by Jordan Cooke
“Thank you, Jeremy,” said Uncle Ross with a wink. “And you’re looking very snappy, I might add.” Jeremy made a slight, appreciative bow, then vanished.
Corliss stood in silent awe for a full moment. “Uncle Ross, being with you is like watching Matt Damon in The Bourne Trilogy: I never know what’s coming next.”
“What can I say?” He shrugged and moved to a display case. “I have ex-lovers in high places.”
Corliss joined him to see what he was looking at. “What are we doing here, Uncle Ross . . . ?”
“We are at the ultimate jewelers, Corliss, looking at the best jewels in the world. Kings, queens, presidents—and the ladies of The View—have come through this door. As for what we are doing here . . . take a look at this a moment.” He pointed at an exquisite blue diamond set in delicate white gold. The gem seemed to hover above its setting, like something from an ethereal realm.
Corliss was entranced, bewitched, bedazzled. “That’s the most beautiful engagement ring I’ve ever seen in my total entire life, Uncle Ross.”
“Exactly, Corliss,” he said, giving her a level look. “And wouldn’t you like to have one of those on your hand one day?”
Now Corliss knew what they were doing here. Uncle Ross was going to shame her into talking about her lonely life. His tactics sometimes made her so mad! She decided to hit him where he lived—the great generational divide that existed between them. “Uncle Ross, I don’t mean to play the age card, but women of my generation have zero interest in being seduced by diamonds given to them by prospective husbands. First of all, we know these gems are quarried by underpaid South African workers and we protest that!”
“Listen to Little Miss Liberal,” Uncle Ross said, moving to look at other diamond rings. “Corliss, I’m not saying you have to possess a sixty-karat brilliant cut with tons of gem fire to declare your worthiness as a woman, I’m just saying you might maybe want to get married someday. And to get married you need a fiancé. And to get a fiancé you have to—last time I checked—have a boyfriend. And to have a boyfriend you have to go on a freakin’ date!” Uncle Ross never raised his voice like this. Or said the word freakin’. “Sorry, Corliss, I’m all worked up. You’ve shaken me to the core. We really have to fix this situation you’re in.”
Corliss looked to the heavens and wished she prayed, because if she did, she’d pray to God to shut Uncle Ross up about her love life.
“Can I be of help?” said Jeremy, silently appearing at the display case.
“Yes,” said Corliss. “You can help see us out, thank you.” With that she turned on her heels and left the store.
Uncle Ross’s Bentley—Five Minutes Later
Uncle Ross drove in silence. Corliss wasn’t about to break it. She knew he was right: It was high time she dove into the dating pool. But she didn’t know how to swim! The whole idea of dating was what initially kicked her skin condition into high gear junior year of high school. The thought of small talk, flirting, and splitting the check threw her into a hives tailspin. But she also knew being a dateless wonder in Indiana-no-place was one thing and being a dateless wonder in Los Angeles on Emmy night was a catastrophe that bordered on the pathetic.
“Okay, okay, okay!” she finally blurted. “I’ll admit it. I’m a total social loser! I’m eighteen years old, my skin finally cleared up, and I live in Los Angeles—where people are dating left, right, and center. I need to start dating, too—you’re right, Uncle Ross. Even though I kinda hate you right now because you’re right.”
Uncle Ross let out a huge sigh. “Thank God you hate me because I’m right, Corliss. Because I am right. Now what are we going to do about it? Are there any dating candidates in your life? Boys with money, power, and their own Italian tailor? You have to aim high, Corliss.”
“Slow down there, Uncle Ross. Let’s just start with someone who might ask me out!”
Uncle Ross made a sharp turn onto Sunset Boulevard. Corliss gripped the dashboard. “Corliss, please! You can’t sit around waiting for them to ask you out! That’s probably what got you into this awful mess in the first place!”
“Um,” said Corliss, increasingly scared by Uncle Ross’s passion. “I think you’re a little over-invested here?”
“Corliss,” said Uncle Ross, taking on his very serious voice. “Listen to me, this town is brutal. If you haven’t been married at least once by the time you’re twenty-five, you’re sunk in the eyes of everyone. Unless, of course, you’re gay like me. Then you just need to have a big house by the time you’re twenty-five.”
“I can assure you, Uncle Ross, I’m not gay like you. Or like anybody. And there are no prospective dating candidates in my life.” The minute she said this she knew she was lying. There was JB. While not exactly a great prospective dating candidate, he was looking pretty great lately. When he wasn’t on set he didn’t wear his glasses—thanks to a recent LASIK surgery. Turns out he had really pretty green eyes. Also, little tiny muscles were beginning to form where a normal boy’s pecs would be. The push-ups he’d been doing to keep his mind off day-trading were beginning to pay off.
“What is it, Corliss? You look thoughtful, and that always worries me.”
“I was just thinking how JB looks almost normal now that he doesn’t have to wear his retainer . . .” she said dreamily, forgetting that Uncle Ross was there. She was lost in a little JB reverie, which had happened a few times this week.
“Aha!” said Uncle Ross, “so there is someone! This is that JB from the show? The one with the goofy Jack Purcell sneakers and the sunken chest?”
Corliss couldn’t help but blush. She was caught. “It’s not so sunken anymore, Uncle Ross. He’s been exercising.”
“Perfect! He has a job, he takes care of himself, he’s not so gorgeous that you have to worry around other girls, but he’s kind of cute in that kind-of-cute-if-you-squint-really-hard way. I say you ask him out,” he concluded decisively.
Corliss went white. The thought of such a thing made her stomach fall to her knees. She turned her head so Uncle Ross couldn’t see. Outside, the mansions of Sunset Boulevard flashed by.
“Corliss, I’ve had a lot of experience with men. You have to chase him—but with discretion. So he doesn’t know he’s being chased.”
“But how do I do that, Uncle Ross? When it comes to all that stuff I’m completely developmentally impaired.”
“How you do it is by inviting him to something that doesn’t seem like a date-date. Something like a party or event, preferably where some of your friends are. So it just looks like what you kids call ‘hanging out.’ Then you act delightful and wear something low cut and he realizes he should ask you to something. Next thing you know you’re getting an engagement ring and losing your virginity—not necessarily in that order.”
Corliss laughed. She couldn’t imagine JB being responsible for either event. But she did think Uncle Ross’s suggestion wasn’t bad.
“You look thoughtful again, Corliss,” he said, turning into his driveway.
“Well,” she said, the wheels turning in her head as she contemplated her uncle’s advice. “The Emmy Awards are coming up. Everyone on the show has been invited. Max even swung two tickets for me as a kind of thanks for all my hard work. I guess I could suggest to JB that we go together . . .”
“Of course you could,” Uncle Ross purred. “You’d both be there, anyway. Call him tonight.”
“Tonight?!” Corliss was terrified.
“Yes, Corliss Meyers, you’ll do as I say. In the meantime I’ll ring Donatella in Milan and see if she has any samples she can lend us. Something flawless for my favorite niece.”
“You know Donatella Versace?!”
“DV and I were squash partners in the 80s. That woman has a backhand that could catapult you into the middle of next week. Now don’t worry about any of this, Corliss. I have a master plan—and I never fail when it comes to matters of the heart.”
Corliss gulped and saw the evening of the Emmys in front o
f her like a vision. She was in Versace, JB was in . . . something not too offensive. They laughed and cuddled and finally kissed. But even in the vision she felt like a dork, all fake and awkward. She wanted to leap from the car and run screaming into the night. But it was pitch-black out and Uncle Ross’s driveway was a mile long, so she worried about finding her way home.
The Sunset Tower—Anushka’s Penthouse Apartment—10:42 P.M.
“You’re flipping the channels too fast!” yelped Tanya.
Anushka was indeed flipping the channels too fast. Dancing with the Stars, Project Runway, and Desperate Housewives (she’d TiVoed them all) flew by at the speed of light. “It all sucks butt, anyway,” Anushka finally replied. “Desperate Housewhatevers! I mean, all those strung-out old ladies on one block? And Dancing with the Farts? All those ancient stars trying to kick their faces? Can’t all of them retire like normal old people?” She was curled up on her chaise, wrapped in a cashmere throw, scowling at the five-foot square flat-screen TV.
“Anushka, that’s a terrible thing to say,” reprimanded Tanya. “How can they retire when they probably need money for their arthritis medicine?”
Anushka rolled her eyes, threw down the remote, and moved to the floor-to-ceiling window that looked out over Los Angeles, which shimmered and spread out before her. Once there she sighed heavily at the tragedy of her life. It was bad enough she was playing a bald burn victim on national TV, but now she had to endure an evening with Tanya, the cortex-impaired fashion model.
“Hey!” Tanya chirped. “We could watch The ’Bu pilot. I haven’t seen it in a while . . .”
“You mean the one where I die a fiery death? No, thank you.” Tanya was now really bugging Anushka. Of course, she always bugged her a little, but tonight she was bugging her in great big chunks. She’d only called her over because Corliss had been completely and totally bugging her lately by towing the Max party line. Anushka liked things so much better when Corliss was entirely on her side and they could trash Max behind his back all they wanted. But lately she was all “Max this” and “Max that” and “I Have So Much Responsibility!” It made Anushka want to barf.
“All I know,” continued Tanya, oblivious to Anushka’s dark mood, “is that Jesus loves old people just as much as young people. Maybe even more because they are closer to dying—which means he’ll see them soon.” Tanya twirled her chocolate brown locks and looked vacantly at the ceiling.
Anushka rolled her eyes again. She really should have called Corliss. “Tans, take it way down on the Jesus chatter, ’kay? Don’t get me wrong—he’s great and all—but these days I’m a little like, ‘What have you done for me lately, dude?’” Especially in the love department, was what she was thinking. The truth was, Anushka was lonely. She was just glad Tanya wasn’t babbling on about Trent like usual.
Tanya nodded sympathetically. “I know what you mean. Jesus makes me crazy sometimes! He wants you to have love in your life, right? But then you meet a gorgeous guy like Trent and you’re all, like, hot, and Jesus steps in and says, Whoa, you can’t have sex! I mean, what’s the deal, Jesus?”
“See, that’s just it, Tans,” Anushka said through her teeth, turning from the window and balling her fists in frustration. “I don’t have a boyfriend at the moment—if you haven’t noticed. That’s why I’m here watching TV with a girlfriend.”
“Oh,” said Tanya, who looked as if it were finally sinking in. “I wondered why you called me to come over.”
“I’m sorry,” Anushka sighed, plunking herself down on the floor next to Tanya. “I’m just totally cranky because my romantic life is in the dumpster! Also, I’m totally PMSing.”
“Wow,” said Tanya, looking suddenly perplexed. “I never knew you had real feelings like other girls . . .”
“What?!” shrieked Anushka.
“Oops, that came out wrong . . .” Tanya scrunched up her face in the way she did whenever she needed to activate her brain. “What I meant to say was that you—the totally amazing Anushka Peters—never seem like you need a boyfriend. You’re, like, totally independent.”
This made Anushka really sad. She got a little teary, in fact. Of course she needed a boyfriend! She usually had at least one, in fact. But she didn’t know what was wrong with her lately. Every time she approached a guy he’d head for the Hollywood Hills. Or worse, he’d be all over her like Hayden Panettiere in a kissing booth.
“The thing is, Tans, I totally need a guy. At least to take to the Emmys. I was planning on asking Tyler, but he’s always sneaking off and then coming back with the munchies. It’s gross—and embarrassing. Even for me. Ha!” But her laughter faded as she once again realized the gravity of her singleness. “You have Trent and I have . . . no one.”
Tanya made the biggest pouty-face possible. “You don’t have a date for the Emmys! That is completely the suckiest thing I’ve ever heard. What can I do to help? Get Trent to fix you up with one of his surf buddies?”
“No, thank you,” said Anushka. “Anushka Peters doesn’t do surfers anymore. It takes weeks to get the sand out of the backseat of my car. I’m just going to have to figure it out for myself—as usual.” Somehow knowing this made her mood brighten. That’s because self-reliance was the only reliance Anushka knew. “Besides, tonight there’s only one thing to do: turn the TV back on and watch a lot of old ladies get laid by the wrong guys. HA!”
And so they turned the TV back on. Anushka even leaned her head against Tanya’s shoulder. Tanya isn’t about to solve global warming anytime soon, but at least, Anushka thought, she is here.
Somewhere Over the Rainbow—11:12 P.M.
The Bu-Hoo
’Bu-nanas—
It is with a heavy heart that I report that
Anushka “Champagne Breath” Peters and Max
Marx, aka M2, are already at each other’s
throats. Again. Can’t these two get along?
Isn’t it time they grew up and did their jobs? It
breaks my heart to report such strife!
KIDDING!I LOVES IT!
First her eyebrows were all over the map, then
her head got bald. B-ald! ROFL! (You’ll believe
it when you sees it ;)p) These two are testing
each other in a big way. This is a showdown,
’Bu babies, and only one of these raging
egomaniacs will get out alive!
CUE: AUDIENCE CHEERS
Of course, they’ll make nicey-nice for the Emmys.
Our ’Bu stars can’t be nominated this year—the
show hasn’t been on long enough—but they are
invited. Expect the whole crew to show up dressed
to the boobies (man boobies and otherwise) in
schwag they haven’t paid for!
PAGING STELLA MCCARTNEY! PAGING
ALEXANDER MCQUEEN!
But the muy, muy importante question is who will
they bring??? That’s where the fun comes in.
Word up and down Sunset Boulevard is
Champagne Breath might fly solo this year—
YIKES!—while Trent and Tanya will be sitting
on each other’s laps—NATCH—while Rocco
DiSteroids is going bachelor style with his cousin
from Italy—fly that red and green flag!
I hear even Little Miss Corliss “Clueless” Meyers
has got her newly manicured hands on a pair of
tickets. Whoa, Momma! Who’s our Midwestern
Mess gonna tumble into the Shrine Auditorium
with????
Love is in the air, my peeps, make no mistake
about it! And soon it’s going to play itself out on
the red carpet. And guess who will be there to
bring you the backstage 411? You know who,
dontcha?
MBK! For reals!
Yours in total ’Bu-ness,
MBK
Uncle Ross’s House—Corliss’s Bedroom—11:37 P.M.
Corliss sat on her bed, hugging her knees for dear life. She stared at her phone, which seemed to taunt her from the top of her comforter, shifting shapes, sneering at her, sticking its tongue out. She closed her eyes tight and rocked back and forth, humming to herself like a crazy person . . .
She didn’t know why it was so hard! She was only trying to follow Uncle Ross’s directions to call up JB and invite him to the Emmys—and pretend it was just “hanging out” with the gang.
But it wasn’t working. She’d been staring at the phone for a half hour, her eyes growing bigger each minute. They were currently the size of two beer coasters. Then it occurred to her: She should just rehearse her lines like the actors on The ’Bu rehearsed theirs. She would imagine herself playing a scene with JB and that’s how she’d get through this.
“Hey, JB,” she said, reciting from a script she was simultaneously writing in her head. “It’s me, your coworker Corliss Meyers. I was just sitting around thinking, you know, about the Emmys and how it would be fun if we went together as just, um, two coworkers just having a good coworking time.” She let the sentence hang in the air to see how she felt about it. “Blah!” She screamed after deciding she felt completely vomitous about it.
She threw herself facedown on the bed. “I can’t do it!” she shouted, mashed into a silk six-thousand thread count pillow. “Let me die a miserable virgin eating my dinners alone at Chuck E. Cheese! It’s not worth the humiliation!”
But then she looked deep into her future and actually saw herself eating dinner alone at Chuck E. Cheese. Sitting there with a slice of Super Combo pizza, dressed in stripes and plaids. She was having one of her premonitions, and this one set off a hundred clanging fire engine bells in her head. This grim picture would not be her future, she decided. No matter how much she loved the Super Combo pizza at Chuck E. Cheese.
