by Maggie Way
Macy appears, smiling on the giant screen with the words 'Ruthie's BFF' under her likeness. I'm appalled to hear her say, "Ruthie's a little flighty, sometimes selfish, and a bit of a hot mess––but we love her anyway."
By the time my beloved, crazy grandma, Baggy pops up on the screen, I have already figured out how this ridiculous fiasco is going to go––they are portraying me as being completely spoiled and unlikable. In typical Baggy fashion, she says, "Ruthie has always been like a just-castrated bull on a sugar-high in a china shop, just like her Bad Grandma." Baggy indicates herself with her thumb before waggling her eyebrows and preening on the screen. "What are you doing later?" she has turned her watery gaze beyond the camera as she speaks directly to the cameraman before blowing him a kiss.
The clip ends with me saying, "You know what I really need?...Sea salt spray!" A graphic with the words "You're in the middle of the ocean!" appears on the screen just before a helicopter is shown landing on the top deck of the ship and a man retrieves a brown box labeled Bumble and Bumble Surf Spray. That had all just happened today. I am shocked that they were able to include the clip so quickly. That is part of the beauty of internet television, I guess. Apparently, they are able to work technological miracles if it means making me look more spoiled and selfish. Syd's voice sounds on the screen saying, "Anything for you, my darling," as a still shot of me giving a snide smile is displayed for the entire world to see.
Finally, the show breaks for some commercials. I bow my head, wishing I could turn back time to make this all go away––despite knowing that the footage will survive on the internet for eternity. Even I can't stand this version of myself. How could anyone else like me? My throat is burning with unshed tears. When I finally look up, Bellamy actually gives me a slightly pitying look, which lets me know without a doubt that I must now be the most hated woman in America––and likely the whole planet, thanks to the World Wide Web.
I feel frozen in my seat, unsure how to react. I want to get up and give the producers a piece of my mind for portraying me in such an awful light, but that would only serve to give them additional fodder for use on the show.
The show returns and continues along the same vein from before. Our weddings play out on the screen. The scene is picturesque and perfect, with the exception of my interruptions, which they show––including the numerous (apparently superfluous) "Cuts!" that had been called. Somehow, they manage to make it all look like intentional stunts I pulled to gain additional attention.
The camera closes in on my face as I recoil from Cam's invasive kiss. Afterward, his likeness is beaming and gawking around, while I am clearly displeased. Real-life Cam turns from the screen to give me a dirty look before shifting in his seat towards Bellamy. He evidently hadn't been aware of my less-than-pleasant reaction to our wedding kiss.
Even the pool accident comes off on the show as if I had purposely shoved Bellamy and the Captain into the water. Bellamy glares at me––with no trace of sympathy left––as if she now believes this is how things actually went down. I knew that she suspected it might have been intentional, but now she evidently thinks she has video proof.
I want to shout at her that the video is deceiving. I want to let them all know that this isn't a fair depiction of me. But how can I? They have all seen what looks like my appalling behavior with their own eyes. Everyone I know, plus millions of other people, have likely just seen it.
The show comes to a close and the others jump up to hug and congratulate each other. I sit glued to my chair––too shell-shocked to move. As worried as I was about the show's debut, in actuality it was at least a thousand times worse than I imagined.
T.J. hops up on the stage and asks everyone to please sit down for some announcements. He is looking at his cell phone as he says, "Preliminary numbers for the show's ratings are excellent!"
The crowd claps excitedly as he continues. "There are already some new hashtags that are trending on Twitter. Two involve the show's name," he announces, "#CruisingforLove and #CruisingforLoveRocks."
Some whoops and whistles erupt in the crowd. I wish I could join in the merriment, but I feel like I have been taken advantage of. I am also cursing the speed and all-encompassing nature of the internet. If I had known I would be portrayed so horribly, I never would have agreed to do the show.
T.J. continues as if I am not having the absolute worst night of my life. "One is about the hot, new couple that the world is rooting for...#TeamCamBell."
Cam and Bellamy beam at each other before hugging over this news. Even though they hadn't been shown on the screen as a couple, the show's viewers had evidently decided that they would be perfect together. I roll my eyes, now confident that this was intended to happen all along. The cynical side of me thinks that the show's producers probably planted that particular hashtag.
"And finally," T.J. adds, pausing for dramatic suspense, making me worry about what is probably coming. "The top trending hashtag on all of Twitter at the moment," he pauses once more to build the suspense, "is #IHateRuthie!"
He makes this announcement like it is the greatest news in the world. I feel like climbing under my chair and never coming out.
How did this happen? How did I become the villain? I was supposed to be America's Sweetheart, not the most hated woman on earth.
I shake my head in disbelief. I just want to wake up and realize this was all some horrid nightmare. I look around as tears pool and threaten to fall––the horrid nightmare part is true, but it's happening in real-life.
T.J. has left the stage and well-wishers from the rest of the audience are making their way forward to congratulate us. It takes me a moment to process the fact that no one is coming up to me. The other five all have people surrounding them––giving them hugs and lavishing praise on them. I, however, am standing alone. I don't blame the crowd. After all, how do you tactfully approach someone about becoming a trending internet sensation for being so hated?
I quietly slip out of the auditorium, seeking solitude.
Chapter Seventeen
Syd chases me down the hallway. "Ruthie! Wait up," he calls.
I don't want to see him or anyone else right now. My ever-present camera is here to capture the moment. Plus, I now know there are cameras hidden all over the ship, so the viewing audience won't have to miss a moment of my meltdown. The tears I had been attempting to stifle are now running freely down my cheeks. I'm fairly confident they are leaving mascara streaks to serve as further evidence that I am indeed the hot mess my BFF has told the world I am.
I'm not in any mood to talk. I just want to be alone, but Syd is not having any part of that. He easily catches up to me and gently touches my arm––evidently remembering about my sunburn. "Are you okay?" he asks me, seeming honestly concerned.
"Did you know?" I turned on him. "Did you know I would be portrayed that way?" I feel like lashing out at someone, and he is the only one around.
"No, Honey, I promise I didn't know." His words sound sincere. He reaches out to tenderly swipe the back of his finger under each of my eyes, evidently clearing the black mascara trail.
I want to believe him. It feels like he is my only friend left in the world. I know the show has creatively cut the clips from my loved ones to put me in the worst possible light, but it still hurts. I hiccup on a sob as I try to say, "Everyone hates me."
Pulling me into a gentle hug, he coos, "It's going to be okay." He holds me for a long time, while I release all of my pent up anger, frustration, and hurt feelings. An older couple decked out in fancy, black eveningwear approach us in the hallway, giving us a strange look. "Nothing to see here," Syd informs them, waving them on, so they scurry past.
Releasing me from his hug and turning to the cameraman, Syd breaks our only rule, by addressing him directly. "Could you give us a few minutes?"
The guy raises his shoulders and shakes his head as if the matter is out of his control. Digging in his pocket Syd retrieves a twenty-dollar bill from his money clip
. "Please," he adds as he hands over the money.
Pocketing the cash, the cameraman turns off the record button and heads into the adjacent bar without a word. We briefly hear the haunting singing voice of a woman in a sparkling pink gown sitting atop a grand piano as he opens and closes the door of the lounge.
"Thank you," I tell Syd, and I mean it. I hadn't realized how draining it is to have the camera constantly recording my every movement––especially now that I know the footage is being used to show me in such an incredibly unfavorable light.
"There are still plenty of hidden cameras," Syd waves a hand around our surroundings, reminding me that I'm not completely off the hook.
I nod in acknowledgement of his warning as he gives me a sad look. "I wish I could make this better for you." He sounds sincere.
"I feel like I'm all alone in the world," I reveal to him.
"I'm here, Baby," he says kindly. I nod again, trying to be brave and not wanting to point out that I've only known him for two days.
"You miss your family, though," he guesses correctly. At my nod, he goes on, "And you want to make sure that they still love you."
His assessment is spot-on, and a couple more tears escape as I nod at him. "I'm sure they do, Sweetheart," he reassures me. "They probably all said loads of wonderful things about you in front of the camera, but the show manipulated the one thing they said that could be construed as less than flattering to make it look like you are spoiled rotten."
I lean back on the railing, unconcerned about falling. I know in my heart that what Syd has said is true. My family and friends still love me, but seeing them on screen adding fuel to the 'hate Ruthie' fire had been overwhelming and sad. "I wish I could see the entire videos that were filmed with each of them," I admit to Syd.
"I'm sure they are all just as upset about the rotten portrayal as you are," he reminds me.
"You think so?" My voice sounds hopeful. It's not that I want them to feel bad, but I would like to know for sure that they hadn't intended to make me looks so horrible.
Syd nods, then his eyes widen with an idea. "Come with me." He grabs my hand, pulling me behind him.
I follow him into a tiny ladies room. He drags me inside and snicks the lock into place. "You shouldn't be in here," I remind him.
"It's okay," he reassures me before adding, "there won't be any cameras in here."
Comprehension dawns as he pulls a cell phone out of his pocket. "One call," he tells me, before adding sternly, "And if you tell anyone, I'll deny it."
"I won't tell a soul," I promise, grabbing the phone greedily. I don't have to think long about who to call, especially since her number is one of the few that I know by heart in this day of automatic dialing.
She picks up on the first ring. Rather than a traditional greeting, she answers by saying, "I'm going to give those snot-nosed, lying, television turds a piece of my mind!"
I have no idea how she knew I was on the other end of the phone, since I'm using Syd's cell, but her fired-up, no-nonsense response immediately makes me feel better. "Baggy," I breathe a sigh of relief as I talk to my wild, crazy, grab-'em-by-the-balls-and-never-let-go grandmother.
Chapter Eighteen
Feeling a great deal better after my chat with Baggy, I emerge from my bathroom hideaway with Syd. Knowing now how the producers of the show want to portray me, I figure they'll try to make it look like he and I shared a forbidden rendezvous in the ladies' room. I refuse to worry about that right now, though.
Not wanting to run into anyone from the show, but too jacked up to sleep, I turn to Syd with a questioning look. Sensing my dilemma, he takes my hand. "I have an idea. Come with me."
I gladly follow him, feeling relieved to let him do all the thinking. When he pushes the elevator button for the fifth floor, I start to become slightly nervous. Thankfully, he leads me in the opposite direction of the 'theatre of shame,' where my fiasco of an internet television debut had just occurred.
When we reach the smaller theatre at the back of the ship––at least I think it's the back, although I still get turned around in the vessel's enormous interior––I balk about entering. "I don't want to be around people," I inform Syd, although I would have thought he should already know that.
"This is where the overflow crowd from the show's debut had to go," he reveals. "Our theatre was standing room only, so the people in here have no idea what happened." He points to a Broadway-style poster that indicates there is a magic-comedy act in progress.
I don't feel a bit like watching a cheesy comedian. My face must have betrayed my reluctance because Syd leans in to convince me. "It will be dark in there, and we can partake in some adult beverages."
"You had me at dark." I smile at him. A lack of light means that cameras won't be able to watch my every move. It's amazing how quickly my feelings about having my every word and gesture recorded have changed. Just yesterday, I loved the attention because it made me feel special and sought after. Now...not so much.
We try to slip quietly into the back of the theatre. I sure don't need a snarky comedian picking on me for arriving late to his show. It takes a bit for our eyes to adjust to the black room. We find an empty two-top table at the back and claim it.
Immediately, a perky waitress in a short, black skirt appears to take our drink order. Syd orders us each a mojito. That probably wouldn't have been my first choice, but as long as the beverage has alcohol in it, I'm not going to complain.
Our mojitos quickly arrive and I am pleasantly surprised to find the cool drink is tastier than I would have expected. I take a couple of healthy gulps before turning my attention to the stage. Something about the stance of the man in the spotlight catches my attention.
His dark hair, broad shoulders, and slender hips are undeniably attractive. The tight black tee shirt he is wearing makes it obvious that he is in great shape. There is something familiar about him that I can't quite pinpoint, though. I watch him, mesmerized. I find myself listening to the lilt of his voice, but not really his words.
I sense the moment he sees me. His eyes lock on mine, and he smiles, making two huge, gorgeous dimples. I feel bowled over by his gaze––at least I hope he's looking at me. Now I wish we had sat closer to the stage.
Even as I'm telling myself that the stage lights must be in his eyes and that he couldn't possibly have been looking at me, Syd leans over to whisper, "Did you see the way he just looked at you? I'd give anything to have that hunk of beefcake look at me like that!"
I smile at Syd in acknowledgment, but don't respond. My eyes quickly dart back to the man on stage. Suddenly, it hits me who he looks like. My breath turns quick and shallow. It can't be him. I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts. What are the chances? I wonder.
Trying to convince myself that my mind is playing some kind of trick on me, I lean over to Syd. "What is the performer's name?" I ask him.
Making a quiet request of the lady sitting next to us, Syd accepts the offered paper program and hands it to me. I squint to see the words in the dim lighting. When I finally make out the name of tonight's headliner, I nearly fall out of my seat––Andrew Stark, the exact man whose picture I gaze at almost every night before bed.
Chapter Nineteen
Feeling like I might suffocate or hyperventilate, I get up and run from the darkened theatre. Before long, Syd follows me. "What's wrong, Sweets?" he asks, sounding truly concerned.
"Do they know? How can they know? Is he a plant? It this a trick?" I ask Syd desperately. Even though deep-down I know that he has no idea what I'm talking about, I can't seem to stop asking him the questions that are burning through my brain. Syd's bewildered expression confirms that I have thoroughly confused him. "They can't know, can they?"
"Who can't know what? You're not making any sense. You're going to have to back up a little."
"The magic man in there," I point to the theatre doors, "is the one that got away from me." I inform Syd as I run my hands through my hair and slide down the w
all to sit on the floor.
Syd only hesitates for a moment before joining me on the plush primary-colored, geometric-patterned carpet. "Tell me," he says simply.
"Andrew was my high school crush." I reveal.
When I pause, Syd inserts, "He's held up well over the years. That guy is a dreamboat."
Nodding and smiling at him, I continue. "He was always just out of reach, but not in the way you would think." At Syd's curious look, I expand. "He wasn't the stereotypical irresistible athlete, despite his hot body. He was more of an artsy, moody, musician type."
"Ahhh, one of those." Syd smiles down at me. "They're always more difficult to land than the dumb jocks."
I nod, acknowledging that Syd is right about that. "I spent all of one song in his arms, dancing on Prom night, and it was heaven."
"Spill," Syd leans in––all ears.
"He was a Senior, and I was a Junior," I start.
"I already have chill bumps," Syd squeals, showing me his arm as proof.
"It's not a great love story," I tell him before admitting, "Well, maybe a one-sided one."
"Uh oh, I don't like the sound of that, but go on." Syd urges me.
"I had an enormous crush on him, and I did everything in my power to make him notice me. I tried short skirts, blatant flirting, and even parading around on the arm of the quarterback of the football team, but Andrew never seemed to take notice of me."
"He was playing hard to get," Syd guesses.
"Or he just wasn't interested," I say sadly.
"Not possible," Syd tells me kindly.
Smiling at him, I continue with my story. "He was always just out of reach for me, and it drove me absolutely crazy. I had never before––or ever since–– had a man turn down my advances. You being the exception to that, of course." I nudge him gently with my elbow to let him know I'm teasing.
