Kiss n Tell

by Suzy McCoppin

  He opened the door and looked her in the eye. “No deal,” he said, shrugging, and walked right out of her office.

  32.

  THE HAND OFF

  Anais

  I figured it was my lucky night when no one carded me at the door. I couldn’t help but hesitate for a moment, waiting to be stopped, questioned or thrown out. Waiting to drop Amir’s name. But the big bouncer guy wouldn’t even look me in the eye. He just stepped aside so I could take the gut-wrenching ride up to the rooftop bar.

  I emerged from the elevator and stepped into a breathtaking, high-gloss, red and yellow sitting area, next to a glistening aqua swimming pool. A perfect row of white, plastic lounge chairs topped with crisp, folded towels lined the pool, and past them, just before a spectacular view of Downtown L.A., were the red tent thingies Raven had described. I made my way over to them, assuming Amir occupied one of them. The first was piled with fake-breasted women and a tattooed white guy. Not to racially profile or anything, but I was pretty sure “Amir” wasn’t any of those people. I moved on. In the next one, a very slight Persian guy in sunglasses lounged drinking amber liquor with two younger guys.

  “Amir?” I asked softly.

  The guy removed his sunglasses, taking me in. “I’m Anais,” I managed. “Raven’s friend?”

  “The man collects pretty girls,” he announced, to no one in particular, and smiled at me admiringly. “Come here you,” he said, patting a teeny spot on the white cushion. I perched on it, trying to smile politely. “So, you have some business for me?” he asked, returning the sunglasses to his face and leaning back against one of his boys.

  I nodded. “I hope so,” I said, reaching for the Rolex box in my purse.

  Amir touched my hand, stopping me. “Have a drink first,” he said, raising a bottle from a small silver tray.

  I laughed nervously as he poured me a shot. I had never done a shot before. All I knew about shots is what they do to people in movies: get them embarrassingly, recklessly drunk. I held up my hand daintily in a lame attempt to politely decline, but it was no use. I could tell Amir was the type of person who’d be personally offended if I didn’t partake. And I couldn’t spoil this deal.

  I took the shot glass in my hand warily. Amir raised his glass. I raised mine, too, echoing him. He drank, I drank. It felt like I swallowed fire. I clenched my stomach to foil my gag reflex. By some act of God, I managed to avoid puking. Amir smiled and exhaled, as though that poison were Sunny Delight or something. I managed a smile in return, my eyes watering.

  “So,” he said. “I understand your mother has cancer.” I nodded.

  “Yes,” I said quietly.

  He frowned, nodding gravely. “My father died of it last year,” he said. “Pancreatic. Happened really fast.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I murmured.

  Amir shook his head. “The man was a shit,” he said. “Didn’t agree with my lifestyle.” He rolled his eyes. “But I wish we had forgiven each other before he went,” he added softly.

  I nodded sadly, trying not to acknowledge the fact that my mom could die. That she was fighting a life and death battle and she could still lose.

  Amir peered over his sunglasses, looking me in the eye suddenly, fiercely. “I want to do this deal,” he said. “To help your mother.”

  I sighed, relieved. “Thank you,” I murmured.

  He grinned. “Have another drink,” he encouraged, already pouring me a second shot.

  I shook my head wildly. “I shouldn’t,” I managed.

  “Oh, don’t be silly,” he brushed me off, handing me the shot glass, filled to the brim. He poured one for himself as I leered at the amber liquid. “Cheers,” he said, throwing it down his throat.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and swallowed it in one gulp. Let me just say, it was no easier the second time around. I opened my eyes, starting to feel lightheaded.

  “Now,” Amir said, clapping his hands together. “Let me see that Rolex.”

  I started to slide the box out of my bag and stopped, remembering Raven’s instructions. “Let me see the money,” I mustered.

  Amir chuckled, reaching into his pocket. He opened a Prada wallet, revealing a stack of bills. “You ever seen Stephen Grover Cleveland on a bill before?” he asked smugly.

  I remained silent.

  “Those are thousands,” he said proudly.

  I looked him in the eye. “I’m going to have to touch them,” I said. Amir shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  I reached into the wallet and ran my fingers over the worn texture of the bills. They were real.

  I nodded. “Thanks,” I said.

  I removed the Rolex box from my purse and opened it for him. He pulled a tiny flashlight and a magnifying glass out of his pocket and inspected it. I held my breath. After a long moment, he spoke.

  “Raven was right,” he said, moderately impressed. “It’s virtually flawless.” I smiled, relieved.

  “You know they don’t even make this model anymore,” he remarked to one of the boys who flanked him. The boy shrugged. Amir turned back to me, sighing contentedly. “10,000 it is!” he announced.

  I could have hugged him, I was so thrilled. “Thank you,” I breathed, grinning.

  He shrugged, flicking ten bills from his wallet. I counted them quietly. It was all there. I handed him the watch.

  “Now, we drink,” he said.

  This time, I had no problem swallowing the shot. It was starting to feel good. I was less terrified. Amir was getting funnier. He seemed nicer. We were having fun. My mom would not have to file for bankruptcy. She would get her surgery. Everything would be okay. I just had to go to the ladies’ room and find a safe place for the money. I stood up, teetering on my four-inch Christian Louboutins, my brain apparently lopping around in my skull. I took a few unwieldy steps, the sign for the restrooms blurring in and out of focus.

  That’s when things got hazy.

  33.

  STELLA GOES DOWN

  Vaughn

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Austin asked carefully as I stared, eyes blurring, at a draft KissnTell post about Stella Beldon’s cocaine use. “I mean, I know you two have become, uh, friends, or whatever.”

  I nodded. “I’m sure,” I said. “Lemme just look it over for typos.”

  Austin shrugged, pushing the laptop toward me. We were in his car, stealing WiFi from a nearby Starbucks. We thought about going to either of our parents’ houses, but we had zero time to waste. Surly Debbie was drafting some snarky piece as we spoke. I looked over the post:

  JACK BELDON’S DAUGHTER’S ILLEGAL EXTRACURRICULAR ACTIVITY EXPOSED!​

  Oscar Winner and all-around A-list star Jack Beldon has a dirty little secret: his daughter’s a cokehead! Check out photos of 16-year-old Stella caught sniffing snow last weekend in the ladies’ room at Chateau Marmont. I’m no Henry Higgins, but she certainly doesn’t look like a lady to me!

  I sighed. Anais was always so much better at composing these things. But she wasn’t around.

  “Publish it,” I resigned, my heart racing.

  Austin took the laptop from me, looking me in the eye, sternly. “You do realize Stella will know these pictures came from me,” he said. “There wasn’t anyone else in the bathroom except for Ava, who can be seen in the background. You’ll have to deal with that, you know that, right?”

  I nodded. “Publish it,” I repeated.

  Austin nodded solemnly and hit the button. “Here goes nothin’,” he said.

  I exhaled as the story went live, hoping it would set everything right. Hoping it would show Anais how sorry I was, how much I valued her friendship over Stella’s. Hoping it would attract more advertisers to the site, so that one day, Pam could pay off the medical bills. Hoping it would humiliate Stella so much she’d ignore me, Anais, and the rest of the losers at Cranbrook she loved to torture. But honestly, at this point, I’d settle for way less.

  We passed the story around to the usual suspects: Perez, JustJa
red, Celebuzz. Austin dropped me off as we waited for the shit to hit the fan. It was a little after seven when I came through the door. My mom had dinner on the table: roast beef, Mac n’ Cheese, and steamed broccoli. She frowned at me as I made my way to the stairs.

  “Where have you been?” she asked. “You almost missed dinner.”

  I stopped, slipping my heaping tote off my shoulder and dropping it at the foot of the stairs. “I stayed a little late after band practice, okay?” I snapped.

  My mom took a step toward me, narrowing her eyes. “Franny, come here,” she said sternly.

  I rolled my eyes, stomping over to her. “What?” I asked.

  “How could you practice when your flute’s up in your room?” she asked.

  I swallowed hard. Fuck. I couldn’t think of an excuse. I’d been making them for weeks and it was like I was fresh out. I looked to my feet, ashamed.

  “Sit down,” my mom commanded, pulling a chair out from our dining room table. She sat down next to me. “What’s going on with you, Franny? I spoke to Mr. Waters this morning. He was very concerned. Apparently, you’ve missed six rehearsals?”

  “Mom, I—”

  “And why wouldn’t you tell me Pam Martel had surgery this morning? That she was diagnosed with breast cancer? If that’s what’s been bothering you, you could have told me! I would have made arrangements, taken you and Anais to the hospital …” She threw her hands up, at a loss. “Honey, I know you hate talking to me, but this is something I would have liked to know. Maybe I could have helped them, or …”

  “Mom, stop,” I urged. I couldn’t take any more. I had screwed up so royally it felt like an elephant was sitting on my chest. Hearing it all from my mother made it so much worse. I started to cry.

  My mom placed her hand on my shoulder. “Franny? What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

  I shook my head, fighting off tears. “We’re not friends anymore, okay?” I blubbered.

  My mom frowned. “What?” she exclaimed.

  “Anais and I,” I mustered. “We’re not friends.”

  My mom looked stunned. “What happened?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “It’s a long story,” I mumbled. “Let’s just say it’s all my fault. And I’m not sure I can fix it.”

  My mom sighed. “Oh, sweetheart,” she said, rubbing my back. “You and Anais were like two peas in a pod. If you want to work it out, you can. But you have to understand what a difficult thing she’s going through right now. Her mother is really sick. You need to put aside your differences and go to the hospital in the morning. I’ll call the school.”

  “But—” I didn’t know what to say or think.

  “This is more important than school,” my mom said gravely. “I’ve already got a loaf of banana bread in the oven for you to take. I know they’ll both be happy to see you.”

  I nodded, sniffling. “Thanks, mom,” I murmured.

  She stood, patting me on the head. “Now go wash up for dinner.”

  * * *

  I reached my room and collapsed, face down, on the bed. My mom was right. This wasn’t about money or KissnTell or ruining Stella’s life. The most important thing for me to do right now was just be there for Anais and Pam. I had to go to the hospital in the morning, even if I wasn’t wanted there, to show my love and support.

  My phone buzzed in the pocket of my tote. I grunted as I wriggled on my stomach, reaching for it. When I finally retrieved it, Stella’s name glowed on its screen. I shot upright, my heart pounding. Had she already seen the KissnTell post? Had it spread that fast? I answered it, my hand rattling against my ear. I could tell instantly that Stella was crying.

  “Stella? What’s wrong?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even.

  “Omigod, you haven’t heard?” she wailed. “Who are you?” She sobbed over and over. “What? What’s going on?” I urged. I knew I sounded genuine because I did desperately want to know if she had seen the post, and if so, how she’d arrived at it. Stella took a deep breath. “It’s all over the Internet!” she cried.

  “What is?” I asked, scrambling to my computer.

  “Omigod, get a clue!” she shrieked. “Just go to any site that matters. Perez, whatever!”

  I went to Perez, and sure enough, there was Austin’s picture of Stella at the top of the page. “Jack Beldon’s Cocaine Cutie,” the headline read.

  “Holy shit,” I muttered dutifully.

  “Yeah, it’s a nightmare!” Stella snapped. “And you know what the worst part is? The only person in the bathroom with me that night was Austin. Unless there was some weird, hidden camera …” she trailed off.

  “Well, that would make sense,” I said. “What?”

  “Austin’s a paparazzo,” I said frankly. “You didn’t know?”

  There was silence on the other end of the line. I could tell I’d stumped her. She was probably humiliated that the guy she’d been crushing on had sold her down the river like that. She was probably pissed she hadn’t known about his career choice. This was so much more fun than I’d anticipated.

  “No,” she said slowly.

  “Uh, yeah? Everyone knows that,” I said.

  “Fuck,” she whispered. “No wonder he didn’t do any …” she started to cry. “I am so, so fucked!” she shrieked. “Baron already broke it off with me. Said I was a PR nightmare,” she scoffed. “My dad’s furious. I don’t know what to do. What should I do?” she pleaded.

  I grinned. I had been waiting forever to hear those words from Stella. I sighed, playing the concerned friend. “You should go to rehab,” I said simply.

  “Fuck off,” she chuckled.

  “I’m serious,” I retorted. “It’s the only way to clear your name.”

  She sighed and started to cry all over again.

  I just held the phone to my ear, smiling. I know it wasn’t the point, but it felt fantastic to finally knock that bitch down a peg. I texted Austin: “Stella freaking out. The wheels are in motion!”

  34.

  ANNIHILATED, PART 2

  Anais

  The money wasn’t in my purse. Not in the secret pocket where I’d planned to stash it. It wasn’t there. My head throbbed. The bright morning sun made my hangover even worse. I had woken up on a white couch on the decked-out roof of the Standard Hotel with no memory of the previous night’s events, and no idea where the ten thousand dollars had gone. Tears streamed down my cheeks. I turned my clutch upside down, shaking its contents loose, spilling them onto the concrete floor. My wrists shook as I ran my hands over every pathetic item. A tube of lip gloss. The metal snap of my plastic wallet. The buttons of my Blackberry. The stiff corners of a business card for a limo service. The soft folds of a crumpled tissue. They all stared up at me, along with the soaking Louboutin I had just fished out of the pool as I cried quietly, too weak to punch something, but furious enough to want to.

  It wasn’t there. It was gone.

  I had lost it all.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to retrace my steps. Raven had dropped me off. I had ridden the elevator up, up, up to the Rooftop Bar—this place, this horrible place—and I had found Amir. He was in one of those ridiculous red plastic pod things. And we had sat there. We had been drinking. I had exchanged the Rolex for cash. I did have the cash at one point. And then, nothing. I couldn’t remember a single thing. The elevator chimed and its doors opened revealing some piece of shit early riser in a Speedo and goggles ready to go for his morning swim. I shuddered and ducked behind a red pod, scooping the scattered contents of my purse along with me.

  One of those contents vibrated. My Blackberry. Someone was calling me. I lifted it to find Raven’s name flashing on the screen. I cringed. I couldn’t bear to speak to him. To tell him I’d ruined everything. I had lost the money and the watch, a talisman of my mother’s love life that I’d had no business taking in the first place. I had blacked out and was now brutally hungover at the Standard Hotel, instead of visiting my ailing mother who just went through major surg
ery to remove a malignant tumor from her breast. She had probably woken up, alone and scared, wondering where I was. A pang shot through my chest and I started to cry in earnest.

  I was, officially, a disaster. I didn’t know what to do. I was paralyzed. I needed help, guidance. But the only person I could bear to speak to was the person I vowed never to speak to again. The person who got me into this whole mess in the first place. Vaughn. The truth of the matter was, she was the only person I knew would understand.

  The early riser splashed in the pool, doing freestyle laps back and forth, back and forth, as I tried to breathe, staring at Vaughn’s name in my phone, my thumb poised on the “Call” button. My heart pounded. My hand, my thumb, shook. I needed to talk to her. I needed her to calm me down, help me come up with another plan. A better plan. I hit “Call.” It rang twice before I heard her voice come on the other line:

  “Hello?” She sounded skeptical, like I had dialed her by accident.

  That was so un-Vaughn. Vaughn was the type to remain hopeful no matter what. No matter how bad things got. I was the skeptical one. That’s why we complimented each other so well.

  “Anais?” she pressed, this time more hopeful.

  I started to cry. I couldn’t speak.

  “Anais, if you’re there and not just butt-dialing me, I need you to know how incredibly sorry I am. I’m doing everything I can to make it up to you.”

  There was a pause as my heart lifted in my chest. She sounded like Vaughn again. My Vaughn.

  “Anais? You there?”

  I inhaled sharply. “Vaaaughn,” I wailed, breaking down.

  “I’m here, I’m here,” she said frantically. “Well, I’m not. At least not yet. My mom let me take her car. I’m in a massive traffic jam on the way to St. John’s. Are you there? I can—find you. Is your mom okay?”

  I sniffled, wiping my eyes. I was already starting to feel better. Just having someone there, willing to help. It helped.