by Sloane Tanen
“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.
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 Gerber Baby’s a Crazy Lady
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 rig
ht 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.
Flying High
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.
