Are You Going to Kiss Me Now? (5 page)

Cisco walked by Chaz and me without a word. I was sure he wasn’t being rude. He was upset. I was flooded with maternal instincts I didn’t even know I possessed. Come lay your head upon my breast, Cisco, and together we can heal the world. Chaz looked at my lovelorn face and sneered.

“Get it together, honey. It ain’t never gonna happen—especially with that hair.”

How rude. I’d even had it professionally blown out. True, but so rude nonetheless. “I know,” I said. “I just, he’s just, he’s so…”

“Pretentious.” Chaz offered.

“No, he’s just so real.” I squeaked out like a huge idiot. This Chaz guy clearly brought out the worst in me. He laughed in my face.

“And you’re not exactly the poster boy for Pantene,” I added, looking at his gelled ’do and trying to center myself.

“Oh, snap!” Chaz said mockingly, patting his spiked hair and sneering at me like a gob of poop he just scraped off the bottom of his shoe. He tossed his cigarette with a flick of his finger and walked inside without another word. I grabbed my bags and followed him into the icy hangar.

The black-haired girl I saw earlier was Eve Larkin, and OMG she was the size of a lima bean. Her head was like a gigantic bobble bouncing on her tiny shoulders. I thought her neck might snap from the sheer weight of the thing. Her shining dark hair was parted severely down the middle and caught into a tight knot at the base of her slender neck.

I fished around for my glasses so I could get a better look. She was sitting next to a large window looking provocatively at herself from under her lids. Her features, while not exactly pretty, were expertly played up. Her green eyes were framed with heavy black eyeliner, and her small mouth was flawlessly defined in a vampire red, which matched the polish on the nails of her little hands. Her nose was so small and precise I was pretty sure it was more decorative than utilitarian. Her powdered skin was a blueish white that was so dense it looked like she was carved out of marshmallows. The effect, coupled with what looked like ten thousand dollars’ worth of cashmere, made her look like a very expensive and strange little doll that had been sitting on a dusty shelf untouched for too long. I was trying not to stare, but there was something riveting about how fragile she seemed in person. She looked over at me, and we both quickly looked away.

Considering the fact that she was only nineteen, there was something surprisingly depressing and dated about her. Like Christmas decorations in mid-January. It was almost as if she were a stale version of her childhood self. The lights were on, but they were faded and dull.

Eve Larkin hadn’t made a movie in about four years. She was huge until she hit puberty. She was the Gerber baby, the star of the Broadway re-staging of
Annie
, and an Oscar winner all before the age of thirteen. After she won the Oscar for
Trading Phoenix
when she was just twelve, her career tanked. She made a series of bad movies, and then she vanished. I think she moved to England to “pursue an education” or “work on the stage” or some such pretentious crap. I’m not really sure what happened. I remember her as a rosy-cheeked blond, but she’d gone sort of Spanish goth with that jet-black hair and heavy eye makeup. The only reason I was able to recognize her was because she’d been all over the papers in recent weeks for burning down her London flat when she fell asleep with a candle burning. The whole building, which happened to be historic, went down. She’d had some kind of psychotic break after the incident. Rumor had it she’d been drunk at the time of the fire. This didn’t make her too popular with the neighbors or the British people in general. So she was slumming it back in America.

I watched her as she sat so quietly and strangely, like a little woodland creature, bundled up in a white cashmere poncho with her knees drawn to her chest. She was still shamelessly staring at her reflection while simultaneously engaged in a hushed conversation with the chubby woman who had rescued her from the paparazzi earlier. There seemed to be about five other people all working for her in some capacity or another. I turned my phone back on. There were seven messages from Jordan. I ignored them and typed.

J:

Cisco Parker, Chaz Richards, aka Dicole Richie, Eve Larkin…and Milan Amberson!!! I am so freaked out. Get me outta here, man.

Do not call me. I can’t pick up!

F.

My phone rang immediately. I turned it off again.

Eve was now staring blankly into space as her “people” ran damage control. It was amazing how cautiously they all moved, as if Eve were a psychopath to be flattered and smoothed into tractability.

I moved in a little bit closer. Nobody seemed to notice.

“
Teen Vogue
wants to do a cover,” the chubby manager mouthed excitedly as she held her hand over the phone.

Eve shook her head.

“Let me call you right back, Beth,” manager lady said as she hung up and sat down next to Eve with the air of a patient mommy about to explain to her daughter why it’s important to share.

“This is what we
need
now, Eve,” she said as she stroked Eve’s arm maternally. “They’re moving Blake Lively to October so you can be September. Nobody just moves Blake. Anna wants
you
for September.”

“No, Yvette. I cannot stomach a photo shoot on the beach in a floor-length gown with a ‘Best Years of My Life’ cover line. Not after what’s happened. It’s not tasteful. It’s inappropriate,” she said in a stilted British accent. She’s from San Diego, BTW.

“Nobody turns down
Vogue
,” Yvette said.

“It’s
Teen Vogue
,” Eve reminded her.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Yvette pleaded, “but this is not an everyday opportunity for us at the moment. You
need
this. This is why you are back in the States. This is why you are going on this trip. This is what it’s all about.”

“Why do they want to do it? I don’t even have a film coming out. It’s salacious. No, Yvette, leave me alone,” Eve said like a motorized wind-up.

“It’s a fashion shoot, for God’s sake. To celebrate your arrival back in the country,” Yvette said.

“It’s because I killed that dog in the…” Eve trailed off, staring into space again.

“Please, Rebecca Gayheart ran over an entire Mexican family and you don’t see her on the cover of
Vogue
.”

“
Teen Vogue
,” Eve corrected her again.

I couldn’t help but laugh at her. She was relentless. I must have laughed out loud because Eve and Yvette both turned to look at me and then began to whisper. I slunk back to my corner near the window and opened my phone. Another message from Jordan.

F:

Well don’t call me either. Leighton and I are getting our eyebrows waxed before lunch with Shia at Taco Bell.

J.

Not that I was watching, but after getting himself some coffee from the bar area, Cisco returned to his couch and started taking a stack of books out of his shoulder bag. He was making a neat pile on the coffee table in front of the couch. I wondered what he was reading. Despite myself, I felt sort of in love with him. He looked sensationally effortless in his faded jeans, “Keep It Green” T-shirt, and flip-flops. Generally I found flip-flops a disgusting choice for a man, but his feet were really too perfect to be hidden in something as banal as a shoe. His toes presented themselves like vanilla profiteroles. I tried not to drool.

Joe Baronstein walked over to Cisco with another man who, blessedly, appeared to be a copilot (thank the Lord, sweet Jesus), and they all shook hands. Joe was almost deferential to Cisco, which I found surprising, considering their age difference. I mean, Cisco was the same age as one of Joe’s kids. They talked casually for about five minutes, until Cisco’s cell phone rang and he excused himself with a perfunctory slap on Joe’s aging back. Joe grimaced.

Cisco hung up, tossed his phone on the couch, and walked over to Eve. She sort of stiffened at his approach and then revealed a tight, oddly lipped smile. Collagen much? She stood up and extended a bony little wrist in his direction. He took her hand and graciously kissed her on both cheeks. Light and warmth rushed into her cold face. Then he whispered something in her ear, and she laughed like a French guinea pig on helium. The sound was atrocious.

I admired Cisco’s confidence. I mean, yeah, he was Cisco Parker, but she was Eve Larkin. Even if nobody cared about her at the moment, she did have an Oscar, and that was more than Cisco or Joe could say. Did they know each other, or was this their first meeting? I couldn’t think of any movie they’d ever been in together, but she’d been in so many for so many years, who knew? She smoothed down her already pin-straight hair in a surprisingly girlish and self-conscious gesture. And then, just like that, he turned around and walked back to his “area.” Not that I could blame her, but she watched him walk away for just a minute too long. Obviously, she thought he was cute too. As she sat down again, her slim hands, with their perfect red nails, folded nervously on the cover of a script. The expression on her face at that moment was one of sour bitterness.

Joe, Cisco, and Eve were all at opposite ends of the hangar. Maybe it was my imagination, but they seemed to want to be as far away from one another as possible. The antisocial vibe surprised me. Did they all hate one another or what? I just assumed celebrities were all friends. Maybe Hollywood was like high school, with its own private code of social conduct. Chaz was typing frantically on his laptop. Maybe he knew something.

Then, in what could only be described as the single greatest moment of my teenage life, I saw Cisco Parker walking over to
me
. He was making rounds, and I guess I was next. I backed up on the window for support. I suddenly had a desperate need to pee. I could hear my heart beating in my brain.

“Hi Francesca, I’m Cisco Parker,” he said, extending his firm, tan hand. As if I didn’t know who he was! His humility was so refreshing.

“How did you know my name?” I asked, feeling grand. Cisco pointed to the name tag I’d had pasted to my chest—since Portland! Ugh. I was mortified. No wonder Chaz was so disdainful.

I peeled it off and tried to smooth away the rectangular ghost the sticker had left behind. Cisco smiled. I was lost in his teeth, which stood at bright, white attention like a perfect pack of large peppermint Chiclets. I had never seen such teeth. Were they real? I looked over at Chaz, who was chuckling to himself but still typing. I offered Cisco my freckled, white paw and somehow coughed up my reason for existence.

“It’s nice to meet you, Francesca,” he said, and it really seemed like he meant it. “Congratulations on the contest. I look forward to reading your article.”

God, he was such a gentleman. I looked over at Chaz, who was smiling and typing like Satan’s secretary. And then Cisco turned to the group and shouted to nobody in particular:

“When are we leaving?” Everybody looked at one another, wondering who was in charge.

“We’re waiting on Ms. Amberson,” copilot Ted Montgomery, who also had a name tag, answered. “She should be here momentarily.”

“Oh no,” Yvette muttered from the corner.

“She hasn’t even left Soho House,” Chaz piped in excitedly, still looking at his computer. His team was obviously on the job. I noticed that Eve’s pale face was now purple with rage.

“You didn’t tell me
Milan Amberson
was coming?” Eve snapped at Yvette with disgust. “Are you insane, Yvette? I can’t believe I let you talk me into this horror flick of a PR stunt. I can’t stand the sight of you.” Her accent was ratcheted up. Now she sounded like Dame Judi Dench.

“I knew you’d never agree, and this trip is exactly what we need now, Eve, more than a thousand
Vogue
covers.”

“We?” Eve asked sarcastically. “I’d like to see your lazy, fat ass get on a plane with me for a change,” she snapped. “And it’s
Teen Vogue
, for the last time, so stop congratulating yourself.”

“Everybody loves you, Eve, everybody just wants…”

“That’s enough!” Eve interrupted, holding up her hand.

“Look, you need to get away from here and let this business with the fire cool. Build up your public image before…”

“Don’t mention the fire!” Eve shrieked, cutting off Yvette’s speech and startling everyone in the tri-state area.

“I’m sorry. It slipped out. It won’t happen again.” Yvette looked terrified.

Eve’s balloon head was now buried in her hands. I wondered if maybe it would pop. Yvette tried to comfort her, but Eve swatted her away like a bug.

“She’s having a mimosa by the pool,” Chaz announced gleefully, as if this was the very best bit of news in the whole world. “Milan,” he clarified, surprised by the roomful of blank stares.

“Who is
he?
” Eve hissed to Yvette.

“Chaz Richards,” Yvette whispered, cowering like a bad puppy.

“From Neverbeenscooped? Jesus Christ!” Eve growled, dragging her small hands down her cheeks. “For the love of all fuck, Yvette. Is Britney Spears in your ass pocket?” She stood up coolly and walked out of the room. Yvette rolled her eyes and motioned to two of the other “people” to go after her. On her way out, Joe Baronstein gently caught Eve’s arm to slow her and turned to the rest of us.

“Let’s give her an hour,” Joe said. “We’ve got time.”

“Speak for yourself, Joe,” Eve barked at him as she shook his hand off her little arm and continued out of the room.

“Just an hour, Eve,” Joe said apologetically. Seeing them side by side, I remembered that they had been in
Afternoon Rain
together. He played a cop, and she was his daughter who had been kidnapped. So they did know each other.

Cisco excused himself and walked back over to his books. My legs sort of gave out at that point, so I allowed myself to slide down the glass and sit on the cold floor. I grasped for my phone. Waiting for Milan would give me time to pull myself together.

Not that anybody was paying attention, but I was still doing my best to act like this was a day like any other in my fabulous life as a grungy, suburban mall rat. This involved wiping the drool off my mouth as I plopped myself down into the gorgeous, buttery leather plane seat. Really, the inside of the plane was the nicest room I had ever been in. It was like a five star hotel with wings. It only had ten seats but felt huge. It had plush beige carpet, seats that swiveled around and converted into beds, private televisions at each station, and hand-polished wood-grain detailing. My butt was like cheese on a twice-whipped baked potato as it melted into the imported leather.

Cisco was sitting in the first seat on the left, four seats in front of me. I was thrilled I’d get to look at the back of his beautiful head for the next seventeen hours. His books were arranged artfully around him. Was he reading them all at once or showing off? Eve was sitting to the right of Cisco, two seats behind him. Her phone was ringing relentlessly. She wasn’t answering. She was swaddled in her huge white poncho, staring fixedly at the seat in front of her. Finally, she sighed and picked up the phone.

“What?” she asked rudely. She kept glancing over at me like I was ET, and I guess I sort of was in this crowd. Chaz foolishly sat down across the aisle from Eve but promptly moved to the seat behind her at Eve’s not-so-friendly request of “You cannot be serious.”

Chaz put away his laptop and was compulsively sifting through what appeared to be a bunch of meditation CDs. After Joe announced that we would be making a few fuel stops, Chaz took out a bottle of prescription medicine, which he was shaking nervously. He kept looking at his watch, so I assumed he was trying to determine at what point he should take a pill for maximum effect, given the uncertainty of our departure time. I wasn’t sure whether he didn’t like flying in general or he didn’t like the idea of Squiggy Small being our pilot, either. I was in the back of the plane. Clearly, the hierarchy was already in place, but I was happy enough, as I knew I had a great view of the entire goings-on before me. We were still waiting for Milan, who was now three hours late.

J:

The flight attendant keeps walking up and down the aisle making fish eyes at Cisco and asking us if we want champagne. Chaz is on his third glass. I’m drinking water by the gallon, hoping I don’t break out before we get to Africa. I’ve already peed three times since we boarded, which makes me happy that my seat is in back and I don’t have to advertise my incontinence problems to Cisco Parker.

F.

I hit send and went back to the bathroom. My Droid vibrated almost immediately.

F:

Do you think I care about your acne prevention techniques or your bathroom breaks? Jesus Francesca. That’s the best you can do? C’mon.

J.

I was suspending myself above the toilet, busily admiring my thighs, again, when I heard Joe come out of the cockpit and announce that Milan had finally arrived and that we’d be leaving in ten minutes.

A moment later I heard a loud crash. As I opened the lavatory door, in the aisle, sprawled out on the floor in front of me, was what I assumed was Milan Amberson. She was facedown, encircled by long, fried platinum hair. From where I was standing, I could see a good two inches of dark brown roots. She was wearing leggings, a fur vest, and three-inch heels, one of which was broken off and in her left hand. The contents of her bag were splayed all over the place: pills, gum, little bottles of vodka, tampons, an iPod, a latex glove, Purell, two half-empty water bottles, condoms, three tabloids (two of which she was on the cover), a few loose cigarettes, a lunch cup of tapioca pudding, cereal, mascara, an umbrella, a few stray credit cards, receipts, super glue, and about fifteen dollars in loose change.

“Stupid, stupid, shtupid shoe!” she slurred as she attempted to lift her head and gather her belongings. I couldn’t believe it was really her. She looked like a joke. Black eye makeup running down her face, blotchy residual spray tan, and what looked like an attempt to apply lipstick smeared halfway across her cheek. But she was pretty gorgeous anyway, with her olive complexion and sprinkling of good freckles across her upturned nose. These were the kind of freckles guys thought were cute. Not the kind that, like mine, looked like beef Bolognese exploded in the microwave. And you could seriously cut ice-cream cake with her cheekbones. Her lips were like Angelina Jolie’s baby sisters. Chaz had snapped to attention and was attempting to help her off the floor. I stood there awkwardly, wondering what to do. Eve was clutching the phone to her ear and had a look of absolute horror on her face.

“Oh my God,” I heard Eve whisper into the phone. “Amy Winehouse is here.”

“You OK?” Cisco asked Milan, glancing at the floor but not moving.

“I’m great, Cisco Barker…I mean Parker,” Milan slurred as she pushed Chaz away and motioned for me to help her instead. I did. She stood up, barely, and fingered her vest.

“Fake fur, Cisco!” she announced, proud and loud.

“Good man,” he said without even looking at her. He was totally not into her. I loved that! She snorted.

I was busy shoveling her crap back into her purple snakeskin Balenciaga bag as she watched me with detached interest. Then she spotted Eve.

“Hi!” she said excitedly, hanging on to the back of Eve’s seat for balance. She extended an unsteady hand. “I am such a huge fan.”

“Nobody appreciates waiting three hours for you,” Eve frowned, recoiling, as she looked Milan up and down. Milan withdrew her hand.

“I am soooooo sorry. Really. So sorry, Ms. Larkin. I was working late last night and…” Apparently her train of thought, or her excuse, abandoned her. I doubt Eve appreciated the “Ms.” She was only a year older than Milan. Anyway, Eve had turned away from her and was whisper-yelling at Yvette again and rapping off a list of demands: no photographs with Milan, chilled Pom juice in the hotel room, no talking with the locals unless there was a camera crew, no questions about why she left England, a masseuse upon arrival.

“Whatever,” Milan said as her eyes glazed over. She seemed to be having a flashback as she collapsed into the nearest seat, which happened to be across from Chaz. He smiled bashfully, like she just asked him to the prom or something. She looked at him suspiciously. I handed her the purse.

“Thanks,” she said, without looking at me.

She started rifling through her bag and then turned to me sharply.

“Did
you
take my Klonopin?” she asked.

I shook my head.

She dug around some more and pulled out a bottle from which she fished three different-colored pills. Then she took out the mini vodka. She looked over at Chaz, who was staring at her.

“What are you looking at?” she snapped.

“You afraid of flying too?” he asked.

“No.”

She swallowed the pills with the vodka chaser and took out the
US
and
OK!
As I said, she was on the cover of both. Eve looked back and rolled her eyes.

“Can I smoke in here?” Milan asked, looking around.

“No,” Cisco and the flight attendant said in unison.

“No,” she repeated mockingly, imitating them like an eight-year-old and tossing the loose cigarette back in her two-thousand-dollar bag.

“Sweet Jesus. I’ll never forgive you for this, Yvette,” I heard Eve whisper into the phone again. Her face was consumed with anger and pride.

Milan was one of those people who would be profoundly tragic except for the fact that she’s actually talented. Her first few movies were fantastic, and this kept everyone hoping she’d get her act together. In
Cheating
, there was something really raw and fresh about her portrayal of a fish out of water in a cliquish Southern California high school. And she was hilarious in
The Naughty Corner
. I guess what set her apart was that she was a good comedian, which is a rare gift. A few years ago she had the easy charm of a young Cameron Diaz, but she was driving her SUV into Mischa Barton Town. It could have been that crazy, look-alike stage mother, the manager dad who tried to steal her money, the premature cover of
Vanity Fair
, or the Greek heir boyfriend who dumped her for Mary Kate Olsen, but somewhere it all went wrong. She’d been on the cover of the
Enquirer
so many times I felt like she must be forty by now. She wasn’t even eighteen! She did look older, though. And she certainly didn’t go out of her way to make a good impression on this group. Now here, mother, was a girl who looked like she was going out of her way to look unattractive. Not that it was totally working.

***

“And the vegan casserole with edamame, Mr. Parker. Can I get you something to drink?” the stewardess asked Cisco as she laid out his fancy entrée. Her name tag said “Erin.”

“Do you have green tea, Erin?”

“Of course.”

“And I’ll have another Red Bull, please,” Cisco added.

He’d had about four Red Bulls since we left New York, and we were only three hours into the flight at that point. His bladder control was impressive. I keep waiting for him to use the bathroom so I could pretend I was so absorbed in my book that I didn’t even notice him.

He had seemed to be on the same chapter of
The Fountainhead
for almost an hour and a half. There wasn’t a lot of page flipping from what I could make out. I figured he was starring in the film version and therefore studying the text carefully.

Eve ordered the sushi, of which she ate two pieces before pushing the plate away in disgust. She’d been reading scripts with a scowl on her face for the last hour. In between scripts, she compulsively lathered an expensive-looking moisturizer onto her face and neck. Milan was passed out cold. Apparently her scuffle with Erin, the flight attendant, had taken a lot out of her. It was hilarious and went like this.

“Ms. Amberson, can I get you the sushi platter or the ravioli?”

“Fried chicken.”

“We don’t have fried chicken today.”

“Well, that’s what I want. My assistant called.”

“Yes, but we received the request twenty minutes before take-off.”

“Are you incompetent? Is it that hard to make fried chicken?” Milan asked.

“We simply can’t accommodate last minute requests.”

“He got his hippie platter,” Milan said, pointing in Cisco’s general direction.

“Mr. Parker’s people requested a vegetarian meal days ago.”

“Well, what’s the point of a private plane if I can’t get fried chicken if I want fried chicken? I work so hard, and all I want is a goddamn plate of fried chicken, and you’d think I was asking for foie gras.” She pronounced
foie gras
“fwas grass.”

Eve helium-laughed.

“What are you cackling at?” Milan turned, startled by the horrific sound of Eve’s laughter.

“It’s
foie gras
,” Eve corrected in a perfect French accent. She smiled radiantly, revealing slightly too-small teeth.

Milan’s face turned pink, but she didn’t say anything.

“Just get me some cereal…or pudding.”

“Would you like All-Bran or Grape-Nuts?’

“I’d like Apple Jacks.”

“We don’t have Apple Jacks, Ms. Amberson,” the stewardess replied wearily.

Milan looked at her like she had an IQ of forty-five. Then she started digging through her crazy, huge handbag and finally pulled out two small boxes of Kellogg’s cereal. I kid you not. She held them in front of Erin as if to say, this is what the word
cereal
means. One was Froot Loops and the other was Frosted Flakes. And I thought the latex glove was odd.

“
Cereal
,” she said, tossing the Frosted Flakes at stewardess Erin. “I’ll have these in a bowl, assuming you have one of those.”

Erin nodded and walked away to prepare Milan’s Frosted Flakes. That Milan actually got away with speaking to people like that was astonishing.

Milan ate the cereal and then asked for a bowl of ice cream. Unfortunately, that was the last we heard from her. She was out cold.

Chaz Richards and I both had the goat cheese mixed salad and the spaghetti Bolognese, which was absolutely delicious. I was careful to watch Eve pull out her table so that I would look like I knew what I was doing when the stewardess came over to me. We all got tablecloths, real silverware, and hot nuts. My Coke was filled with big ice cubes and served in a real glass. No plastic here.

There was a huge selection of movies and TV shows. Considering it was Joe’s plane, I guess it wasn’t surprising that
Small Secrets
, the musical psychic show my mom always talked about, was among the choices. I decided it was now or never. I couldn’t figure out how to use the personal video player, and I knew embarrassment wasn’t a good enough reason to be bored for the next seventeen hours. I asked the stewardess to help me set it up. Chaz gave me a look, but I didn’t care. If he thought I was buying him as a world-class jet setter, he was crazy. I saw him fumbling with it too.

The opening credits to
Small Secrets
were like a bad
Saturday Night Live
skit about inbreeding. People were basically river-dancing in kerchiefs and denim overalls. Surreal was the only way to describe it. That people ever took this crap seriously is just crackers. Thank God I wasn’t alive in the ’70s. I watched in disbelief as the cast members, including a twenty-five-year-old version of Joe Baronstein, “swung their partners round and round.” I cringed. I mean, this show was a hit? My mom lusted after this guy? This guy was flying our plane?