Authors: Cynthia Langston
I then ask the girls if I can have their phone numbers, just in case I forgot to ask them anything. But McKenna is one step ahead.
“Why don’t you have a party for us, and we’ll bring our friends. You can ask us anything you want, and then you can keep doing it every time you’re here, so it’s, like, ongoing.”
“Yeah, we’ll be your little teen expert panel,” Stacey agrees.
“That is not a bad idea!” I exclaim, knowing Liz will love it. “Can you bring half girls, half boys?”
“Of course.” Stacey nods. “All you’d have to buy is the beer.”
“Low-carb, if you can,” McKenna puts in.
“And maybe some soy chips and dip. Or the Tofutti Cutie frozen fudge bars.”
“Baked Doritos. I am so into those.”
“Hold on there,” I interrupt. “Back up. I’d love to have you and your friends as my teen panel, but it does not include beer.”
“Oh, come on, Lindsey. We thought you were cool! What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is, if someone gets hurt, your parents would sue my ass, and then they’d sue my company’s ass, and then my company would sue my ass—right after they fire my ass, that is. And that’s a lot of wear and tear on an ass that’s as nice as mine, if you know what I’m saying.” I look at them firmly. “No way, no how.”
The girls sigh, and I’m happy to see that they still write down their numbers.
“I’ll be back in about a week,” I tell them. “See if you can get ten people: the coolest, trendiest people you can find. I mean it – no losers.”
The girls giggle and agree to work on it. Then they scamper out of my car and run off to start spending their parents’ money. Ah, the good old days.
If only I were seventeen again. I think back on those days with such fondness and wistfulness. I remember being young and free, without a care in the world. No responsibilities, no worries, just pure fun and frolic.
Oh, God, who am I kidding? I was miserable when I was seventeen. A walking broken heart with split ends and bad skin. Life was a constant agonizing over everything, despite how little and unimportant it all seems now. But these girls seem pretty happy. Are things different nowadays? I’ll have to get to the bottom of this during our first panel.
And as expected, Liz does love the idea.
“A teen panel!” She practically hugs me. “It’s perfect! Can you do one in New York too?”
“I don’t see why not!” I allow myself to join in her excitement.
“I’m sending a photographer over when you host it. Our hand-picked teen trendsetter experts. This will look brilliant in the newsletter. What should we call the little bastards?”
“We’ll think of something.”
• • •
Saturday night in bed, I stare at the ceiling and try to sleep, but my mind is flooded with thoughts about the past week. I realize that Liz Gordon has single-handedly saved my life. But while I couldn’t be more grateful, there’s a question that’s been nagging at me:
Why?
Why me? What was it that she saw in me that made her come all the way out here and work with me like this, rather than just hire someone who already knew what they were doing?
Also, I’m leaving for New York tomorrow evening, and I’m excited but afraid because this means no more Liz – that I must pick up where we left off and do this thing by myself from here on out. Well, with Jen, that is. Liz and I have come a long way in creating our own system of trend-tracking, and designing how we think the newsletter should reflect it. But the whole thing is far from finished, and now it’s my job to keep it going.
My thoughts flash quickly to Victor Ragsdale, and how anxious I am to see him again.
And then just as quickly, my thoughts drift to Danny Wynn. I still haven’t called him or gone to thank him, and by now I’m sure he thinks I’m a real asshole. By now I
feel
like a real asshole. I’ve waited so long, maybe it’s better to just avoid it now – to never go in there and just pretend the whole thing didn’t happen.
But I can’t do that. I know I can’t. It would be the wrong thing to do. And as an aside, I don’t want to.
I have one day left. Every second of this week has been a continual whirlwind of activity with Liz, but I’m going to have to find a time tomorrow when I can squeeze away and make a quick trip to the beach. Let’s see. Liz’s plane to Chicago leaves at four o’clock, and my red-eye to New York leaves at ten. If I take Liz to the airport, I’ll have a few hours to grab a quick thank-you gift and shoot down to the beach to find him. Okay, then. It’s a plan.
H
ere is the hundred-dollar question. Where does a panicked, time-impaired girl who’s not yet familiar with Los Angeles attempt to find a fruit basket that communicates, “Thank you for saving me from becoming shark bait, and I’m sorry it took me more than a week to get back to you.” If I knew the answer, I could use the hundred bucks to pay for the fruit basket, which are not exactly cheap. But I do not know the answer, which leaves me fruit basketless, with no hundred bucks, and driving around L.A. like a desperate lunatic.
But let me back up a minute.
Today is my last day in L.A. (at least for this trip), and my last day working together with Liz. We had our usual breakfast at the Beverly Hills Hotel, where we gorged ourselves on bacon and Belgian waffles, and toasted the week’s success with delicious mimosas. We even had a quick hug, after which Liz held me out by the shoulders and said, “I’m proud of you, Lindsey. You did a great job this week.” To which I replied, “
We
did a great job. You really helped me, and I want you to know how grateful I am.”
“I told you,” she said. “My instincts are never wrong. You’re never going to make the world believe in you, Lindsey, until you learn to believe in yourself.”
Then she snapped back into business mode and gave me quick wink. “Now hop to it. I don’t want to miss my flight.”
So I drove her to the airport, then touched back at the apartment to say a quick good-bye to Carmen.
“When are you back?” She pouted.
“Next week. I’ll let you know when I’m coming in.” Then I laughed. “But you can always hang out with Jen while I’m gone.”
She gave me a dirty look and reached down to help me with my bags.
“So when are you seeing Victor?”
“Tomorrow night. He’s taking me to a black-tie event! Sounds like a work shindig.” I touched my forehead worriedly. “Does it look any better?”
“It’s almost gone. Just sweep your hair to the side and it won’t even show. I’m sure you’ll look beautiful.”
I gave her a big hug. I’m so happy to have met her that I almost don’t want to leave L.A. Almost. Victor Ragsdale and a black-tie party have a slight edge, though. And I’ll see her in another week, anyway. We waved good-bye, and I was off.
So now I’ve got two hours to pull this together, get the fruit, and swing by the beach on the way back to the airport. Why didn’t I figure this out before? Did it never occur to me to look up “fruit basket” in the yellow pages before hitting the road in a desperate and doomed search that will inevitably leave me empty-handed?
I pass a flower shop. Flowers – could I get him flowers? No way. Guys don’t want flowers. Besides, flowers suggest romance, and this gift is all about the thank-you.
Omaha Steaks on the right. I could get him a six-pack of ground chuck burgers. Wait – there’s a movie theater. I could get him a gift certificate to the movies. But what if he doesn’t like movies? Or what if he thinks that the gift certificate is a hint to take
me
to the movies? Ugh. I now have an hour and a half left. Driving toward the 10 freeway (which heads west into Santa Monica), I pass a variety of bad ideas in the form of chain restaurants and boutique stores. This is just impossible. I give up.
But a half hour later, I park at the beach and do indeed reach into the backseat for my inspired, last-minute thank-you gift: a bag of Chips Ahoy and a half gallon of two-percent chocolate milk, along with a big red bow on top and tiny card with a fluffy sheep that says:
“Knock, knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Ewe.”
“Ewe who?’
“Ewe saved my day! Thanks, pal!”
I know, I know. But, hey – he’s a guy. Simple creatures, after all.
I slam the car door and walk toward the sand. I’m a little nervous, actually, and I’m really hoping that Danny doesn’t slam the Surf Shack door in my face. I don’t think he will, because he’s such a calm, laid-back guy – but you never know.
Or maybe he won’t recognize me. He gives surf lessons to probably a hundred people a week. But then again, how many of them does he drive half-dead to the hospital up in Hollywood? Shit, now I’m working myself back into anxiousness. I just have to get this over with.
I see the Surf Shack up in the distance, and I muddle through the sand, trying to keep the milk sheltered from the sun, which is halfway down on the horizon, but still warm. It’s windy this evening, and I can barely see through my hair whipping in my face. My heart is pounding, I don’t know why, and to tell you the truth, it’s kind of annoying me that I don’t. I’m just nervous, that’s all. If I had come right away after the accident, this would’ve been a whole different story.
I reach the Shack and approach the straw-covered door cautiously. I press one ear to it, hoping to hear if it’s busy inside, but I hear nothing. He must be alone. Balancing the milk and cookies in one arm, I take a deep breath and reach for the door. But the door is locked. He’s not here. I look up and notice a note pinned to the wall that says,
Surf Shack closed. Come back tomorrow
. S
urf’s
up at seven.
Dammit! Where is he? I spent hours on this, and got myself all worked up, and now he’s not here. And now I’m going to have to wait another week – and I’m
really
going to look like an ungrateful bitch that doesn’t bother to acknowledge the guy who pulled her from her death and cared enough to drive her to safety.
I stomp back to the car angrily. I really wanted to get this out of the way. I really wanted to stop it from hanging over my head. I really wanted to see him again. And I really wanted – wait, what did I just say?
At the car I squint toward the sand, trying to spot a glimpse of the shack through red sun and the hair pelting my eyes from the wind. I heave a heavy sigh. I guess I did want to see him again. Strange.
• • •
I’m still a little glum on the airplane, but I’m getting over it with every passing mile. California is behind me – at least for the time being – and New York is coming up ahead. The good news is that the tailwinds are stronger going east, so it takes less than five hours to get to New York, instead of the six it takes to get back. The bad news is that when I land, the time change will make it six o’clock in the morning. An hour of the day, in my opinion, that
nobody
should be awake for.
“Beverage?” the flight attendant asks.
“No, thanks,” I tell her. “I’ve got my own.” As if to demonstrate, I lift the half-gallon of chocolate milk to my lips and take a gulp right from the jug. “But here’s an empty bag you can take.”
I hand her the Chips Ahoy bag (dead empty) with a grin, and she glances back at the milk with a look of concern. “Would you like a cup for that?”
I shake my head no and giggle at the man next to me, who is still trying to brush off the cookie crumbs from the last time I crawled over him to use the bathroom. I am the Cookie Monster, as proven by the smears of chocolate and crunchy crumbs all over my mouth when I looked in the bathroom mirror. There is a guy out there somewhere who would smile and tell me that I’m adorable right at this moment, and he is the guy I want to marry. His name could very well be Victor Ragsdale, but you know what? Maybe it couldn’t.
So there. I am not the scared little mouse who got off the plane at JFK three weeks ago with wide eyes and bated breath. All I needed was a little Liz Gordon-style confidence with a twist of success and a splash of sunshine. This time when I land in New York, I am a trend-tracking genius, and I am going to conquer this newsletter, make everyone proud of me, and take Manhattan by storm – not the other way around on any front.
• • •
“Get up. And then get out. I need some sleep,” I say to Jen as I pull the comforter off the futon and poke her bony ass with my toe.
“Excuse me?” She rubs her eyes as if she’s still dreaming.
“I mean it. I just took the overnight flight and got absolutely no sleep, thanks to a raging, self-induced sugar high – but that’s beside the point. If you want to meet with me today about the newsletter, I need to be coherent. And I’m not about to crawl into that futon with you.”
She’s at a loss for words for once in her life. She watches in disbelief as I begin to unpack my suitcase, then she slowly crawls out of bed. Once again, she’s wearing only a string thong and a cutoff tank. Actually, I’m surprised the tank is there at all.
And as usual, the apartment is a disaster, with clothes and accessories tossed around in total disarray. Jen is the biggest slob I’ve ever met. I can only thank God that I don’t have to live
with
her.
I attempt to organize my clothes, ignoring her as she circles me with suspicious eyes, like a mountain lion scoping out her prey. “So what’s gotten into you?” she finally asks.
“What’s gotten into me is, I’m trying to unpack here and get my stuff in order, but it’s a little difficult when the entire apartment looks like a volcanic eruption of cheap, slutty underwear that needs to go to the laundromat.”
“My clothes are clean, Lindsey.”
“Really? Well, it’s too bad they have to come home to such a pigsty. Now could you get a move on?”
“Actually, I have an early breakfast date with the buyer/decorator for American Apparel,” she informs me glibly. “So you lucked out.”
Whatever. All I can think about is getting a few hours of much needed shut-eye, then darting over to Barneys to scrounge the sale rack for a sexy-yet-sophisticated black-tie dress. And all before meeting Jen for a lunch conference that had better be zippity-quick, because if nothing else, I absolutely
must
go try out the full-body spray-on tan before tonight’s event.