with the most current, juiciest, and most banal celebrity gossip. And it’s usually wildly unflattering, which is why it’s so popular. It’s like celebrity bloopers with a running commentary by Howard Stern. You know, Fergie tripping in front of the Waverly Inn, Britney’s bald baby baker, Marcia Cross trying to pass off a wig as her real hair. Great stuff. And, rumor has it, he’s always got the story first, which is why his blog is called Neverbeenscooped.com. I can’t imagine how he gets all his minute-to-minute updates, but I always found following Hollywood in real time to be a terrific homework procrastinating device.

“Are you coming on the trip?” I asked, confused at how the most hated celebrity blogger could have managed such a thing.

“Of course I’m coming. You think I’d miss an opportunity to see Milan Amberson sweating in a third world country? I’d sooner cut off a toe. But seeing as you don’t know who I am, I guess you wouldn’t understand how important it is to me.”

“But how?” I asked, trying to deal with the fact that I was actually having a conversation with Chaz Richards, that I was trying to pretend I didn’t know who he was,
and
that I was pretty sure he just said Milan Amberson was coming too.

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” he said. Ouch.

I tried to think of a non-stupid question when I heard that voice…again. No mistaking that gravelly, masculine tone. There was
no
way he was coming on this trip. OMG. Talk about A-list. This was nuts. It was Cisco Parker! Cisco Parker is a heartthrob of the variety that transcends both age and gender. He was only eighteen, but my mother, father, and Emily were all fans. He was on a wildly successful TV show on Disney for two years (playing a singing possum), before hitting the big screen, playing everything from Captain Marvel, to a schizophrenic, to Alexander the Great, to a college kid with a crystal meth addiction. I don’t know if he’s a great actor, but he’s great looking, so who cares. When I was twelve, I had posters of him wallpapering my room. OK, I still have one, but it’s inside my closet door.

Cisco Parker hadn’t done one single interview since he tried to slug David Letterman for calling him ubiquitous. Apparently, he didn’t know what the word meant and thought he was being insulted. Ouch, ouch. Anyway, he’d managed to leave that embarrassing episode behind, along with his Brother Possum/Disney persona. From what I’d read about him over the last few years, he seemed to be modeling his life after Sean Penn, whom he worshipped. No interviews, lots of do-gooding, and much paparazzi beating. He seemed like a pretty cool guy. OK, I can admit it. I still sort of had a crush on him at that point. Everybody did. I mean,
gorgeous
doesn’t even begin to cover it.

The camera guys were desperately trying to get a comment out of him, but he seemed to be pushing his way through, just grunting the occasional, “Yeah,” or “No, not today.” Like Joe Baronstein, he was much smaller in person than he looked on film. It was almost like looking at a perfectly crafted, pint-sized copy of the original. One of the guys shouted something about him promising to give a statement, and I saw Cisco put down his bag (yes, he was carrying his own luggage—just like
us
) and face the crowd. He gestured with a sweep of his hand for them to back away a bit, which they did, immediately. I found his command of the crowd impressive. He seemed older than eighteen. In a good way.

“One statement,” he said. It was so quiet I could hear Chaz blowing smoke rings behind me. Cisco took a sip of his Red Bull and started talking.

“For GLEA, girls’ education is a top priority. Our objective in taking this trip is to raise awareness for quality education for all children, and we believe that a focus on girls is the best way to reach that goal. It is also the key to reducing adult illiteracy in future generations. All children and young people have a right to literacy, and it is important that governments provide for children’s and young people’s literacy development in the context of supportive schooling. As public personalities, or ‘celebrities,’” he air quoted, “it’s our responsibility to bring attention to these issues and to use whatever influence we have toward the greater good.”

I was kind of speechless. He was good. I’d always comforted myself that it didn’t matter that a guy like CP would never like me by telling myself that he was most assuredly a big swinging idiot. But he didn’t sound like an idiot. His speech was articulate without seeming practiced and sincere without seeming like a PR stunt. He was fantastic. He picked up his bag, and the guys started crowding him and shouting questions at him.

“Is it true you and Georgina are over?” one guy shouted. I cringed. Poor Cisco. After his incredible speech, all the reporters wanted to know about was his supermodel girlfriend, Georgina Malubay. No wonder he hated the press so much. That said, I wanted to know if he was still with her too. I really did. She was one of those models it’s hard to hate because she seems so happy and grateful for her success. She was part Hawaiian and only sixteen, like me. And let’s just say that our ages, and maybe our height, were the
only
things we had in common. I knew it was hugely pathetic that I knew so much about him and his gigantic girlfriend. Cisco ignored the question, but his face looked pinched. And then there was an onslaught of lame questions that had nothing to do with Africa or literacy programs.

“How does Georgina feel about Milan Amberson going on the tour with you?”

“Are you concerned about Milan’s reported drug abuse and her latest DUI?”

“Is Georgina concerned about you being in such close quarters with Eve Larkin?”

I was reeling from the names Milan Amberson and Eve Larkin but cognizant enough to hear Cisco’s response.

“Am I concerned?” he barked in the face of one camera guy who was standing too close for his own good. “Am I concerned? What I’m concerned about is that our polar ice caps are melting. What I’m concerned about is the continued violence in war-torn Afghanistan. What I’m concerned about is the fact that you’re poisoning the environment with your filthy cigarettes and that you’re wearing leather fucking shoes, man.” With this, Cisco yanked the cigarette out of one reporter’s slack-jawed mouth and poured his Red Bull all over another guy’s brown tassel loafers. He pushed the paps aside and made his way through the stunned crowd of reporters. Honestly, the moment trumped the classic scene in
Good Will Hunting
when Matt Damon asks his rival how he likes them apples. It was a movie moment, and, if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I would never have believed it. Maybe it was a little self-righteous, but trust me, it worked.