Kiss n Tell

by Suzy McCoppin

  “Ow!” she shouted, giggling. She tossed it back at me. “You whore,” she said, chuckling.

  “Is that a yes?” I asked, hopeful.

  “What? No.” She paused. “I mean, how would we even—where would we even begin? We don’t have the right clothes…”

  “But we have the hair and makeup!”

  “What would we tell my mom?”

  “We’ll … find a way to go out without her being the wiser,” I squeaked meekly. Anais shot me a stern look. “I don’t like lying to my mom,” she said.

  “We won’t lie, exactly, we’ll just … leave out a few details …”

  She glared at me, but seemed to be considering it. “This is crazy,” she uttered.

  “I know! But that’s what makes it genius. No one, including our parents and probably the bouncers, would ever expect us to sneak into a club!”

  Anais suppressed a grin, and I knew I had talked her into it. I’d like to think that it was the result of my powers of persuasion, but I knew the new makeup and hair had changed her, too. She was queen of the film geeks now! That had to affect her. I doubted she’d pass up a chance to dress up and hang out with a bunch of fabulous strangers, who knew nothing of her pathetic rep at Cranbrook, and just be the girl she wanted to be for one night.

  “I guess it can’t be that hard to sneak into a stupid club,” she managed. “We’re honor students. You’re the youngest person ever to enroll in AP Calculus. Surely we can outsmart a bouncer, right?”

  I hurled myself into her arms. “If you say so!” I squealed. She laughed, prying me off of her. Where the hell was this Anais last year when I wanted to swipe the Oh, Lola! by Marc Jacobs perfume ring from Fred Segal? When I wanted to crash Ava Goldmann’s sweet sixteen at Tao? She turned to me, thoughtful.

  “What do we wear?” she asked. “I don’t know anything about clothes.” I leapt off the bed and hopped over to her closet. Fashion was my department. “Can we get away with the dresses my mom bought us for Xander’s?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “Backyard parties in Beverly Hills and nightclubs in Hollywood are totally different animals,” I remarked sagely, while scanning Anais’s pitiful rack of clothing. She’s the only L.A. girl I know whose entire wardrobe was black and white. “Plus, those clothes have bad vibes,” I sighed, turning to face her. “We’re gonna need to go shopping.”

  “When?”

  “Friday after school. Before we sneak out.”

  “Yeah, about that …” Anais started. “How does that work?”

  “Your mom goes out most Fridays, right?”

  Anais shrugged. “I guess.”

  “We can get ready and leave while she’s out, then text her and say we went to a late movie at the Laemmle or something, so she won’t be worried when we come home after midnight.”

  Anais frowned, taking a seat at her desk chair. “But how will we get to Hollywood?” she asked. I bit my lip. Anais only had her learner’s permit because she had just turned sixteen, although she had scheduled a test for a month from her birthday, six months ago, because she was responsible like that. I, on the other hand, had turned sixteen over the summer and didn’t get around to taking the test until recently. Thankfully, I passed, even though it was kind of bullshit since I didn’t have a car and it was like pulling teeth to get my parents to let me borrow one of theirs. We needed a car. We couldn’t take the metro to Hollywood and hobble up to a velvet rope like hobos. We needed to pull up to the valet, the wind in our hair and the chimes of pop music pulsing in our ears. We seriously needed a car.

  “I stumped you, didn’t I?” Anais gloated.

  I scowled at her. “No. Just let me think this through.” She shrugged, smirking a little, turning back to her homework. “I’ll ask my parents,” I resigned.

  Anais raised her eyebrows. “Really?”

  I nodded. “Unlike your mom, who’s actually cool, they do jack on Friday nights. Sit in front of the TV. watching Wife Swap.” Anais chuckled. “If they shut me down, I guess we could always take the Orange line,” I sighed.

  “Sounds like a plan,” Anais said, nodding. She clearly wanted me to leave so she could study. I considered not taking the hint but ultimately caved, collecting my things. I swung my American Apparel bag over my shoulder.

  “Now we just have to get through the rest of the week,” I groaned.

  * * *

  After school on Friday, we hit up Urban Outfitters with our entire allowance in hand. I figured we could find relatively inexpensive yet trendy designer knock-offs there. As usual, I was correct, although I can’t say it was easy getting Anais to broaden her fashion horizons. She was skeptical of everything I picked out, which was either too hipster or too cutesy or she complained it would make her thighs look fat. After fifteen minutes of her whining, I was willing to settle for anything, except I did staunchly enforce one rule: no black. She didn’t want to be the sullen girl blending into the background. Anais had her whole life to be that girl. This night should be different.

  In the end, though, she walked away with a truly impressive outfit for just under 200 dollars. She got this super pretty chiffon blouse with a watercolor motif, which was totally sheer and shocking. Even she was amazed at how hot she looked with her black Victoria’s Secret pushup showing through. We tucked it into this flouncy denim mini-skirt and topped it off with high-heeled patent oxfords. Talk about hipster. But she picked them out! I nearly fell over myself with glee. I have to say, with her gorgeous reddish-blonde hair, voluptuous lips, and boobs, she was rocking a bit of a vintage cigarette girl vibe. It was a quiet sexiness for today’s standards, but it was sexy all the same.

  In stark contrast, I combed through the racks and found my winning look in under ten minutes. I knew exactly what I was going for: the cool, laid back girlfriend of an up-and-coming rock star. Like a brunette Sienna Miller. I grabbed some denim leggings, which made my chicken legs took nimble and elusive, a slouchy ex-boyfriend tank, which, braless, created some nice side-boob, and gladiator wedges. I tripped coming out of the dressing room, stumbling in front of the mirror.

  Anais’s jaw dropped. “You look like a model,” she marveled.

  “You mean I’m tall and gawky,” I said.

  She shook her head firmly. “You look like a model.”

  The salesgirl nodded adamantly in the background and I knew I had found the right items. “You should be on our website,” she said.

  “For reals?” I was shocked.

  “Sure,” she said, hanging up a striped romper. “Those girls aren’t any prettier than you.”

  I couldn’t believe it. It was the first true compliment I’d ever gotten from someone who wasn’t Anais, Pam, or one of my parents. At that point, I was pretty positive it was already the best day of my pathetically uneventful life.

  Back at Anais’s place, we did our best to recreate Raven’s makeovers, with a twist. We used Pam’s curling iron and some product to give Anais’s thick mop some beachy waves. We consumed half a pack of bobby pins fastening my new cut into a messy twist. Then we basically multiplied the amount of makeup Raven used by two, to be sure we looked dramatic and at least twenty-one years of age. I wasn’t sure if it was the way she smiled slightly checking herself out in Pam’s full-length mirror, or the enthusiasm in her voice when she suggested I try an up-do, like Sienna, but somewhere along the line, I realized Anais wasn’t just humoring me; she was having actual, honest-to-God fun, which of course made it all the more fun for me.

  “How do you feel?” I asked as she fastened her seat belt in my mom’s shitbox Toyota Corolla. Thanks to my unwavering perseverance and the Thursday night lineup on NBC, I was ultimately able to talk my mom into letting me borrow her car for the night within the span of one commercial break during Parks & Recreation.

  Anais exhaled, smiling lightly. “I feel really good, actually,” she replied.

  “If this backfires, we’ll go to a diner and I’ll buy you a milk shake,” I said.

  �
�Strawberry?”

  “Whatever.”

  I checked my mirrors before slowly backing out of Pam’s drive. Even though the disgruntled DMV employee managed to cough up his signature deeming me legally able to drive, I was still a little shaky on the road. The adrenaline wasn’t helping. We headed east on Ventura toward West Hollywood. I wanted to go to The Viper Room because according to Yelp, it’s a super A-list rock bar on the Sunset Strip, which totally went with my outfit, and according to Perez, it’s where all the underage movie and TV stars go to get drunk. Not that I planned on getting drunk or anything, I just figured they’d be lenient with the carding.

  After a particularly unsteady trip through Coldwater Canyon, we pulled up to the valet and noticed a line of Hollywood hipsters wrapped around the corner, along with a cluster of paparazzi looking bored to death, waiting for someone famous to roll up. The bouncer was the size of a refrigerator and looked like a douche and a half. My spirits plummeted. I grudgingly handed the cute, albeit far too short for me, valet guy eight bucks for the car and started to make my way to the end of the line when Anais stopped me, placing a hand lightly on my shoulder.

  “I have an idea,” she whispered. I frowned. Boy, was she full of surprises. “Just wait here looking bitchy,” she said. I shrugged and obediently took the jaded pose of a typical L.A. asshole. I learned from the best of ‘em—ahem—Stella, Odette, and Ava.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Anais march up to the cluster of paparazzi. I waited quietly as she gesticulated, apparently pleading with them. I trusted her and all, but this was a little odd, to say the least. I thought she was of the let’s-not-draw-attention-to-ourselves camp, not the let’s-ambush-the-paparazzi school of sneaking into clubs. She was giggling. A kind of cute, scruffy-looking photographer appeared to be cracking jokes with her. The refrigerator bouncer looked on suspiciously. My heart started to pound.

  What was she doing?

  10.

  ANAIS MARTEL’S LET’S-AMBUSH-THE-PAPARRAZZI

  SCHOOL OF GETTING INTO CLUBS

  Anais

  I knew exactly what I was doing. I’d seen enough crackpot eighties movies to come up with a plan, fast. I made my way over to the group of photographers, doing my best to keep my head held high. I may have been inexperienced, but I knew to exude confidence. People are more likely to take you seriously if you believe in yourself. I made that my temporary mantra as I drew near a guy who looked about my age and was wearing a white t-shirt and banged up jeans.

  The first thing I noticed was that he was really, really hot. And I don’t say that often. Ryan Phillippe in 54. Ryan Gosling in The Notebook. Paul Newman in Cool Hand Luke. And that’s pretty much it. The second thing I noticed was the way he looked at me, scanning my whole frame, his eyes wide and hungry. It made me feel naked, even more than the silly transparent top Vaughn talked me into buying. His hair was light brown and a little bit sun- kissed, particularly the stubble surrounding his lips. His lips. They were full and plushy and smiling at me, I noticed. I took a deep breath, tucking some hair behind my ear.

  “Hi,” I said, approaching him.

  “Hi,” he replied, grinning at me. Why was he grinning at me? I hadn’t even said anything yet.

  “Listen,” I started, “can you do me a favor?” He furrowed his brow, crossing his arms over his chest. I pointed to Vaughn. “That girl over there, she’s my client. I’m her, um, publicist,” I said, trying to keep it together. He stared at me blankly. “You don’t recognize her?” I asked. He shook his head. “She’s the new face of Burberry,” I offered. “Vaughn Francis?” He shrugged. I laughed nervously. “That’s okay,” I said, leaning closer to him and whispering, “she’s kind of a bitch.”

  “She looks like one,” he stated plainly, appraising her.

  “Right, well. She’s kind of … annoyed no one’s taking her photograph.”

  “Hm.”

  “Yeah. So, could you do me this favor, just bite the bullet and, uh, take her picture?”

  He shifted his weight, regarding Vaughn, then me. He smiled and took a step closer to me. I could smell his sweat. It was salty, like the ocean. “I don’t believe you,” he whispered.

  I swallowed, stunned. “What do you mean?” I asked, trying to sound innocent.

  He smirked. “If you want me to take your friend’s picture so you can get into the club, just say so.”

  My eyes widened. I suppressed a smile. A warm sensation spread through my chest. “Okay,” I said weakly. “I’m saying so.”

  He smiled, holding up his camera. “What’s her name?” he whispered.

  “Vaughn Francis,” I said.

  He brought the camera to his face and shouted her name. Like a shot in the dark, the rest of the photographers reacted instantly, poised behind their lenses, overwhelming Vaughn with flashes. For a second she stood stunned like a deer in headlights, but quickly caught on. Vaughn kept her head down, strutting past them and into the club as I scurried in her wake, taking a moment to mouth the words thank you to the hot photographer.

  We had made it. We were in.

  * * *

  The second we crossed the threshold, Vaughn turned to me, her eyes bugging out of her skull. I’m pretty sure she shrieked—her smile was so wide I could see her tonsils—but I couldn’t hear a thing over Vampire Weekend blaring from the speakers. She did a mini-jump for joy, gripping my hands, and I smiled. It was nice to see her so happy after the past few weeks.

  If I wasn’t convinced before, I knew at that moment, for better or worse, coming to The Viper Room was the right thing to do.

  We made our way through rows of black leather couches stacked with exceptionally good-looking people, our cheap heels hollow on the cherry wood floors. Amber lights hung from the ceiling like bubbles in whiskey, illuminating the creamy black walls, which also looked like leather. I’m not a vegetarian, but I found myself wondering how many cows had to die to outfit this place.

  Vaughn assessed the scene in awe, squeezing my arm every time she recognized somebody famous in the crowd. There was Katy Perry in sequins. Ashley Benson absently fooling with her iPhone. Kendall and Kylie Jenner were dancing with some hipster-looking gay guys near the DJ booth. I half expected Perez Hilton to be there, tweeting snarky things about the starlets, wearing a wacky outfit.

  “Omigod,” Vaughn squealed, nearly cutting off the circulation in my arm. “There’s Baron Caldwell! The hot vampire from that CW show Bloodletting!” She nodded toward an incredibly manicured guy, his shirt unbuttoned nearly to his belly button, peering down at his hairless abs, clearly checking himself out. He was surrounded by strung-out models who, quite frankly, looked a bit like Vaughn, only sweatier, dirtier, and generally more exhausted.

  “You don’t even watch that show,” I replied.

  “Who cares?” she exclaimed, gawking at him. “He’s hot!” He turned to the mirror on the wall behind him and smoothed his shiny black hair, shooting his reflection a brooding look.

  “Is he wearing makeup?” I asked, incredulous. His skin was like a baby’s bottom. He got up, absently tapping one of the dazed and confused models on the back and started making his way toward the bar.

  Vaughn handed me her phone. “Here,” she said.

  “What’s this for?”

  “I’m going to follow him. When I get close, take a picture.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Are you serious?”

  “Of course I’m freaking serious! It’s Baron Fucking Caldwell!” she exclaimed, stalking off after him. I sighed, following her, phone ready in camera mode. I watched as she reached the bar and squeezed in next to him, pretending to be waiting to get the bartender’s attention. He checked her out, making no attempt to mask his desire, his eyes wandering from her ass to her face. I scoffed. It was disgusting. He tapped her shoulder, seductively whispering something in her ear. Whoa. I snapped a photo. It was a bit grainy, but not bad. Vaughn’s eyes widened. She turned to him, smiling with disbelief. I snapped another photo. Mainly to s
how her how dumbstruck and ridiculous she looked. Then something I could only describe as completely out of control happened. Baron Fucking Caldwell brushed his hand over her cheek and down to her ass, slowly leaned toward her, narrowing the space between them, and kissed her! I was almost too blown away to take a photo. Luckily for me, they proceeded to full on make out for about a minute and a half, so I had plenty of time to react.

  His face still locked with Vaughn’s, Caldwell waved a hundred dollar bill at the bartender, who took it, annoyed, waiting for further instruction. Caldwell didn’t bother to disengage. Instead, he pointed absently to a bottle of Johnnie Walker and held up two fingers. The bartender nodded, rolling his eyes. This guy was unbelievable. It was only when the bartender returned with the drinks that Caldwell finally tore himself away from Vaughn’s mouth, taking a swig from the glass. He handed Vaughn the other drink and they clinked glasses, smiling at each other, she, dreamily and he, smugly. I figured it was safe to approach them.

  “Oh, hello,” I said, making eyes at Vaughn. She squeezed my arm.

  “Hey,” Baron grunted, offering up his hand. “I’m Baron.”

  “Anais,” I replied. “And this is Vaughn,” I said, motioning to her. “In case you didn’t catch her name.”

  He smirked, nodding a little. “I didn’t,” he said, shameless. “It’s very nice to meet you, uh, Vaughn.” Her face flushed. He finished his whiskey in one gulp and slammed the glass on the bar. “Well,” he said. “I’m off. Feel free to come find me later. I’m parked over there.” He pointed in the general direction of his table.

  “Sure,” I said. Vaughn just sort of stood there, smiling dumbly. She was obviously speechless. Baron nodded, making his way back to the couch.

  As soon as he disappeared behind a guy in a tank top, Vaughn collapsed into my arms. I laughed. “What the hell just happened?” I exclaimed.

  “Um, I died and went to heaven. Did you see his pecs?”