Confessions of a Wild Child

by Jackie Collins

  “I was thinking I could follow you around, learn everything about the family business,” I say eagerly. “You do so many things, and maybe you can teach me.”

  “Teach you, huh?”

  “Yes,” I say, my words tumbling over each other as I struggle to impress him. “I pick things up real quick. I can be your right hand. I can learn all about Vegas and the hotel business.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Gino suddenly explodes. “What are you—delusional?”

  “No, just smart, like you,” I mutter stubbornly.

  “Forget about it, kid. You’re a girl. Education’s what you need. You’re gonna finish school, go to college, meet a nice guy, get married, an’ have a bunch of kids. Sounds like a plan t’me.”

  “Sounds lousy to me,” I respond, holding back angry tears. “When you talk like that it sounds as if you’ve got one foot in the last century.”

  “Y’know something, you have yourself a real smart mouth, Lucky,” Gino says, his black eyes growing even darker with anger.

  Wow! His words are mirroring Marco’s. Just because I have something to say for myself, does that mean that I have a smart mouth? What utter crap.

  “Take a long look at me, kiddo,” Gino continues. “I never had no fancy private education. I was out bustin’ my ass to make a buck long before I was your age.”

  Yes, Daddy, I know. You’ve told me countless times.

  “You—kiddo—are gettin’ everythin’ I never had. So whyn’t you shut the fuck up, an’ remember how fortunate you are.”

  Thanks, Daddy. What a lovely fatherly speech.

  “So here’s the deal,” Gino mutters. “You’ll do as I say, an’ one of these days you’re gonna kiss my ass an’ thank me. Got it?”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “New girl … new girl … new girl.” Everywhere I go I hear the whispers. Yes, I am indeed the new girl—however, I do not fit the image of the other girls. Most of them are uptight white girls with hair neatly tied back, no makeup, and pristine uniforms. I stand out with my wild black curls, deep olive skin, and touches of mascara and lip gloss. I have also adapted the school uniform to suit me. I have shortened the skirt, unbuttoned the blouse, and abandoned the tie. A far better look.

  Within days I am summoned to the principal’s office, another tight-ass with major attitude.

  Here we go again, I think.

  Thanks, Gino, for sending me somewhere I hate.

  “We have an extremely strict dress code here,” the principal, a woman with a vast expanse of forehead and large horse teeth, informs me. “And we certainly do not allow our girls to wear makeup.”

  “Lip gloss isn’t makeup,” I object. “That’s stupid.”

  And for those few words I get detention, which is not all bad because detention takes place in an outer building, and directly outside the building I observe a young Mexican gardener doing his thing. Well, he’s not exactly doing his thing—that sounds rude—he’s actually sweeping up leaves and looking quite pissed off about it.

  Once I’ve written Lip gloss is makeup five hundred times, I make my way outside to maybe get acquainted with the gardener. I soon discover that his name is Lopez, that he works for his father, and he is twenty. He’s also major cute, with flashing eyes almost as dark as mine, extremely long eyelashes, and a dangerous scar running down his left cheek.

  I ask him how he got the scar. He tells me he was in a gang until his father whisked him out of the Bronx to the greenery and calmness of Connecticut.

  I am impressed, and slightly excited. We arrange to meet later, and he fills me in on the safest window to escape from.

  I like Lopez. He’s my kind of guy.

  Am I boy crazy?

  A bit.

  Why not? It’s all part of growing up.

  Lopez and I enjoy three nights of unbridled lust (“almost” still in play) until Miranda, a sour-faced girl with a righteous attitude who bunks in my dorm room, gives us up.

  Lopez is fired.

  I get detention.

  Here we go again.

  I realize the time has come to make a daring escape.

  Later that night I think things through. Where is Olympia? What is she up to?

  Once again she will be my salvation. I know it.

  * * *

  I think I have inherited my dad’s street smarts along with his looks. I do look just like him, only I’m taller. I enjoy being tall and lean, and it’s fortunate for me that I can pass for at least eighteen or nineteen, ’cause this makes my flight to freedom so much easier.

  Olympia comes through as usual. I track her down via phone to Paris, where she is holed up in her father’s Avenue Foch apartment, taking a Russian language course, which she informs me she hates. Thrilled to hear from me, she arranges to get me a plane ticket to France, then she has a male friend phone the school pretending to be Gino, saying there is a family emergency and that I have to leave immediately.

  Quite frankly I don’t think anyone is at all sorry to see me go, especially Miranda, who gives me a triumphant snarl of a smile and a fake “Have fun at your next school. We’ll all really miss you here.”

  A typical mean girl. I wish her nothing but the worst.

  The plane ride to France is uneventful. Olympia is at the airport in Paris to meet me. We hug and kiss and giggle at the insanity of it all. Then we walk outside, and to my surprise Olympia jumps behind the wheel of a cool white Mercedes convertible.

  “Wow!” I exclaim, throwing my suitcase in the back.

  “‘Wow’ is right,” Olympia says, grinning broadly. “Not bad, huh?”

  “Who does this car belong to?”

  “Dear old Mom,” Olympia says. “She never drives it—besides, she’s never here—so I have taken possession. Right now we’re off on a magical mystery tour, so I suggest you hold on to your knickers!”

  “Where are we going?” I ask, drinking in the heady taste of freedom.

  “South of France,” Olympia says, as if it’s the most normal place to run off to. “I got it all figured out. One of my aunts has a villa above Cannes. She never goes there, so it’ll be all shuttered up. The good news is that I know how to get in, ’cause I used to spend the summers there with my nanny when my dear old parents didn’t have time for me, which was mostly every summer.”

  “How will you explain this to your family?”

  “You think they care? No way. It’s just me and a housekeeper in the Paris apartment. I told her I had to go see my mom, and since the old crow doesn’t speak English, she couldn’t care less. Which means we are free—on our own—and ready to have an incredible adventure. Right?”

  I couldn’t agree more. The two of us against the world. I like it!

  Olympia is the perfect friend, she always comes through when I need her. What more can one ask of a friendship?

  Naturally she drives like a maniac.

  “You’re a crazy driver,” I gulp, hanging on. “I didn’t know you even had a driver’s license.”

  “Don’t,” Olympia replies matter-of-factly. “Let’s hope we’re not stopped.” She swerves to avoid an old man crossing the street. He shakes his fist at her. She turns on the radio, blasts it loud, and gives him the finger.

  I cling to the side of my seat. This is insane, but I’m loving it!

  “How far’s the South of France?” I ask, attempting to remain cool.

  “Not far,” Olympia replies. “Shouldn’t take us more than a day or two.”

  A day or two! I am speechless. Yet I am also excited. So what if she drives like a crazy person? This is our adventure, and I am totally into it.

  Eight hours later I am not so sure. We’re in a convertible and the sun is relentlessly beating down on us as we drive across France. I am thirsty and sweaty and starving hungry.

  “Don’t you think we should stop somewhere?” I suggest.

  Olympia shrugs and points out that we don’t have a lot of cash between us.

  “What about your credit card?”
I say.

  “Hmm…” Olympia replies. “I guess we can use it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Don’t want to leave a trail of where we are.”

  “It’ll be fine,” I say, desperate for a break.

  “You’re right,” Olympia agrees. “Nobody’s going to be checking on us.”

  Ten minutes later we pull into a dusty Novotel and book a room. I fall onto the bed and into a deep sleep, too tired to even think about eating.

  When I finally awake it is dark out and there’s no Olympia in sight.

  Where is she? I think, exasperated. Foraging for food, I hope. My stomach is groaning with hunger.

  I make it out to the motel swimming pool, a depressing oasis surrounded by concrete, a couple of sad palm trees, and one solitary light.

  Olympia is in the pool making out with a boy I’ve never seen before. She is topless.

  Hey—I’m also into boys, but not random pickups at some anonymous motel.

  “What’s up?” I say, trying not to sound like the uptight friend.

  “What isn’t?” Olympia giggles. “Meet Pierre—he doesn’t speak English, so we’re communicating via the language of love.”

  French Pierre surfaces with a stupid leer on his face.

  Oh crap! Olympia is way out of control.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  What have I gotten myself into? The next morning Olympia is nowhere in sight and her bed hasn’t been slept in. I take a shower under a rusty faucet, dress quickly, and head downstairs. A couple of French families are sitting out by the pool complete with ratty little kids running riot around the edge. Food and drink is available from a vending machine. I get a bag of chips and an Orangina. Then I go check on Olympia’s Mercedes, which is exactly where she left it. Doesn’t take much street smarts to realize she must’ve spent the night with French boy.

  When they finally appear around noon, I see that French boy is hardly a boy. He looks to be about thirty-something with a scraggly ginger beard and scrawny arms. Whatever happened to hot?

  “Sorry,” Olympia giggles, obviously not sorry at all. “We kinda slept in, if you know what I mean.”

  French Pierre squeezes her arm and plants a wet kiss on her cheek.

  I get the feeling that maybe Olympia has stopped practicing “almost,” and is possibly going all the way. This is not good news, for I have no intention of going all the way with anyone, and if Olympia’s doing it, will she expect me to follow?

  “Shouldn’t we get going?” I say, giving Olympia a meaningful look.

  “What’s your hurry?” she responds, clinging to Pierre as if he’s some kind of sex god.

  “I thought we could get there by tonight,” I argue. “Isn’t that what we planned?”

  “Yes,” Olympia answers vaguely. “But that was before I met Pierre.”

  Oh crap. Olympia’s in love again. She goes through crushes like Kleenex.

  I am stuck for words. I am in Olympia’s car on my way to Olympia’s aunt’s house. I have no money and no power. I am not only stuck for words, I am well and truly stuck.

  I vow that I will never allow myself to be caught in this position again. Olympia is calling all the shots, and I am tagging along like a stupid little puppy dog.

  What to do?

  Nothing. There is nothing I can do.

  I am pissed. I feel a dark rage boiling up inside me. I think I have Gino’s temper. I have seen him explode and it’s not a pretty sight.

  On the other hand, staying calm will probably get me further. Fighting with Olympia is a bad option. Like I said—she has the power.

  So I swallow my frustration and play along. Which means watching Olympia and French Pierre making out on a sunbed, until one of the rugrat kids running around the pool trips over Pierre’s feet, which are limply hanging off the end of the sunbed.

  Pierre leaps up, roars with fury, and begins screaming at the kid in French.

  The kid, no more than five or six, freezes, allowing Pierre to grab him by the scruff of his neck and begin shaking him.

  The kid starts crying, and since it looks as if no one’s going to do anything, I launch into action. I am on my feet Santangelo-style.

  “Leave the boy alone!” I yell at Pierre. “Can’t you see it was an accident?”

  Pierre is not listening. He seems to be taking some kind of sadistic pleasure in shaking the little boy as hard as he can. I am stunned.

  Without thinking it through, I run at Pierre and grab his long stringy hair until he is forced to let go of the boy. However, Pierre is not finished—as the kid runs off, he turns on me and slaps me hard across the face, shouting some kind of insult.

  “For God’s sake!” Olympia shouts, finally jumping up. “Stop it!”

  Pierre ignores her and goes to hit me again, at which point I grab his wrist, twist it, and issue a sharp kick to his saggy balls.

  He lets out a yelp of pain and turns to Olympia for comfort.

  She gives him a scornful look, tosses back her long blonde hair, and says a very succinct “S’long, asshole.”

  Ten minutes later we are in the car and on our merry way.

  * * *

  Now here we are, back on the road. Olympia can’t wait to reveal all the gruesome details of her one-nighter with French Pierre. I’m not sure I want to hear.

  To change the subject I fan myself with a magazine and say, “It’s so hot! I bet we both stink. Two stinky little virgins.”

  “Hmm…” Olympia says, blonde hair flying in the breeze. “You might want to correct that statement.”

  “Huh?”

  “I was going to tell you when we got to the house. Y’know, like sitting around the pool sipping white wine. But yeah, last night I did the deed for the second time.”

  “The second time,” I say, quite startled. “Who was the first?”

  “Oh, some commie French bastard,” Olympia says vaguely. “He kept on lecturing me that my father should be shot, and that I didn’t know anything.”

  “Sounds like a real charmer.”

  “Yeah, right. Like a fool I smuggled him into the Paris apartment one night, and he refused to settle for ‘almost.’ So I did the deed. Silly me. I hated every vile minute of it.”

  “You did?” I ask, wondering why she did it again if she hated it so much.

  Olympia glances over at me and wrinkles her nose. “It was horrible!” she exclaims. “Stick to ‘almost,’ it’s much more enjoyable.”

  I decide now is not the time to question her more. Better she should concentrate on her driving—which is still appalling.

  I sit back and begin thinking about Gino’s words to me. “You’re gonna finish school, go to college, get married, have kids, an’ settle down.”

  No, Daddy Dearest, I am certainly not. I want a life, a career. I want to be powerful and respected. I want to build hotels like you. I want in on the family business. I might be a girl, but I can do anything a boy can do. You’ll see. You’ll get it.

  As these thoughts are drifting through my head, Olympia announces that we are practically there.

  We turn off the freeway onto a narrow road hewn out of rock. We are parallel with the blue Mediterranean and sandy beaches. It all looks blissful.

  “This is gonna be so fab,” Olympia says with a happy sigh. “Prepare yourself for a crapload of good times!”

  Oh yes, I am totally prepared.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Set high in the hills above Cannes, Olympia’s aunt’s villa is closed to all intruders. This does not deter Olympia, who jumps from the car and forces the huge wrought-iron gates open so that she can drive the Mercedes up to the house. I am excited—this is indeed an adventure.

  The villa itself is painted pink with closed wooden shutters on all the windows, and incredible gardens filled with bougainvillea, mimosa, and jasmine. The smell of the flowers is overwhelming.

  “How’re we getting in?” I ask tentatively.

  “No prob,” Olympia says, once ag
ain leaping out of the car. “There’s a broken catch on an upstairs window; all I gotta do is climb a tree and we’re in!”

  Olympia is nothing if not resourceful; she’s also the queen of “no prob.” I watch as she shimmies up a tall peach tree, springs the shutter, opens the window, and climbs in. A few minutes later she opens up the front door from the inside and ushers me in. “Welcome to Casa Good Times,” she says, grinning broadly. “We are the new tenants!”

  My sense of what an adventure this is revs into overdrive. I am actually in the South of France—a school runaway, and nobody knows where I am! I feel totally free.

  Take that, Gino. Girls can do anything.

  The villa is an amazing place with many rooms filled with furniture covered in dustsheets and more than a few cobwebs here and there. Out back is a leaf-strewn swimming pool surrounded by several lounge chairs with plastic covers.

  “My aunt only uses this place a couple of weeks a year,” Olympia reveals, starting to pull off some of the dustsheets. “The work force moves in a couple of weeks before she does. Do you realize we could probably stay here for months before anyone finds us? Nobody would ever dream of looking for us here.”

  Hmm … I hadn’t actually imagined being on the missing list for months. Gino will have a shit-fit if he can’t find me—that’s if he ever discovers I’m missing.

  Or maybe not. Does he even care? Who knows? I certainly don’t.

  While I mull this over, Olympia checks out the kitchen and discovers that the refrigerator is stocked with wine, beer, and 7-Up. A walk-in cupboard offers caterers’ boxes of potato chips, cans of tuna fish, and multiple packets of nuts. No other food in sight.

  “Okay,” Olympia decides. “Tonight we head into town and get ourselves a decent meal. I don’t know about you, but I fancy a great big bowl of bouillabaisse and some fresh lobster smothered in mayonnaise. Sounds yummy.”

  “Can we afford it?” I ask, thinking of our somewhat meager funds.

  Olympia throws me one of her looks. “Who needs money when we’ve got our fine young bodies?” she says with her usual giggle. “Guys will be gagging to buy us dinner.”

  * * *