Are You Going to Kiss Me Now? Page 4

  After about an hour in the car, we pulled into what looked like yet another airport. From a distance, I saw low-level white buildings punctuating the sprawling asphalt at regular intervals. It looked like a minimalist village out of the Twilight Zone. There were no people, but I did see some planes roasting in the sun. Big planes, small planes, and even some helicopters. The driver made a sudden left, and I saw a crowd of men with cameras hovering around a sole town car much like the one I was in. Paparazzi? I took a deep breath. Maybe I wasn’t being abducted. Maybe I’d get papped!

  I smashed my face to the tinted window to see who was in the car. All I could see was the driver getting out and opening the back door. The cameramen started going absolutely nuts. I heard the paparazzi yelling but couldn’t make out the words. I watched them make a tight circle around whoever had emerged as she moved slowly and awkwardly toward the hangar entrance. The group stopped, cameras flashed, the group moved. Repeat. It was like watching lions trap an antelope on the Discovery Channel. All of a sudden, a plump, frantic, middle-aged woman burst out of the hangar doors barking and pushing her way through the pack. There was another brief pause during which I could make out a girl’s voice, then more cameras flashed, there was some applause, and then the two women dashed inside the hangar. All I could see was the back of a knotted, big, black-haired head perched on a wee-tiny body. The cameramen let her go, shuttled back to the curb, and waited for their next victim. Me.

  My heart was about to blow through my chest as our car inched up. My throat was so dry the sides of it were sticking together. I took one of the conveniently placed mini water bottles and drank it in one gigantic gulp. Or so I thought. Half of it dribbled out of my mouth onto my gray Anthropologie shirt. That was exactly why I preferred flannel. Jesus H.

  “Here we go,” my driver said as he came around and opened my car door. I was staring into at least thirty enormous camera lenses. Talk about a deer in headlights. The name Bambi had never seemed so fitting. Everyone was screaming as I forced myself out of the car. It was terrifying. The noise was deafening. I can’t believe I ever thought being famous would be fun.

  And then, as I stood to face the crowd, the cameras and the yelling all stopped at once. Seriously, I could have heard a bird taking a leak back in Portland. One camera clicked, and then I heard a guy say, “Shit.” And then silence. “Who the hell is she?” an angry voice called from the mob. Nobody responded. I clutched my phone with a sweaty palm. I wasn’t pap-worthy. It was deathly quiet. Fifteen seconds earlier, I had thought there must be nothing worse than being famous. Now I realized the only thing worse than being famous was not being famous. I had disappointed fifty people I’d never even met just by virtue of my being a nobody. I might as well have stayed at home for this.

  The mob parted for me apathetically as I walked toward the hangar. They went back to drinking their coffee and smoking and behaving the way they do when “nobody” was around. Then I remembered my bags. I turned around and saw the driver carrying them behind me, laughing with the cameramen. Were they laughing at me? If I looked like Jordan they would have at least thought I was somebody—or that I was on the verge of becoming somebody. And just like that, the familiar self-loathing began. I tried to think of one part of my body that I liked, and all I could come up with were my calves. They’re muscular and lean, but even my calves have freckles on them, so they’re flawed. I get that looks don’t matter, but I also get that they do…more than anything sometimes. I felt like crying.

  Mercifully, a black limo pulled up to the curb, and all the parasites resumed their position screaming at the car. I knew I should walk into the hangar and hide, but I didn’t. Something made me stop to see who it was. When the door opened, I had to squint my eyes because what I saw was so mind-blowing I started to wonder if this whole thing wasn’t some crazy dream.

  “How are the wife and kids, Joe?” Cameraman One shouted as the totally legendary Joe Baronstein stepped out of the car and turned to face the cameras.

  He was so much shorter than he looked on film, and he was older and fatter too. But it was him, and it was almost like he was made of magic dust. I’d been looking at that face for as long as I could remember. Joe Baronstein had been in show business for maybe twenty years before I was even born. Like Tom Hanks and Robin Williams, he got his start on TV. He played a teenager named Squiggy Small on a hit series in the 1970s called Small Secrets. I had the misfortune of seeing it once on Nick at Nite. It was a comedy about a psychic family living in a little Texas town. And there were musical numbers! Yes, a musical comedy about a family of Texan clairvoyants. Can you imagine anything so dreadful? And I thought The Partridge Family was bad. My mother still refers to it as the best show in television history, which really says it all.

  Joe was the only cast member from Small Secrets to go on and have a career. He made a few independent movies before being propelled to super stardom in the mid-1980s playing Matt Spacey, a hard-ass New York City detective looking to end the war on drugs. He then had a long run as king of the cop thrillers, and I swear he’s been in like every great movie I’ve ever seen. I don’t know what happened to him—maybe he just got old—but about three years ago, he started making one bad movie after another. Seriously, his last few movies were abysmal at best. That said, he was still an A-lister. If Robert De Niro still had cache after Meet the Fockers and Rocky and Bullwinkle, Joe Baronstein was in no immediate danger of not getting the good table at the Ivy. Those older stars got free passes. And anyway, despite Joe’s recent box office failures, he looked like a happy guy.

  The camera guys formed a sort of respectful half-circle around him. He spoke as if he were standing behind an invisible podium. He’d clearly been doing this circus show for years.

  “They’re great, Lew,” Joe responded beaming. “Adelaide’s playing my daughter in Hoggalicious Two. She’s a natural.” Joe was as friendly as could be. I was still reeling from the fact that Joe Baronstein was standing three yards away from me and that he actually knew these guys’ names. He called him Lew. I was dying to text Jordan, but I didn’t want to miss anything.

  “How’s Jonah’s European tour?” another photographer shouted out.

  “Great,” Joe said, smiling tightly. Jonah Baron (he dropped the “stein”) was Joe Baronstein’s illegitimate son. He was in a hugely popular Christian boy band called the Born. Personally, I don’t know anyone who downloads Jesus tunes onto their iPod, but obviously such people exist because Jonah Baron is one of the most successful teen icons in the world.

  “No offense Joe, but we don’t think of you as a humanitarian. Why the GLEA tour?” another guy asked as he pushed his way to the front.

  Joe laughed, and his face crinkled up exactly like it did in the movies. Before Joe could answer, another paparazzo interrupted with a question.

  “It’s rumored DiCaprio pulled out of your next project because he felt you were poisoning the environment with your private planes and excess fuel usage.”

  Joe laughed again. “You believe everything you read in your magazine, Norman? That’s ridiculous. Leo and I are fine. Look, once and for all, I’m a professional pilot. If I wasn’t an actor, I’d be flying commercial airliners.” He paused and then continued. “In my line of work, private jets just make financial sense when people have busy schedules and wish to use their traveling time for work or wish to limit travel delays and so gain more working time. And, finances aside, private aircrafts are often the only efficient method of traveling to cities and regions not serviced by major airlines.”

  His speech sounded painfully rehearsed.

  “So, you’re flying these guys over to Africa today?” a lady photographer I hadn’t noticed until now asked.

  “You bet,” Joe responded.

  A gasp from the crowd.

  “Why not?” he asked as casually as if he’d ordered the pasta instead of the fish. “We save time and money using my Boeing. I’ve piloted her on a fifteen-city, 35,000-mile tour. I’ve logged ov
er seven thousand hours flying time. I’m an Ambassador-at-Large for Virgin Atlantic.” Did he always talk like this? If I hadn’t been so freaked out by what he was actually saying, I’d have been asleep. And wasn’t he being just a little defensive?

  The guys burst out in applause and barraged Joe with questions. This was a story. My feet were lead. Joe Baronstein was flying his plane, my plane, all the way to Johannesburg? Don’t get me wrong, I thought the guy was a good actor and all, but I’d have been much more comfortable with a pilot who wasn’t worried about the dismal premiere of Hoggalicious Two a month from now. I was certain nobody had told my mother about this.

  I managed to sit down on one of two wooden slat benches just outside the terminal door. I was paralyzed with fear and heat. Just two feet behind me, through the glass, I could see the inside of the hangar. It was a sparsely decorated waiting area with the black-haired girl and what looked like her entourage taking up about half the massive room. I still couldn’t make out who she was, but I was afraid of her, and walking in there alone was out of the question. My phone rang. I scrambled to turn it off but not before seeing it was Jordan. I switched it to vibrate and sent her a quick note.

  J:

  Joe Baronstein is flying us to Johannesburg! No, I’m not kidding so don’t ask me if I’m kidding. I’m going to die a virgin.

  F.

  I felt a blast of icy air as I looked up and saw Joe Baronstein walking through the automatic doors. As he got closer, I had to restrain myself from jumping up and giving him a hug. Between all the movies and the magazines, I really felt like I knew the guy. I’d seen him in bed, chasing down bad guys, water-skiing in Hawaii, eating fries and burgers with his kids. Really, my sense of intimacy was totally creepy. He paused and looked right at me.

  “Hiya,” he said with a wave and walked inside.

  I guess we weren’t friends after all. Honestly, I can’t think of anything quite as dismissive as a “hiya,” but I guess it was polite. If I looked like Jordan, he would have said “hello” and probably introduced himself. Stop it, stop it, stop it. My phone vibrated.

  F:

  Are you kidding? I’m calling now. Pick up.

  J.

  I turned it off.

  Another limo pulled up, followed by what looked like a red version of my mother’s gray Prius. Both cars opened their doors simultaneously. The flashes and screaming started up again. It was hard for me to see anything from my bench, but I figured that standing on it for a better view might make me look a tad too eager. Surprisingly, the cameramen all seemed to have turned their lenses away from the limo and onto the Prius. They were all backing up, giving whoever was in the car a wide berth.

  From the limo emerged a chubby young guy with a big head and white, spiky hair, wearing khaki shorts and a crisp purple Izod. His walk was inappropriately diva-licious considering his reception was about as warm as mine. He had an unobstructed walk to the hangar. Apparently, nobody wanted to take his picture either. He was pulling four piled-up pieces of neon-yellow luggage, and he had a long brown cigarette dangling casually from his lower lip. There was a big bulge in his pants pocket that I assumed was a cell phone from 1999. At least, I hoped that’s what it was. He did look sort of familiar, but I couldn’t place the face. I thought he must have been one of those chameleon-type actors who are so respected because they’re not so easy on the eyes.

  “Hi!” I said cheerfully, as he walked past me, staring at the pavement. He shot me a dirty look. Strike two. He looked like a younger, gayer version of my uncle Allen. Maybe he was a flight attendant.

  There was such a scene over at the curb that I was simply dying to know who was in the Prius. Whoever it was would have to pass me on the way in, so I just sat and waited. I reached into my pocket and took my phone out to jot down notes before I transferred everything on to my laptop. Maybe I could capture some of my first impressions before I forgot how it felt. I had decided that if I made the Seventeen diary truly spectacular, the magazine would feel compelled to run it, even after they found out that Jon Manning was not in fact dead but practicing sun salutations with Betty Crocker in Lake Oswego, Oregon.

  My thumbs were paralyzed. What could I say? It was too much to absorb. I pretended I was typing anyway. I instinctively understood that gawking like a fan wasn’t a good move. Appearing to look busy and uninterested was the way to go. I thought of Heidi Montag and that stupid, camera-ready smile she always had on. Nobody likes her. People definitely like you better if you’re not available.

  And, by the way, the fact that I knew so much about celebrities did not, in fact, mean that I was starstruck. I just enjoyed seeing a little cellulite on America’s unofficial royalty. Who didn’t? I mean, if you think about it, celebrities are the most overrated, self-absorbed, indulged, and superficial group of people on the planet. Sure, they’re living the fabulous life, but at what cost to their soul? I didn’t envy them, I pitied them.

  And then I heard the voice rise from the crowd. That magic, unmistakable voice. “Oh my god,” I said out loud—even though I meant to say it in my head only. I dropped my phone. An evil, guttural snicker erupted behind me. I whipped around. It was the Izod boy, staring down at my empty lap, smoking a cigarette and drinking a cup of coffee. I didn’t know how long he’d been standing there. I was sure he had gone inside. Why would anyone voluntarily stand in this heat drinking hot coffee?

  “Who are you?” he asked, in the most condescending tone I’d ever heard from anyone under the age of twenty. He exhaled, and a hateful, Joker-like grin crossed his pointy little face. He looked about twelve.

  “I’m a writer…for Seventeen,” I said, with as much confidence as I could fake. “Francesca Manning.”

  “Is that so?” he smirked, giving me the once over. “How old are you?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “And you’re a staff writer at Seventeen?” he asked.

  “Well, I won an essay contest, and the prize was—”

  “Ahh,” he said, interrupting me mid-sentence. “That’s sweet.” It seemed he had the information he came for, and he looked satisfied that he could now place me firmly below him on the feeding chain.

  “Chaz Richards,” he said, introducing himself and giving me a sidelong appraisal as he waited for the impact of his name to sink in. He took a deep drag on his cigarillo.

  “Who?” I asked, knowing full well who he was, but if he thought I was giving him that satisfaction, he had another thing coming.

  “Mmm, hmmm,” he smirked, “I s’pose you’ve got absolutely no idea who I am, right?” looking at me knowingly and taking out his BlackBerry. So that’s what was in his pocket.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “That’s for sure,” he snapped back.

  Chaz Richards (aka Dicole Richie) is only eighteen and has a celebrity blog that’s all but wiped out the popularity of US, OK!, People, and Life & Style. Maybe not quite, but you get the idea. It’s updated every five minutes with the most current, juiciest, and most banal celebrity gossip. And it’s usually wildly unflattering, which is why it’s so popular. It’s like celebrity bloopers with a running commentary by Howard Stern. You know, Fergie tripping in front of the Waverly Inn, Britney’s bald baby baker, Marcia Cross trying to pass off a wig as her real hair. Great stuff. And, rumor has it, he’s always got the story first, which is why his blog is called Neverbeenscooped.com. I can’t imagine how he gets all his minute-to-minute updates, but I always found following Hollywood in real time to be a terrific homework procrastinating device.

  “Are you coming on the trip?” I asked, confused at how the most hated celebrity blogger could have managed such a thing.

  “Of course I’m coming. You think I’d miss an opportunity to see Milan Amberson sweating in a third world country? I’d sooner cut off a toe. But seeing as you don’t know who I am, I guess you wouldn’t understand how important it is to me.”

  “But how?” I asked, trying to deal with the fact that I was actually having
a conversation with Chaz Richards, that I was trying to pretend I didn’t know who he was, and that I was pretty sure he just said Milan Amberson was coming too.

  “Don’t ask stupid questions,” he said. Ouch.

  I tried to think of a non-stupid question when I heard that voice…again. No mistaking that gravelly, masculine tone. There was no way he was coming on this trip. OMG. Talk about A-list. This was nuts. It was Cisco Parker! Cisco Parker is a heartthrob of the variety that transcends both age and gender. He was only eighteen, but my mother, father, and Emily were all fans. He was on a wildly successful TV show on Disney for two years (playing a singing possum), before hitting the big screen, playing everything from Captain Marvel, to a schizophrenic, to Alexander the Great, to a college kid with a crystal meth addiction. I don’t know if he’s a great actor, but he’s great looking, so who cares. When I was twelve, I had posters of him wallpapering my room. OK, I still have one, but it’s inside my closet door.

  Cisco Parker hadn’t done one single interview since he tried to slug David Letterman for calling him ubiquitous. Apparently, he didn’t know what the word meant and thought he was being insulted. Ouch, ouch. Anyway, he’d managed to leave that embarrassing episode behind, along with his Brother Possum/Disney persona. From what I’d read about him over the last few years, he seemed to be modeling his life after Sean Penn, whom he worshipped. No interviews, lots of do-gooding, and much paparazzi beating. He seemed like a pretty cool guy. OK, I can admit it. I still sort of had a crush on him at that point. Everybody did. I mean, gorgeous doesn’t even begin to cover it.

  The camera guys were desperately trying to get a comment out of him, but he seemed to be pushing his way through, just grunting the occasional, “Yeah,” or “No, not today.” Like Joe Baronstein, he was much smaller in person than he looked on film. It was almost like looking at a perfectly crafted, pint-sized copy of the original. One of the guys shouted something about him promising to give a statement, and I saw Cisco put down his bag (yes, he was carrying his own luggage—just like us) and face the crowd. He gestured with a sweep of his hand for them to back away a bit, which they did, immediately. I found his command of the crowd impressive. He seemed older than eighteen. In a good way.