“It’s not my fault,” Griffin mutters for the tenth time during our drive to Mr. Chow. He’s sulking in the seat to the left of me. Devon’s on my right, continuously sighing and sending Griffin displeased glances. “She’s the one who ripped my glasses off.”
“You could have put your lenses on, you know,” Devon says. “I put mine on.”
“I don’t like them!”
“Well, too bad. You’ve given her a fright.”
Griffin pinches my arm so hard that it hurts, so I slap his hand. “She’s fine, see?”
“Griffin. Stop acting like such an arse.”
Finally, as if everything else just fell away for an instant, I turn my head and look at Devon. “How did you get those accents?” I demand. “How? How? How are you so authentically English?”
Griffin sighs. “I told you. English pop star!”
“Yes, but how? You’re from another planet, yet you have perfect accents.”
“Oh, we could talk however we wanted,” Devon says. “For instance…” He switches to fluent French, so far as my limited knowledge can ascertain. Griffin snickers in his seat and says something in French, and then they’re chattering back and forth, Griffin making sweeping hand gestures all the while.
“Well, can you sound American?” I ask, and Devon hesitates.
“What region?”
“Here, I guess. New York.”
Griffin launches into what sounds like a monologue from a movie, complete with realistic Brooklyn accent, though it descends into hysterical laughter by the end. Devon laughs a little, too, but I think he’s more amused by Griffin than anything else.
“Want me to sound Texan?” Griffin asks, at this point laughing so hard he’s gasping for breath and tears are spilling from his weirdly blue eyes. He says something in his language, or what I assume is his language, and Devon answers him. One of the scary guys says something as well. Suddenly, everyone in the car seems to be taking part in a discussion I can’t understand.
“Stop it!” I shout. “All of you. Stop it. There’s only so much alien I can take at once, okay? And right now, your eyes are my limit.”
“Put in your lenses, Griff,” Devon says, sitting back in his seat and running a hand through his wavy, golden hair as his smile falls away. He yawns. “Are we almost there? I’m so hungry.”
Griffin, after coughing a lot and struggling to regain his composure, sniffles a few times and snaps his fingers. “Where’s my lenses?” he demands, his tone returning to the annoyingly superior one he’d used when I first met him.
One of his bodyguards produces something that looks like a contact lens container. Griffin opens it, removing one tiny contact lens at a time and popping them over his eyes. When he turns to look at me again, his eyes are normal. Or, as normal as they can be, considering they still glow a bit. “Better, Wanda?”
I just close my eyes for the rest of the ride and refuse to say anything, even when Griffin asks me if Chanel is really all it’s hyped up to be.
When we arrive at Mr. Chow, we’re treated like royalty. I’ve never stood outside of the place, never mind gone inside, but it’s a bit more crowded than I imagined. On our way to the table, I notice a few celebrities, although I don’t remember their names until Griffin hisses them over his shoulder at me. Judging by the huge grin on his face, this is quite exciting.
I just wish someone cool could be here, if I have to be. You know, like Arcade Fire. Or Bjork.
Griffin sits beside me at our little table, and Devon sits across from us, casting a somewhat non-convincing smile at the bodyguard who perches on the chair beside him.
“Why do you always get to sit next to the girl?” Devon asks quietly, but Griffin’s busy craning his neck to look around the restaurant.
“I think Angelina Jolie is over there,” he whispers to me. “Where are her children?”
“Did you spend a month watching TMZ or something?” I whisper back. “How do you know all of this stuff?”
Griffin looks at me again, this time with wide-eyed suspicion. “E! News, your world’s most famous news source, of course. What is TMZ? Is that the rival I sometimes hear about? Is it propaganda?”
Our waiter arrives and Devon places his order first, though Griffin’s nearly bursting for his turn. He orders with the excitement of a child who’s never been out to dinner, talking right over Devon when he tries to say something.
“Order whatever you want,” Devon says to me as soon as Griffin’s finished speaking. “It’s on us, Daisy.”
I place my order, the cheapest thing I can find on the menu, but Devon speaks up and adds something else to our order. However, his eyes remain on Griffin, watchful, as if he’s waiting for something to happen.
“I want to see Macy’s,” Griffin says, to no one in particular. “It’s your world’s biggest store. I want to take a holopic there, out front. And inside, of course.”
“You need to eat first,” Devon says, and then clears his throat. “We all need to eat. I’m famished.”
Griffin waves one hand. “Devon’s always hungry, always making us stop and eat.”
“Well, that’s smart. Eating is good,” I say with a little shrug.
Devon leans forward, folding his hands on the table and meeting my gaze. “We require nourishment a bit more often than you do. Not as much at once, but more often. Your digestive systems seem to be primed for longer delays.”
“Ha, and his isn’t primed for anything!” Griffin says, grinning. “See, mine usually holds out longer. And then, once, some time ago, I fell because I didn’t eat, and Dev thought someone assassinated me! So he’s paranoid the same thing will happen to him if he doesn’t eat.”
Any trace of a smile on Devon’s face has disappeared, but he just shakes his head and looks away. I don’t have to ask if Devon’s eating schedule coincides with keeping his friend and prince out of danger, because it’s obvious to every single person at the table besides Griffin.
When our food arrives, Griffin digs right in, which seems to relax Devon, and all of us eat in silence for a while until Griffin loudly, and quite enthusiastically, proclaims something in his language, gesturing at his plate. A few people eating at nearby tables turn to stare at us. Without thinking, I clamp my hand down over one of Griffin’s.
“You’re doing it again!” I say, and he actually blushes a little, shifting about in his chair with a clear air of discomfort.
“Do you want to hear my song?”
“What?”
“I said, do you want to hear my song again?” Griffin demands, louder this time. He snaps his fingers, staring pointedly at the roof above our heads. And just like that, his song fills the restaurant, bouncing off the walls and circling around us.
One of our table neighbors points at us and whispers something. No one actually dares approach us, but I notice several people snapping photos with their phones in a less-than-subtle manner. Griffin soaks this up with a huge smile, and even stands at one point so a woman can get a better photo.
“Thank you, thank you!” Griffin says, still standing. “Continue with your meals, wonderful people. You may buy my song at your leisure and talk with your friends about how much you love it. But for now, please enjoy your meals! Don’t let me stop you.”
Devon rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling as Griffin regains his seat. “Finish your food, Griffin, and then we should get back to the hotel. We have a busy day ahead of us tomorrow.”
“Can I leave?” I ask, and Griffin and Devon both say no at the same time.
Dating an Alien Pop Star Page 4