Diamonds are a Teen's Best Friend

by Allison Rushby

  Sigh.

  I turn around to see Dad contemplating the ceiling. When, after a while, he doesn’t look down, I decide to have a look too.

  “What is it?” I eventually ask when I’m more than sure there’s nothing up there worth looking at.

  “Ever seen The Poseidon Adventure?” He finally returns his head to the upright position.

  “No,” I say. And for the next ten minutes he fills me in on the glory of the movie The Poseidon Adventure. Something about a cruise ship that gets hit by a tidal wave (gee, thanks Dad . . .) and overturns. And the smart people on board decide to try to work their way to the top—really the bottom—of the ship in order to get out through a hole. And just when I’m starting to wonder if there’s a moral to this story, Dad contemplates the floor and finishes with:

  “Think of it this way—if we overturn in the middle of the night, we won’t have far to walk to find the hole.”

  He’s not wrong. There are probably only a few feet between us and that mega-sapphire that what’s-her-face stupidly chucked over the side of the ship in Titanic (why? WHY?!). “I’ll try to remember that,” I tell him. “Ship overturns, go up, not down.” My dad. Always passing on important and useful life lessons.

  “Good girl.”

  I spend forty-five seconds putting all my stuff away and stowing my bag (when you move as much as we do, you learn to pack light), and another five seconds checking out the bathroom (which gives me time to look it over twice). Then I grab my laptop and stand in position near the door, ready to make a break for it. “Dad . . .” I whine.

  He looks up from his spot on the bed where he’s already working through some notes. “Hmmm? Oh, you want to go. Well, that’s okay. Just check back in every so often, won’t you?”

  I nod. And then wait. “Dad . . .” I start up again.

  “Hmmm?” He doesn’t look up.

  “Daaaaad . . .”

  Now he does. “Oh. Money. I should’ve known. It’s been five minutes at least.” He hands me a twenty-dollar bill before giving me the eye. “Make it last, sunshine.”

  “Thanks, Dad!” I’m off before he can change his mind. Or remember that he never asked for the change from last night’s takeout (oh, how I love it when he’s in the middle of a study). “Bye, lover!” I yell as I make a break for it.

  The lyrical sounds of “Nessa Joanne Mulholland, tone it down a bit” sound up the corridor behind me as I go.

  I make my way up to one of the upper decks, where I walk around and generally have a bit of an explore. Talk about gigantic! Not one, but four swimming pools, an aerobics room, a gym, three restaurants . . . there’s even a day spa (not that I’ll be seeing the inside of that, but maybe I can convince Dad a bit of a back waxing can sometimes be a good thing for a guy’s love life?). It’s quiet up here—only a few people are strolling around. I’m guessing the others are still unpacking in their cabins. (I can see how if you were in a suite above sea level, staying in your cabin with your huge balcony, complimentary fruit platter, and bottle of champagne wouldn’t be a half-bad idea.) When I’m done looking around, I settle down on a wooden sun lounge, facing out to sea, and spring open Sugar Kane (my precious, goes everywhere with me, pink laptop—named after Marilyn’s character in Some Like It Hot). I’ve got to email Alexa.

  I’m only a few short sentences in when the drinks waiter (I could live like this all the time!) rolls up. I ask him for some Dom Perignon 1953 (you guessed it—Marilyn’s favorite drink), and he gives me a “Why don’t you crawl away and die, young whippersnapper” look that makes me wonder how he’s going to make it through this trip. I mean, it’s only day one. I settle for a mocktail of his choice with not one, but two maraschino cherries (though he’ll probably include a chewed-off toenail or three now that I’ve been smart with him). And there goes well over half of my twenty bucks. Eeekkk. I’d better sharpen my whining skills this trip, or I could easily die of thirst.

  Mocktail ordering done, I try to get back into my email, but find I’ve left my typing fingers on land. I’m completely and utterly distractible—every person who walks past makes me look up, or I find myself simply staring out to sea. I’m way too excited to type. The fact is, I just don’t do cool very well. It’s fun being somewhere new that isn’t another college campus. And with all the Marilynisms that have been going on this morning, I’m finding several movie scenes playing through my head in vivid Technicolor. There’s the one from Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, for a start. After Lorelei and Dorothy board their ship, Lorelei hangs out on a wooden sun lounge (just like I’m on!) and checks out the eligible guys on the passenger list.

  Maybe I should ask that drinks waiter for a passenger list when he comes back? I remember his expression when I asked for the Dom Perignon. Hmmm. Maybe not. And speaking of eligible guys, it’s not looking like there are very many at all. The ones who have walked past me so far have either been too old, too young, or attached to a female. And I’m guessing the Olympic team isn’t on board like they were in the film. Pity. I could have done with a whole relay team just for me. It’s always been a dream of mine to fall in love with a guy named Skeeter (he was one of the relay team guys) . . .

  Stop it, Nessa. I shake my head. Back to the emailing. Think of poor Alexa, stuck out there in the middle of the technology and mocktail-free desert.

  “Well, hello there.” A figure stops in front of me, casting a shadow over Sugar Kane. I look up.

  Oh.

  “Mind if I sit down?”

  Do I mind if Holly Isles sits down beside me? I think not. “Um, er, sure,” I finally manage to stammer, but by then she’s already well seated. And I think I smelled her coming before she even arrived. In a good way, I mean. She smells all flowery and citrusy and vanillaery all wrapped up in one. She smells fantastic. How come perfume never smells like that on me? Is there some kind of pheromone they hand out when you turn eighteen? One that makes you a Woman with a capital W?

  For something to do (I think my hands may be shaking), I snap Sugar Kane closed and then take a great interest in the drinks waiter, who’s making his way over with my mocktail.

  “Wow. That looks pretty good. Living the high life already?” Holly laughs as he puts it down beside me. (He even calls me “madam”! And I notice he’s given me three maraschino cherries. What a guy . . .)

  “I think I’ll have one too,” Holly says then. “Maybe a pina colada?”

  The drinks waiter nods. “Of course, Miss Isles. Shall I put it on your room?”

  “That would be perfect.”

  Oh, if only he’d known my name. Oh, if only I had a tab. (Unfortunately my dad isn’t that stupid. He didn’t get all those degrees for nothing.)

  “Do they all come with three cherries?” Holly asks quickly, just as the drinks waiter is about to head off.

  “Of course they do, Miss Isles.”

  She winks at me and I laugh.

  “Yes, I thought they might.” She nods and we both watch the drinks waiter make his way back to the bar. “I love a good maraschino cherry,” she says with a sigh and leans back into her chair, closing her eyes.

  There’s a pause and, as Holly’s eyes are closed, I take the opportunity to have a really good look at her. She looks just like she does in all her films. And I can’t believe her skin—it’s flawless. I can only dream about having skin like that and not having to creep up to the bathroom mirror each morning praying there won’t be an eruption somewhere on my face. Plus, what she’s wearing—it’s amazing. Some kind of a swing coat with a black singlet and black Capri pants underneath. You can tell it cost a fortune just by glancing at it. Frankly, looking at Holly Isles (though I think I may be staring now) is like looking at a car crash: you know you shouldn’t, but you can’t help but gawk. Of course, five minutes has gone by where I haven’t made a complete idiot of myself, so I have to go and wreck this by not being able to help myself again. “Tell me you’re from Little Rock,” I say a little too fast.

  Holly turns her h
ead and opens one eye. “Sorry. Dayton, Ohio. It was worth a try, though.”

  “I guess.”

  “You’re a bit of a Marilyn fan, are you?”

  She knew! She knew what I meant about “Little Rock”! I try not to look too excited. “You could say that.” I take a sip of my mocktail. “Want to try?” I offer Holly the glass.

  “No, it’s okay. I’ll save myself. After the week I’ve had, I’m looking forward to it.”

  In the silence that follows, I wonder if I should ask where Kent is, or not? I’m not sure on the star etiquette thing. “Um, do you want to talk about it?” I try.

  Holly sighs. “I’m sure you don’t want to hear it.”

  Of course I want to hear it! Still, I try not to look like a gossip hound. “I don’t mind. I’m a good listener. I have to listen to my dad all the time.” Holly laughs at this. “No, I mean, he’s always telling me about his studies and stuff.”

  “Studies?”

  “Mmmm.” I take another sip of mocktail. “He sort of studies, um . . . people.”

  Holly’s eyebrows raise a bit. “People? What do you mean? Is he a journalist?” she asks quickly.

  “I wish! It’s nothing as glamorous as that.” Oh, no. How did I get myself into this situation . . . again? “He sort of studies people and how they, um . . . mate.” I mumble the last bit.

  “What? You’re joking.” Holly sits up in her chair.

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Really. He’s a sociologist.” I can’t believe what I just told Holly Isles.

  “Wow. He’d have a field day with Kent then.” She sits back again.

  That’s probably true, I think to myself, if even half of what I’ve read about him in the tabloids is correct. Suddenly I find myself looking at my mocktail intently. I poke around in the glass a bit with my straw (especially when I find a lump that I really, really hope isn’t a piece of toenail). The pause is longer this time. Much longer. Finally, I look up. “So, did you want to?”

  “Want to what?” Holly looks over at me, confused.

  “Talk about it.”

  “Oh. Right. Um . . .” She gives me a look. One that I don’t really like because I can tell, in that assessing moment as her eyes skim over me, that she suddenly realizes I’m a kid. Thus, I’m safe. She can tell me anything.

  “Hey, if you don’t want to . . .” I start, and Holly waves a hand.

  “No, it’s not that.” She gives me one last, thoughtful look. “It’s just that there’s not much to talk about, I’m afraid. It’s all said and done. The wedding’s off.”

  Holy . . . I try not to jump out of my sun lounge. Not much to talk about? I can think of a few gossip columnists who would disagree. “Oh, really?”

  Silence.

  I’m not quite sure what to say now, but eventually it comes down to two choices: to ask or not to ask. Being me, I opt for ask. “Was there, um, someone else?”

  Holly snorts. “Several someone elses, it seems. Including our pool cleaner, Melanie. That was the someone I caught him with.”

  Ah. Er. What do I say to this one? And why is she telling me all of this? Isn’t it a bit of a secret? “I’m . . .” I shrug. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  And Holly must see the look in my eyes because she snorts again. “It’s okay. But why am I telling you all of this?”

  I have no idea. “Maybe you need to let it all out?”

  Holly snorts. “Maybe. Anyway, it’s not okay, is it? About the pool cleaner, I mean. But good riddance, I say. My grandmother never liked Kent anyway. I should have listened to her. She always said that any man who changed his name from Kenneth Mananopolous to Kent Sweetman couldn’t possibly be any good, and it turns out she was right. Plus, it’s not like he was much . . .” She trails off as she turns her head to look at me. And I think she must suddenly remember my age again, because she changes tack fast. “I mean he wasn’t much . . . of a mocktail maker.”

  Hmmm. Sure. I eyeball her. “I do know where babies come from. I’m, um, sixteen, you know.” Sixteen? Where did that come from?

  Holly laughs. “Oh, yes. I forgot about your dad.”

  “I didn’t.” I roll my eyes like the true sixteen-year-old that I now (sort of think I) am. There’s another pause.

  I use it to develop a more worldly voice. “It’s a bit sad, though. That you broke up.”

  Holly looks away quickly. “Well, it’s not like it hasn’t happened before.”

  Ouch. I think back and remember the Kent thing had always been a bit off and on. And from my tabloid study I know Holly’s been engaged at least twice before. Hey . . . my head whips around as I see something out of the corner of my eye. It’s a guy. A tall skinny guy about halfway down the deck. A guy with a camera. And he’s taking photos of us. I open my mouth to say something to Holly, but then he turns and starts taking photos of other people. Oh. I shake my head. Duh—he’s the ship’s photographer. For a moment there I thought he was spying on Holly or something. I’ll have to remember to go and look at the display of photos later. And I’ll have to buy a million copies to send to everyone I’ve ever known!

  Beside me, Holly sighs, still looking out to sea. “Yes. On the man front, I seem to be setting a trend.”

  Huh? Oh. Oops. How bad do I feel now? Holly’s telling me all about her two-timing fiancé, the guy she was ready to spend the rest of her life with, and I’m sitting here wondering how many photos I’ll be able to badger my dad into paying for. “Maybe you’re just a hobo collector?” I say the first thing that comes into my head (always a mistake). This was something Lorelei had said about Dorothy. She always picked the wrong guy too.

  “A what?”

  “A hobo collector. You know, always picking the wrong guy. It’s like my Aunt Greta. My dad’s sister. She collects meantiques.”

  “Meantiques?” Now Holly really looks at me.

  “Yeah. Too-old men who are mean to her.”

  Holly practically falls out of her chair, she laughs so hard. “You’re a scream, you know that?”

  I’m not sure what to say, so I just shrug and polish off my mocktail. “Want a cherry while you’re waiting?” I offer Holly my glass. She smiles at me as she reaches over to pluck one out.

  “Only if you think you can spare one.”

  My heart has stopped beating.

  I think I am going to die of happiness.

  Holly and I lounge for a good hour, shooting the breeze and another mocktail (for me; Long Island iced tea for her) or two. Of course, we keep ordering extra maraschino cherries (eventually the drinks waiter just brings us a bowl of the things). And Holly must need someone to confide in desperately, because I hear it all. Her perfectly lined and filled red lips fill me in on her sad and sorry love life, right from guy A to guy Z.

  “And now,” she says, finishing off her life story with a flourish of one hand, here she is on what would have been her honeymoon cruise, with her nephew, of all people, to keep her company.

  Speak of the devil. Just as the word “nephew” exits Holly’s mouth, up he stalks.

  “I was wondering where you’d gone,” he says, standing over Holly’s chair.

  Holly grins up at him. “I love you too, Marc, sweetheart.”

  I can’t help but giggle at this. Whoops. Marc turns and shoots daggers at me.

  “And you are?”

  “Oh, Marc. Lighten up. This is Nessa. My new best friend. We’ve been having a lovely girlie chat.”

  “Really?” Marc sounds doubtful.

  Pray, scat, I think to myself, as I throw him what I hope is a haughty look. That’s what Marilyn would have done (except she would’ve had the guts to say the “Pray, scat” thing out loud, like her character Lorelei did in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes). As for “new best friend”, I can’t even think about that now. My brain will explode.

  Marc turns his shoulder then, effectively blocking me out of the conversation. “There’s a call for you,” he says to Holly. “There have been several calls for y
ou.”

  Hmmm, interesting, I think as I look up at his broad back (also pretty yummy).

  Holly sighs now and leans forward to look at me beyond Marc’s legs. “That’s my cue. Better be off before I get in trouble.”

  “Sure,” I say. “Thanks for the second mocktail, Holly. It was fun.”

  “No, thank you for letting me vent. And it’s not just everyone who’d give you one of their maraschino cherries, you know.”

  “No worries!”

  “I’ll see you around.” She gives me a quick wave as Marc drags her away by one arm.

  Party pooper.

  As Holly leaves, I watch her curves and high heels and swing coat go with a shake of my head. I can’t believe I feel sorry for her. Holly Isles. I never would have imagined someone like her would be so desperate to talk to somebody that she’d talk to me. She obviously needs some help, stat, as they say on all the medical shows. And she also needs to amputate that dour (but still, I have to admit it, awfully cute) nephew as well. Preferably before he turns gangrenous. (Green, black and purple, especially when seen on the extremities whilst cruising, is so out this season . . .)

  ***

  From: “NJM”

  To: “Alexa Milton”

  Subject: I am such an idiot!

  Alexa! Where are you when I need you? (Don’t answer that, I already know . . .) Now, sorry to butt in on your misery, but you’ll never believe who I just met—Holly Isles! (Scream here.) Yes. Holly Isles! (Scream again here.) And you’ll never believe who I never properly introduced myself to—Holly Isles! (Restorative slap here.) Yes. Holly Isles! (Restorative slap again here.)

  Ugh. I am such an idiot. I let Holly Isles sit beside me for ages (will fill you in later as have to rush off—important cruise ship business to attend to, you know) and I never told her my whole name (which means she couldn’t call my cabin for another chat, even if she wanted). We talked for ages, too. She even called me her “new best friend”! Can you believe it? I can’t. I really can’t. I’m Holly Isles’s “new best friend.” I’m starting to wonder if I didn’t hit my head on some metal railing and dream up the whole thing. Really got to go. Will tell all later, I promise, promise, promise.