Are You Going to Kiss Me Now? Page 6

  Cisco was sitting in the first seat on the left, four seats in front of me. I was thrilled I’d get to look at the back of his beautiful head for the next seventeen hours. His books were arranged artfully around him. Was he reading them all at once or showing off? Eve was sitting to the right of Cisco, two seats behind him. Her phone was ringing relentlessly. She wasn’t answering. She was swaddled in her huge white poncho, staring fixedly at the seat in front of her. Finally, she sighed and picked up the phone.

  “What?” she asked rudely. She kept glancing over at me like I was ET, and I guess I sort of was in this crowd. Chaz foolishly sat down across the aisle from Eve but promptly moved to the seat behind her at Eve’s not-so-friendly request of “You cannot be serious.”

  Chaz put away his laptop and was compulsively sifting through what appeared to be a bunch of meditation CDs. After Joe announced that we would be making a few fuel stops, Chaz took out a bottle of prescription medicine, which he was shaking nervously. He kept looking at his watch, so I assumed he was trying to determine at what point he should take a pill for maximum effect, given the uncertainty of our departure time. I wasn’t sure whether he didn’t like flying in general or he didn’t like the idea of Squiggy Small being our pilot, either. I was in the back of the plane. Clearly, the hierarchy was already in place, but I was happy enough, as I knew I had a great view of the entire goings-on before me. We were still waiting for Milan, who was now three hours late.

  J:

  The flight attendant keeps walking up and down the aisle making fish eyes at Cisco and asking us if we want champagne. Chaz is on his third glass. I’m drinking water by the gallon, hoping I don’t break out before we get to Africa. I’ve already peed three times since we boarded, which makes me happy that my seat is in back and I don’t have to advertise my incontinence problems to Cisco Parker.

  F.

  I hit send and went back to the bathroom. My Droid vibrated almost immediately.

  F:

  Do you think I care about your acne prevention techniques or your bathroom breaks? Jesus Francesca. That’s the best you can do? C’mon.

  J.

  I was suspending myself above the toilet, busily admiring my thighs, again, when I heard Joe come out of the cockpit and announce that Milan had finally arrived and that we’d be leaving in ten minutes.

  A moment later I heard a loud crash. As I opened the lavatory door, in the aisle, sprawled out on the floor in front of me, was what I assumed was Milan Amberson. She was facedown, encircled by long, fried platinum hair. From where I was standing, I could see a good two inches of dark brown roots. She was wearing leggings, a fur vest, and three-inch heels, one of which was broken off and in her left hand. The contents of her bag were splayed all over the place: pills, gum, little bottles of vodka, tampons, an iPod, a latex glove, Purell, two half-empty water bottles, condoms, three tabloids (two of which she was on the cover), a few loose cigarettes, a lunch cup of tapioca pudding, cereal, mascara, an umbrella, a few stray credit cards, receipts, super glue, and about fifteen dollars in loose change.

  “Stupid, stupid, shtupid shoe!” she slurred as she attempted to lift her head and gather her belongings. I couldn’t believe it was really her. She looked like a joke. Black eye makeup running down her face, blotchy residual spray tan, and what looked like an attempt to apply lipstick smeared halfway across her cheek. But she was pretty gorgeous anyway, with her olive complexion and sprinkling of good freckles across her upturned nose. These were the kind of freckles guys thought were cute. Not the kind that, like mine, looked like beef Bolognese exploded in the microwave. And you could seriously cut ice-cream cake with her cheekbones. Her lips were like Angelina Jolie’s baby sisters. Chaz had snapped to attention and was attempting to help her off the floor. I stood there awkwardly, wondering what to do. Eve was clutching the phone to her ear and had a look of absolute horror on her face.

  “Oh my God,” I heard Eve whisper into the phone. “Amy Winehouse is here.”

  “You OK?” Cisco asked Milan, glancing at the floor but not moving.

  “I’m great, Cisco Barker…I mean Parker,” Milan slurred as she pushed Chaz away and motioned for me to help her instead. I did. She stood up, barely, and fingered her vest.

  “Fake fur, Cisco!” she announced, proud and loud.

  “Good man,” he said without even looking at her. He was totally not into her. I loved that! She snorted.

  I was busy shoveling her crap back into her purple snakeskin Balenciaga bag as she watched me with detached interest. Then she spotted Eve.

  “Hi!” she said excitedly, hanging on to the back of Eve’s seat for balance. She extended an unsteady hand. “I am such a huge fan.”

  “Nobody appreciates waiting three hours for you,” Eve frowned, recoiling, as she looked Milan up and down. Milan withdrew her hand.

  “I am soooooo sorry. Really. So sorry, Ms. Larkin. I was working late last night and…” Apparently her train of thought, or her excuse, abandoned her. I doubt Eve appreciated the “Ms.” She was only a year older than Milan. Anyway, Eve had turned away from her and was whisper-yelling at Yvette again and rapping off a list of demands: no photographs with Milan, chilled Pom juice in the hotel room, no talking with the locals unless there was a camera crew, no questions about why she left England, a masseuse upon arrival.

  “Whatever,” Milan said as her eyes glazed over. She seemed to be having a flashback as she collapsed into the nearest seat, which happened to be across from Chaz. He smiled bashfully, like she just asked him to the prom or something. She looked at him suspiciously. I handed her the purse.

  “Thanks,” she said, without looking at me.

  She started rifling through her bag and then turned to me sharply.

  “Did you take my Klonopin?” she asked.

  I shook my head.

  She dug around some more and pulled out a bottle from which she fished three different-colored pills. Then she took out the mini vodka. She looked over at Chaz, who was staring at her.

  “What are you looking at?” she snapped.

  “You afraid of flying too?” he asked.

  “No.”

  She swallowed the pills with the vodka chaser and took out the US and OK! As I said, she was on the cover of both. Eve looked back and rolled her eyes.

  “Can I smoke in here?” Milan asked, looking around.

  “No,” Cisco and the flight attendant said in unison.

  “No,” she repeated mockingly, imitating them like an eight-year-old and tossing the loose cigarette back in her two-thousand-dollar bag.

  “Sweet Jesus. I’ll never forgive you for this, Yvette,” I heard Eve whisper into the phone again. Her face was consumed with anger and pride.

  Milan was one of those people who would be profoundly tragic except for the fact that she’s actually talented. Her first few movies were fantastic, and this kept everyone hoping she’d get her act together. In Cheating, there was something really raw and fresh about her portrayal of a fish out of water in a cliquish Southern California high school. And she was hilarious in The Naughty Corner. I guess what set her apart was that she was a good comedian, which is a rare gift. A few years ago she had the easy charm of a young Cameron Diaz, but she was driving her SUV into Mischa Barton Town. It could have been that crazy, look-alike stage mother, the manager dad who tried to steal her money, the premature cover of Vanity Fair, or the Greek heir boyfriend who dumped her for Mary Kate Olsen, but somewhere it all went wrong. She’d been on the cover of the Enquirer so many times I felt like she must be forty by now. She wasn’t even eighteen! She did look older, though. And she certainly didn’t go out of her way to make a good impression on this group. Now here, mother, was a girl who looked like she was going out of her way to look unattractive. Not that it was totally working.

  ***

  “And the vegan casserole with edamame, Mr. Parker. Can I get you something to drink?” the stewardess asked Cisco as she laid out his fancy entrée. Her name tag said
“Erin.”

  “Do you have green tea, Erin?”

  “Of course.”

  “And I’ll have another Red Bull, please,” Cisco added.

  He’d had about four Red Bulls since we left New York, and we were only three hours into the flight at that point. His bladder control was impressive. I keep waiting for him to use the bathroom so I could pretend I was so absorbed in my book that I didn’t even notice him.

  He had seemed to be on the same chapter of The Fountainhead for almost an hour and a half. There wasn’t a lot of page flipping from what I could make out. I figured he was starring in the film version and therefore studying the text carefully.

  Eve ordered the sushi, of which she ate two pieces before pushing the plate away in disgust. She’d been reading scripts with a scowl on her face for the last hour. In between scripts, she compulsively lathered an expensive-looking moisturizer onto her face and neck. Milan was passed out cold. Apparently her scuffle with Erin, the flight attendant, had taken a lot out of her. It was hilarious and went like this.

  “Ms. Amberson, can I get you the sushi platter or the ravioli?”

  “Fried chicken.”

  “We don’t have fried chicken today.”

  “Well, that’s what I want. My assistant called.”

  “Yes, but we received the request twenty minutes before take-off.”

  “Are you incompetent? Is it that hard to make fried chicken?” Milan asked.

  “We simply can’t accommodate last minute requests.”

  “He got his hippie platter,” Milan said, pointing in Cisco’s general direction.

  “Mr. Parker’s people requested a vegetarian meal days ago.”

  “Well, what’s the point of a private plane if I can’t get fried chicken if I want fried chicken? I work so hard, and all I want is a goddamn plate of fried chicken, and you’d think I was asking for foie gras.” She pronounced foie gras “fwas grass.”

  Eve helium-laughed.

  “What are you cackling at?” Milan turned, startled by the horrific sound of Eve’s laughter.

  “It’s foie gras,” Eve corrected in a perfect French accent. She smiled radiantly, revealing slightly too-small teeth.

  Milan’s face turned pink, but she didn’t say anything.

  “Just get me some cereal…or pudding.”

  “Would you like All-Bran or Grape-Nuts?’

  “I’d like Apple Jacks.”

  “We don’t have Apple Jacks, Ms. Amberson,” the stewardess replied wearily.

  Milan looked at her like she had an IQ of forty-five. Then she started digging through her crazy, huge handbag and finally pulled out two small boxes of Kellogg’s cereal. I kid you not. She held them in front of Erin as if to say, this is what the word cereal means. One was Froot Loops and the other was Frosted Flakes. And I thought the latex glove was odd.

  “Cereal,” she said, tossing the Frosted Flakes at stewardess Erin. “I’ll have these in a bowl, assuming you have one of those.”

  Erin nodded and walked away to prepare Milan’s Frosted Flakes. That Milan actually got away with speaking to people like that was astonishing.

  Milan ate the cereal and then asked for a bowl of ice cream. Unfortunately, that was the last we heard from her. She was out cold.

  Chaz Richards and I both had the goat cheese mixed salad and the spaghetti Bolognese, which was absolutely delicious. I was careful to watch Eve pull out her table so that I would look like I knew what I was doing when the stewardess came over to me. We all got tablecloths, real silverware, and hot nuts. My Coke was filled with big ice cubes and served in a real glass. No plastic here.

  There was a huge selection of movies and TV shows. Considering it was Joe’s plane, I guess it wasn’t surprising that Small Secrets, the musical psychic show my mom always talked about, was among the choices. I decided it was now or never. I couldn’t figure out how to use the personal video player, and I knew embarrassment wasn’t a good enough reason to be bored for the next seventeen hours. I asked the stewardess to help me set it up. Chaz gave me a look, but I didn’t care. If he thought I was buying him as a world-class jet setter, he was crazy. I saw him fumbling with it too.

  The opening credits to Small Secrets were like a bad Saturday Night Live skit about inbreeding. People were basically river-dancing in kerchiefs and denim overalls. Surreal was the only way to describe it. That people ever took this crap seriously is just crackers. Thank God I wasn’t alive in the ’70s. I watched in disbelief as the cast members, including a twenty-five-year-old version of Joe Baronstein, “swung their partners round and round.” I cringed. I mean, this show was a hit? My mom lusted after this guy? This guy was flying our plane?

  I Love You, Joe Baronstein

  By the time we got to Johannesburg, I’d watched the boxed set of Small Secrets: Seasons Two, Three, and Four two times and was feeling like Joe Baronstein was qualified to do anything—dance, act, sing, fly, perform surgery…whatever. I even downloaded the fantastic soundtrack on to my Droid. Joe worked a fiddle like nobody’s business. It was like hillbilly rock. I was digging it. When he came out of the cockpit after landing I clapped impulsively. Everyone turned to look at me. Thank God Cisco joined in the clapping; he must have thought I was politely applauding Joe for landing us safely on the African continent. Everyone glared at me as they reluctantly joined in the awkward round of applause. I got paranoid that Joe knew I had been watching the show. Oy. Then they all went back to their Blackberries and iPhones. I took the opportunity to check in with Jordan.

  J:

  Do you think Joe Baronstein might possibly leave his wife for me? Is a thirty-eight-year age difference too much?

  X, F.

  Eve Larkin had been applying makeup since Joe announced our initial descent into Tambo Airport. It was really, really early in the morning, and I couldn’t figure out who she thought would be looking at her in South Africa at 5:00 a.m. Fool that I was.

  Milan woke up after a series of vigorous shakes on Erin’s part. I really didn’t envy her job.

  “What?” Milan snapped, turning her back on Erin and burying her face in the seat she’d never bothered reclining.

  “We’re in Johannesburg, Ms. Amberson,” Erin said with a great amount of tact, considering the episode with the fried chicken.

  “Great,” Milan growled facetiously. She looked furious to have been woken up, despite the fact that she’d been asleep for almost fifteen hours. She fished through her purse and dug out a few pills that she swallowed dry. Then, ignoring the “fasten seat belt” sign and Erin’s protests, Milan got up to go to the bathroom while the plane taxied to the terminal. She came back with her face cleaned up a bit. Her hair was in that sloppy knot that only gorgeous girls can pull off, and her eyeliner was back where it was supposed to be. Her lips were naked, but they were lightly stained from whatever she had on the night before. I caught Eve looking at her enviously. Though Eve was exquisitely finished, her beauty was labored. Milan’s was natural.

  Cisco had all his stuff packed up except for The Fountainhead. He was still engrossed as the rest of us stood up to exit the plane. He had a highlighter and was painstakingly tracing passages. His lips moved a little as they followed his eyes slowly across the page. I was fascinated. Chaz and Milan were staring too. Chaz’s lips were upturned in a Cheshire cat–like grin. Milan looked dazed and bemused.

  Outside, the air was surprisingly cool. It felt great after the long flight. Joe led our motley crew reluctantly inside the gate, where we were met by an army of bodyguards and a UNESCO representative named Mogens Netzumi. He thanked us all for our participation in the Education for All program, which, thanks to people like us, he explained, had benefited more than ten thousand illiterate youths in less than two years. I was feeling awfully important.

  Once we got inside the terminal, I understood why Eve had been applying makeup. There was a throng of photographers. All I saw were huge cameras and blinding lights, and everyone was screaming and shouting. I f
elt much too tired for this again. Cisco gave the exact same speech he gave in New York, which went over really well, again. He even did the air quote thing, which made me realize it was rehearsed after all. Eve gave a short but intelligent statement, and Milan just smiled and answered questions about her personal life. I don’t know why, but I was surprised that people in South Africa would wake up this early to ask Milan Amberson if she was having a lesbian affair with her psychiatrist’s daughter. I somehow imagined they’d have better things to do. Then it occurred to me that most of the voices sounded American or British, which led me to believe that these people had actually flown here from other countries just to take a picture of Cisco, Milan, Joe, and Eve at the airport. I hoped they got paid well.

  “Did we honestly fly halfway across the world for this?” Eve whispered to Joe bitterly. Milan was getting a lot of attention, and I sensed Eve wasn’t happy about it. Joe had his arm around Eve’s shoulders, and her arm was around his waist in a show of fake camaraderie for the paparazzi. He laughed off Eve’s question, and they both smiled for the cameras like old pals.

  “Guys, guys,” Cisco interrupted heroically, “we’re here to raise awareness about illiteracy in Africa, not Ms. Amberson’s personal life. Everyone’s briefed on that already, no?”

  The photographers laughed, and Milan looked at Cisco with a mixture of gratitude and resentment.

  Chaz and I just stood back like two golf caddies at the World Open. I could tell he was trying to keep a distance from me—like my anonymity was contagious—but there was no pretending we weren’t together in our nobody-ness. This became even more apparent when there was a sudden burst of excitement and all the photographers nearly trampled the two of us in an effort to reach a very blond, tall, skinny, young guy carrying a guitar case and heading in our direction. He was surrounded by security as well. Joe muttered something under his breath before breaking from our group, and the two hugged in what can only be called the world’s most awkward embrace. The photographers were going C-R-A-Z-Y. It was Jonah Baron.