“You’re just mad because I don’t want to try Solu,” I say.
Two women in the hall look at me with shock, not because I’m yelling, I don’t think. It’s because I don’t want to try Solu!
“No,” she yells back. “I’m mad because you weren’t even excited for me. Not even a little!”
“I don’t think you’re fat, Viv. I don’t think either of us is fat. I think that we look perfectly normal. Why do we have to be thinner, thinner, thinner all the time?”
“Because when people see this,” Viv says, grabbing her belly, “they see weakness. And I don’t want to be seen as weak.”
“That’s not true!” I tell her. “That’s not what I think when I see someone’s belly—”
“Well, it’s what I think,” Viv says. And I see her eyes flash to my gut.
That hurts.
This is an area we don’t venture into—it’s an unspoken agreement in our friendship. I allow her to obsess about her extra fifteen pounds, and we never mention mine.
“Well, I don’t care how people see me,” I say, my eyes prickling with tears.
“I don’t believe that for a second,” my best friend hisses at me. “All your weirdo choices are designed to make people see you as an outsider. You’re scared to fit in.”
* * *
I go back to our room. I practice the Bach until my fingertips are screaming.
All the while I’m thinking about Viv and what she said.
At first, I’m just mad. How dare she blah blah blah.
But the thing about Viv is, she knows me.
And as I run the piece, I realize maybe she’s right about me. About some of it, anyway.
I really don’t mind my extra weight. I really think I look just fine.
But the stuff about dressing weird and not fitting in …
* * *
Around five the PA comes on. I’m expecting a message from Lorna Krieger about shuffleboard or something, but it’s not.
“Good afternoon, guests. This is Captain Hammonds. I’m pleased to announce that Dr. Zhang has just informed the bridge that as of three fifty-five p.m. this afternoon, the ship as a whole has met its first weight-loss goal. The passengers of the famous Solu Cruise to Lose have lost a combined average of five percent of their body weight. We had expected to meet this goal on the fifth day of the voyage, not the third! To celebrate, we will hold a ball tonight in the Aurora Restaurant. Black tie is requested. Congratulations to all.”
Maybe forty-five seconds later Viv comes charging into the room.
“A ball! A ball!”
I stand up.
We apologize at the same time and just cut it all short with a hug.
“I don’t know why I was so mean,” Vivvy says. “You were right about the weight. Neither of us is fat.”
“You were right about my stupid boots,” I tell her. She tucks a wisp of hair behind my ear.
“You’re the best and I love everything about you and I was being stupid and selfish,” she says.
“Well, me, too.”
We hug again.
This is the thing about Viv and I. We’re both only children so we feel like sisters. Always have.
Our fights never last long.
“Viv, I’ve been thinking. Tonight … will you dress me up?”
Viv looks at me—an Are-you-for-real look.
“I mean it.”
“I have dreamed of this day!” she says. “Oh my word. I am going to make you look so hot.”
Vivika grabs my hand and pulls me into our closet.
There’s a long purple cocktail dress, a tight black-and-white-striped minidress, a skirt made out of silver sequins.
“I think that this might work best with your combat boots,” she says, taking the cocktail dress off the rack. “It would give you a kind of a punk glamour thing.”
“No,” I say.
She’s not looking at me, instead she’s rummaging through her drawers.
“You have to keep an open mind,” she chastises me. “I want you to promise you’ll try on anything I say.”
“I meant, no, I’m not wearing my combat boots.”
Viv looks up.
“I want to borrow some of your heels.”
“Whoa,” she says. “Are you sure?”
“I am,” I tell her.
And I mean it.
Because, truth be told, Viv was right about me. I hide behind my alternative, weirdo choices. I need to take some risks, and for me, that means dressing mainstream and wearing heels.
She brings out a pair of stacked stilettos, like eight feet tall.
“Oh, please,” I say. “I’m not suicidal!”
“I just wanted to make sure the real Laurel was still in there.”
“It’s me. I promise.”
Viv squeezes my hand.
“I told you this cruise would change everything.”
TOM
DAY THREE
THEY REALLY KNOW how to do over the top on this boat.
The vibe in the ballroom is ecstatic. Women in sparkly gowns, men in black tie. Champagne flutes chiming. Candlelight glimmering in the chandeliers.
The big band is playing some old-school jazz. Uptempo. And the belle of the ball is the old man Timothy Almstead. He’s surrounded by a constant cluster of people thanking him and wishing him well.
A uniformed waiter passes by with a tray of these little perfectly crispy lamb chops. It’s unreal, how delicious they are. Lamb is lean enough. I have three and ask him to find me when he comes out again.
After a good long talk with Derek, I e-mailed Rich and Tamara. I was really careful to tell them that I know what a great opportunity this is, but that I’ve met a girl and it wouldn’t be right to investigate a relationship with Sabbi when my heart’s elsewhere.
Yeah, it was a bit of a leap on that respect. I mean, me and Laurel hardly even know each other, but it was the best way to get out of the Sabbi thing.
Rich sidles up, taking me by the elbow.
“Good evening, Mr. Fiorelli,” he says, suave as ever.
“Same to you, Rich.”
He looks sharp. Black shirt, charcoal-gray tie, neon-green pocket square.
“Rich, you really know how to wear black tie,” I tell him.
“Thank you, my pretty,” he says. He straightens my tie.
“I got your e-mail,” he says.
“Did you tell her people?”
“Not. Just. Yet,” he says. “Have I told you how happy we all are with the coverage? Solu could not be more thrilled, especially with the Sabbi interview.”
“She’s a pro,” I say.
“Of course she is.” His gaze goes out over the crowd.
“Look at them all. On the adventure of a lifetime. They will all tell their grandkids—they were the first.”
“If it works,” I say.
“Of course it works. Look at them all. Those people are thinner.”
“Yeah. For a while, anyway. Maybe.”
“Buzzkill!” He laughs, elbowing me in the ribs. “You haven’t tried it? I would, but I’m working.”
“Same here. And anyway, my trainer insists I eat real food, in the right amount.”
“You’re like a little Puritan, aren’t you? Like an Amish person. Or a monk.”
“Yes,” I say. “I’m the first Amish television host.”
“So, listen, I think you’re wrong about Sabbi. I’d like to tell you why—”
I brace myself for some seducing from him when Tamara strides right between us.
“You’re a jerk!” Tamara hisses. “I can’t believe you’re blowing this.”
“Look, I just like this other girl, okay?”
“Who? Boots?! There’s nothing there. She’s a nothing.”
“You don’t even know her.”
“Neither do you! You’re just being a coward,” Tamara says.
She grabs my arm, hard, digging her fingernails into my skin.
“Hey—” I
protest.
“You got burned by Bonnie Loo and you’re scared.”
“Bonnie Lee, and she has nothing to do with this. I’m just not into Sabbi.”
“Well, get into her. Get into her right now, because here she comes and she’s got a photographer,” Tamara growls.
She points with her chin, and sure enough, Sabbi is slinking over, a photographer on her heels.
Sabbi’s wearing a satin gown with a slit up to her hip and has a white fur stole draped over one shoulder.
Tamara moves away from me. Rich moves away.
“Tomazino,” Sabbi purrs, her arm out to me.
She wraps one arm through mine and leans up to whisper in my ear.
I …
I …
I smile and lean in.
It’s the polite thing to do. It’s what I’m supposed to do.
I am a coward. Tamara was right.
The photographer flashes away.
This is the shot on the cover of People. It’s happening.
“You look delicious in that tuxedo,” Sabbi whispers.
Then she nibbles on my earlobe.
And it’s hot. But it’s also not what I want. And I don’t know what to do.
And then,
OF COURSE,
I see Laurel.
She’s standing twenty feet away. Her friend is just behind her. They’re both holding champagne flutes and Laurel looks amazing.
She’s wearing a sequined silver skirt and a black silk camisole. Long silver earrings kind of pour down through her hair onto her neck.
The skirt is clinging to her curves and shimmering with light bouncing from the chandeliers.
She’s not wearing boots but she still looks beautiful.
Sabbi reaches up and touches my face, to bring my attention back to her.
“Tom Fiorelli,” she sings. “Tomazino. Take a nice picture with me, sweetheart.”
Passengers around us are taking our picture on their phones now.
Laurel’s eyes meet mine and it’s like I can see her thought process.
I see her register the way Sabbi is pressing her body into my side, the fact that my arm is around her. And she’s looking right into my eyes and I try to tell her it’s not a real thing, but her eyes fall away.
Her lips are drawn tight and she’s starting to blush.
She’s thinking that she’s a fool and I want to jump back in time and have played the whole thing differently, but I can’t.
Laurel turns away from me—from me and Sabbi.
One of her ankles bends awkwardly. She’s not so steady on the heels.
“Laurel!” I say. “Wait!”
Sabbi stands on her tiptoes, deliberately blocking my view of Laurel.
She makes a tut-tut sound with her teeth.
“Focus, Tomazino.”
Laurel kicks off the heels and runs.
Her friend shoots me a dirty look, snatches up the shoes, and goes after Laurel.
Sabbi squeezes my arm.
“Give me a kiss, then you can go after her,” Sabbi says.
I look at her.
Big brown eyes. Lashes thick. She’s beautiful. The woman is undeniably beautiful. Millions of guys fantasize about having her in their arms.
I see now that she’s very, very in control of this situation.
“Come on, baby. Make it a good one.”
My eyes dart to Rich and Tamara, who are watching us and pretending not to watch us at the same time.
I’m mad, mad at myself. I hate myself, so I grab Sabbi Ribiero and I kiss her hard.
I’m giving them what they want.
I’m acting like a child. I know I am.
And I’m so angry I don’t care.
I gather Sabbi to me and her head drops back and I pull her in tighter, my hands dig into her hair. I kiss her.
Click-click-click, the photographer’s shooting as fast as he can. I hate the photographer.
Then I drop Sabbi onto her feet.
I look at Tamara.
“Can I go now?” I ask her. And Sabbi. And Rich.
Tamara nods. Rich looks sad for me.
Good.
I turn to go and realize Sabbi has hold of my hand.
“Tomazino,” she says as she squeezes. “Try to have some fun.”
LAUREL
DAY THREE
“WHO CARES?” I SAY.
“Yup. Who cares,” Viv echoes.
She signals to the bartender. We’re at the upper deck lounge, which is deserted.
“He can cuddle up to whoever he wants!”
“Of course he can!” she says to me. Then to the barkeep, “Two mango daiquiris, please.”
The bartender doesn’t miss a beat. He’s certainly not asking for IDs.
“I don’t even know him.”
“Nope,” she says.
“Tom Fiorelli is a jerk.”
“Totally,” she agrees.
The drinks come.
“Mango? Really?” I ask.
“Totally,” she tells me.
She’s right. It’s delicious.
“You can go back to the party,” I tell her. “I think I’m going to go to bed.”
“Drink up,” my best friend tells me. “And I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. We’re going to go back to that ball. And we’re going to eat a bunch of delicious food. And we’re going to walk around and look gorgeous and have fun.”
“I don’t know—”
“And we’re going to get out on the dance floor and dance. We’re not going to be looking for Tom Fiorelli or for anyone cute or famous or even interesting. You and me are going to have a good time. Nobody’s gonna take that away from us.”
I close my eyes and breathe deeply. The sea air is fresh and warm. It wafts through my hair.
“Okay,” I say. “You’re right. I’m not going to freak out because Tom Fiorelli is who he is. He’s just that guy. He’s the guy who has famous girls biting his earlobe while people take his picture.”
“Sucky, but true,” Viv says.
“I’m in charge of who I am,” I declare.
“Yes!” Viv says.
“And tonight I am a girl who goes to a fancy ball on a fancy cruise and gets drunk.”
“Okay,” Viv says. “I can work with that.”
So, you can’t chug a daiquiri, because they’re thick and frozen. (But we sip quickly.)
* * *
Tom’s not at the ball when we go back.
Which is great, I tell myself.
I do notice that Sabbi is there. So they’re not somewhere hooking up. Which is none of my business, I know that.
Viv was right to insist I come back to the ball.
We laugh and dance, spinning each other around. Some guys come and try to dance with us and that’s okay, but really, the night’s about Viv and me, being best friends.
This is a kind of relationship I know how to handle!
At midnight they wheel out a round table heaped with a huge statue of cream puffs in the shape of an S. The cream puffs are held together by thin strands of caramel.
“Ooooh,” a lady in a black evening gown says to her husband. “Darling, look at the croquembouche. Isn’t that clever?”
(That’s how I learn the name for this fancy dessert.)
The people draw close to the platform where the huge S stands. Rich helps Dr. Zhang onto the platform. She’s handed a microphone.
She’s wearing a rumpled cobalt-blue satin evening dress with her big tortoiseshell glasses. To tell the truth, she looks like someone’s least favorite bridesmaid (or worse, a brides-matron).
The people draw closer and closer to the platform. They’re surrounding it and cheering—clapping like crazy.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Zhang says. “I just wanted to thank you all. This dessert has been created in honor of Solu—but I dedicate it to all of you—”
It’s kind of hard to hear her voice over the cheering.
The people are getting
so close to the little stage that it gets jostled.
Dr. Zhang loses her place.
“On behalf of Almstead and myself—”
And then a man reaches out and grabs a handful of the cream puffs.
He shouts with joy.
“Wait,” Dr. Zhang says. “Hold on.”
But the man’s grab is followed by another and another and people swarm up onto the platform.
“So much enthusiasm!” she tries to rally. “All right—enjoy!”
Dr. Zhang actually loses her footing and I see Rich helping her down.
Men and women in their elegant clothes are edging forward, grabbing cream puffs. There’s a lot of laughter and whooping, good-natured elbowing, stuff like that. But there’s a feeling of fakery to me. Like they’re pretending to be playful, when what they really want is to get as many pastries as they can.
I look to my side and see Viv, staring hard at the pastries.
“They’re trying to act so dignified,” I say.
And I see her swallow.
She looks at me and laughs.
“Solu,” she says. “It tastes good.”
She steps forward. One step, two steps.
I put my hand on her arm.
“Viv.”
She shakes her head, smiles at me.
“Let’s get more champagne,” I say. I’ve had … okay, a lot of drinks, but I’ve also eaten a lot. Now that my appetite’s back, I’ve been making up for lost time.
Viv, on the other hand, has eaten hardly anything. “Or maybe a Pipop?”
“Yeah,” Viv says. “Okay.”
Then she looks back at the table.
“But it just looks like people are taking more than their share. And I haven’t had a dose since lunch. So…”
She heads toward the table.
Everyone, I realize, is heading toward the table.
I’m like a rock in a river. They all flow around me, toward the table.
Huh.
* * *
Maybe it’s just me, but it seems like after the passengers have their Solu, the party seems to get wilder.
People call for the music to be turned up. The band stopped playing after dinner and now it’s a DJ.
“Louder!” a guy shouts. He gets up on the table and everyone’s cheering for him. “Louder!”
They turn it up.
The dancing gets very, well, dirty, with lots of grinding and grappling.
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