Are You Going to Kiss Me Now?

by Sloane Tanen

  “Give it to me, please,” I begged.

  “Who is she?”

  “She’s my best friend.”

  “So you’re the girl who wrote the winning essay, right? You don’t look like your picture in the paper, Francesca. Your hair is much redder.”

  “You stole my phone.”

  “I did, indeed.”

  “But it was dead. How did you read my texts?”

  “I recharged it,” he laughed, holding up a battery pack. “It’s amazing how these things work.”

  “But it was damaged.”

  “Eminently fixable,” he smiled.

  “So you recharged my phone and then read my private correspondence?”

  “Francesca,” he said, ignoring my accusation, “you’ll be surprised at the media attention you’ve gotten. AOL home page and everything. You’re a celebrity, too, now, you know. It’s the biggest story since Michael Jackson died. It’s all anybody’s talking about.”

  I looked at my feet. I didn’t want to be a celebrity. Not this way. I wanted to ask about my dad, if everyone knew my winning essay was a sham, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask. It seemed so selfish after I’d inadvertently exposed everybody’s secrets.

  He waved my phone in front of my face like bait. “This is deliciously good,” he said.

  “Please,” I begged.

  “Why did you write all of this down?” he asked, scrolling through my phone. “There are hundreds of pages of material here.”

  “Material?”

  “Why write it down?” he asked again.

  “I just did it to chill out. It calmed me down. It wasn’t meant to be read. Please!” I pleaded.

  “You wrote it down because it made you feel better to see their flaws. It’s the same reason you read tabloids. To judge them and relish your own sense of superiority.” Ned shook the phone at me. “Really, it smacks of condescension and judgment. It’s great stuff.”

  “You’re wrong! I’d never let anybody see what I wrote. I would never betray them.”

  “But you already have, Francesca. Don’t you see that?”

  “Don’t do this.”

  “It’s perfect,” he laughed to himself. “You’re a good writer. You do an excellent job of capturing their pettiness, their complete lack of spiritual generosity.”

  “But you’re taking things I wrote out of context. You don’t understand.”

  “It’s perfect.”

  “Perfect for what?” I asked, hearing my voice vibrating with panic as I sensed him coming to his point.

  “My next book,” he said with a laconic shrug. “A sort of Lord of the Flies meets The National Enquirer.”

  “You cannot be serious.”

  “No good?” he questioned himself with absent concern. “Well, something along those lines anyway.”

  “You stole that girl’s diary to write A Pair of Small Hands!” I accused. “You’re a fraud.”

  “I’m an artist,” Ned corrected me calmly. “I turn the mundane into the spectacular. Experiences aren’t owned; they’re simply interpreted. Some people do it better than others. I take what’s in front of me and turn it into art.”

  “You’re a thief and a plagiarist.”

  “You say tomato…”

  I looked down at my feet, as Ned’s face was making me sick.

  “You know, Francesca,” he smiled, lifting my chin with his finger, “you’re tied to an important circle of people by their secrets now. That’s something you should treasure. Don’t take it flippantly.”

  “Why would I treasure it? I didn’t plan it. I’m not doing anything with the information.” I paused. “And neither are you.” My last statement came out sounding more like a question than a command.

  “They really should have known better,” Ned crowed, ignoring my attempt at authority. “You’re not one of them. It’s never safe to confide in outsiders. No matter the circumstances. Outsiders find it impossible not to hint, if not reveal, secrets and the sources. It makes them feel special.”

  “But I’m not like that. I would never do that!”

  “You say that because you think you’re friends with them. That you’re a group. But you’re not. Once you leave this place, you’ll feel differently. They don’t care about you.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Aside from a certain point of view, I want details,” he answered. “What happened with the plane? Why didn’t Joe radio for help? What were you all surviving on before you found my cabin? I’m also confused about the hostility between Joe and his son. Why is Jonah so angry? His character doesn’t come across clearly.”

  “That’s because he’s not a character, he’s a person,” I cried, stunned by Ned’s unapologetic malevolence.

  “I’ll need more on Jonah’s drug abuse. Milan’s too,” he went on. “And, my God,” he laughed, “that business about McArthy is deliciously salacious. And your fibbing about your dad’s death is enchanting. And I love a virgin narrator. It’s all so right. It takes me right where I need to be.”

  I crawled inside myself and died a little. Everyone back home knew about my essay, then.

  “Also, Francesca,” Ned said after a minute. “The last entry is from yesterday. Then your phone kicked off.”

  “And?”

  “And I need to know what happened after,” he said. “Did the great Squiggy Small and little Eve Larkin get together? So scandalous! I got the feeling things were going that way. What happened with you and that, that boy?”

  I recoiled in horror as he continued.

  “The sooner you help me, the sooner I can fly you and your friends out of here.”

  “Give me my phone, Mr. Harrison,” I demanded.

  “Sure,” he said, tossing it to me. “Call me Ned.”

  “Thank you,” I said, washed in relief. “Ned.”

  “It’s all backed up on my laptop. And I sent a copy to my email account in the States, so don’t get any funny ideas about messing with my computer. I won’t take kindly to that.”

  “You have Wi-Fi here?” I asked, panicked.

  “Satellite. So,” he said, knocking on his laptop. “Let’s have it.”

  “Why would I tell you anything?”

  “Do I have to spell it out for you?”

  “Please.”

  “There’s a great novel here, and you’re going to help me tell it,” he sighed as he took off his glasses and began cleaning them with his robe.

  “But you’re a famous novelist. What do you need me for? Just make it up.”

  “Nah,” he belched. “I haven’t written anything worthwhile in twenty years. I’m all dried up. Revealing the events through your eyes, in your voice, is what’s going to make this book work. It’ll have a dash of Tom Wolfe about it.” He had a faraway look. “My agent’s going to go b-a-n-a-n-a-s.”

  “Your agent? Are you for real? I’m not telling you anything.”

  “Then let’s share your little journal with your friends and see how much they really like you after all, shall we?” Ned said, standing up. “Nobody likes a mole, Francesca.”

  “But I’m not a mole! You stole my phone.”

  Ned laughed. “I’ll give you an hour to think about it. You either help me out and your secret’s safe with me, or we tell them what you’ve done.”

  I stared down at my phone as I spoke. “I don’t need an hour to think about it,” I said flatly, surprised at the conviction in my own voice. “I’m not helping you.”

  “You’ll find I’m not a very patient man, Francesca,” he said, grabbing my phone right out of my hand and walking out front. I was chasing after him, pleading with him to stop. He tossed the phone to Cisco. Naturally, he dropped it.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “It’s Francesca’s phone,” Milan answered.

  “I think you’ll find the contents interesting,” Ned said, stopping to look at us before heading back inside. “I know I did.”

  Cisco was holding the phon
e up to his face.

  “Read it!” Milan said.

  “I am,” Cisco said.

  “Out loud!” she yelled.

  “I can’t,” he said after a long pause. “I can’t.”

  “You can’t what?” she asked laughing. “Read?”

  Cisco didn’t say anything.

  “Oh my God,” Milan whispered, turning bright red. We were all mortified. Cisco looked like he was going to cry.

  “Is he kidding?” Chaz spoke with the urgency of a child.

  “Illiterate?” Ned chuckled. “And you were going on a literacy tour when the plane disappeared? Ironic. Poetic almost.”

  “I’m not illiterate,” Cisco whispered softly. “Just dyslexic. Severely dyslexic.” He put the phone down and walked away. I hated Ned, but all I could think of was getting my phone before anyone else. Just as I made a jump for it, Eve snatched it up and started scrolling through my texts to Jordan. She didn’t say anything for a long time. She didn’t even look up. Eventually she handed the phone to Milan. I knew Chaz was next. And then Jonah.

  “Francesca,” Ned called from the patio. I nearly jumped out of my skin. “You’re welcome to come in and help me prep brunch. I think you might find the ambience a bit more welcoming inside.”

  “Come here, Fran,” Jonah called, narrowing his eyes on Ned and holding out his hand to me. I took Jonah’s hand for what I knew would be the last time.

  How Harriet the Spy Came to Worship Chaz Richards

  Listen to this!” Milan said, squinting as she read from the tiny phone screen:

  Jordan:

  I just saw the terrifying contents of Milan Amberson’s purse. I get the drugs and Frosted Flakes, but what do you think she does with the superglue and latex glove?

  “Oh, ha ha,” she faux chuckled. “You’re such a wit, Francesca.” She looked up at me and continued reading.

  Milan’s gonna put out an album. Word of advice: Didn’t work for Lindsay, ain’t gonna work for you. But she’s sooooo pretty it almost doesn’t matter.

  “Lesbo bitch,” she said, not even looking up from the phone. She was scrolling frantically. I could see Eve laughing to herself. That was about to end.

  I have to wave compliments around to get Eve to do stuff. Like dog biscuits.

  Milan chuckled and continued.

  I was standing outside their circle, listening to Milan read the words that I had written. Eve’s mouth was a tight line and her eyes were angry. Milan continued reading. It was torture.

  Jonah is an egomaniac masquerading as a leader of men.

  Milan raised her voice.

  As far as I can tell, the only thing he’s ever led is an AA meeting.

  Milan laughed. “That’s rich, ‘the only thing he’s ever led is an AA meeting.’ Now that’s funny, isn’t it, lover boy?”

  “Is that what you think of me?” Jonah asked, pulling his hand away.

  “No! Please. I wrote that the first night we were here. I didn’t even know you then. I didn’t know any of you then.”

  “And you think you know us now?” Chaz sneered. “You don’t know anything, Francesca. You’re just a silly little girl.”

  “Shut up, Chaz,” Jonah said. Was he defending me? I racked my brain, trying to remember all the awful things I’d written about him, about all of them. Milan kept reading aloud.

  I think Jonah actually thinks he’s Jesus. Seems he’s more the spawn of Mel Gibson than Squiggy Small. I hate everyone.

  “Please,” I begged. “I wrote that the first day we were here.” I felt desperately apologetic and morbidly humiliated.

  “See,” Chaz said, looking at Jonah. “I don’t know why you’re defending her. She’s obviously not worth it.”

  “Just leave it,” he barked.

  “Jonah’s right, Chaz,” Joe said, “let it go.”

  “Oh, listen to this,” Milan purred, interrupting Joe.

  J:

  Joe’s day: Crashes plane, forgets to send distress signal, takes beautification nap while rescue plane flies overhead.

  Milan glanced at Joe before shooting me a look.

  “But that was right after the plane missed us because you let the fire go out,” I jumped in. “I was mad. I didn’t mean it! I was venting.”

  “It’s OK, Francesca,” Joe said calmly. “You’re right. It’s OK.”

  “Oh, this is funny. Listen,” Milan kept reading.

  Chaz’s man boobs are only slightly smaller than Milan’s Silicone Sallies.

  “Jealous, jealous,” Chaz tisked, looking at me and pushing up his big sisters.

  I cringed as Milan read the next entry.

  So pathetic to build your career on gossip about people who either despise you or don’t know who you are. And who’s he kidding with that hairdo? It’s as fake as Eve’s English accent.

  “Well,” Chaz said without a beat, “you’d have to be pretty stupid to build your tween fantasies around Jonah Baron.”

  “Chaz!” Jonah interrupted firmly.

  “What does that mean?” I asked, looking at Jonah.

  “It doesn’t mean anything, Francesca,” Jonah said, glaring at Chaz. “But I can’t imagine that you’d want to carry on with me seeing as I’m such a hypocrite.”

  Chaz laughed. “Touché!”

  “Jonah,” I cried, “please. You have to understand I was writing everything down as the days went by. You guys were never supposed to read it. Nobody was supposed to read it. I don’t feel that way about you. I don’t feel that way about any of you now. Everything changed.”

  “Why don’t you give her phone back?” Joe finally said. “It’s not her fault.”

  “No way. This is way too much fun,” Milan said, scrolling backward and reading. “Listen to this.”

  Do you think Cisco would let me lick his armpit?

  “Oh, gross, man!” Milan laughed. “You couldn’t pay me to get involved in that gnarly pube party.”

  I was mortified. And then:

  Cisco can’t spell SOS. I mean, please explain? Are his parents cousins or something?

  “That’s mean, Francesca,” Milan announced, suddenly discovering her empathy gene.

  “Just because I’m dyslexic doesn’t mean I’m dumb,” Cisco said, looking at me like a wounded puppy.

  “Oh God. I know you’re not. I didn’t even know about your reading issues, Cisco. Don’t you get it? That was the first day we were here!”

  It was obvious that nothing I could say was going to change their new perception of me.

  “Look,” I said, trying to collect my thoughts. “Forget being mad at me for a minute. Ned stole my phone, and everything you’re reading is backed up on his computer.”

  “So what does he want with it?” Milan asked me. “Blackmail? He’s going to sell it to the press if we tell anyone where his dumb island is? Like anybody cares.”

  “He’s going to use it as material to write a book,” I said, taking a deep breath. “And he wants me to tell him everything I know. He also wants to know everything that happened that I didn’t write down. He said that if I cooperate he’ll get us out of here quickly.”

  It took about five minutes for everyone to fully absorb this bit of information.

  “So tell him,” Milan said with indifference. “Why should you be any different from everybody else?”

  “It was an accident, Milan! I would never tell him anything deliberately. Never. You have to believe me.”

  “How could you be so stupid?” Eve glared at me. It was stupid. I had no answer for her.

  “You tell him I farted and you die,” Milan said casually, still scrolling through my texts.

  I looked at Jonah. He was shaving a piece of wood with a knife and wouldn’t even look at me. I could tell by his expression that “it,” whatever “it” was between us, was over.

  “I’ll just go in there and trash his computer,” Cisco finally suggested.

  “He emailed the files to himself in the States.”

  “He has
Wi-Fi here?”

  “Satellite.”

  Everyone stopped to absorb.

  “But who cares about this stuff?” Milan finally said as she continued scrolling. “Joe’s an inept douche, I take pills, Jonah’s a poser, Eve likes gray pubes…yada, yada…there’s nothing so newsworthy here. I mean, who cares?”

  “Speak for yourself,” Eve snapped. “Not all of us are OK with having had our vaginas plastered on the cover of The National Enquirer. Some of us actually have private lives we’d like to keep private.”

  “Just because your vagina isn’t cover-worthy, don’t go all crazyweed,” Milan chortled, walking over to Eve and whispering really loudly in her ear. “But that rashy picture of you will get good play. That’s what you’re worried about. Admit it.”

  Eve didn’t say anything.

  “Seriously, Eve,” Milan continued, turning and continuing to scan through my phone. “What difference does any of it make? These are funny. And anyway, who are you protecting? Your ancient, married boyfriend who dumped your flat ass? His wife? His kids who are probably older than you?”

  I was so grateful to Milan for diffusing the situation I wanted to kiss her.

  “But the fire,” Eve whispered, big eyes swimming with tears. “The dog. Everyone will know.”

  “Who gives a crap? Think about all the stupid shit Paris and Britney have done.”

  “Or Vanessa Hudgens,” I ventured.

  “Or Mel Gibson,” Joe added.

  “OJ, man,” Cisco said. “OJ! OJ killed his wife, Eve. You think anyone’s gonna care about a dog?”

  “Or Kobe Bryant,” Chaz laughed.

  “And Amy Winehouse or Kate Moss,” Milan added. “Or Bill Clinton!” she screamed, obviously delighted with her political knowledge.

  “Or Eliot Spitzer,” Joe added.

  “Who?” they asked in unison.

  “Never mind,” Joe said. “That’s not the point. Milan’s right. The only power Ned has over us is if he thinks we don’t want the information leaked. Let him write his book. Confessions to Gordon from Francesca,” Joe snorted. “He should be ashamed of himself.”