Kiss & Sell

by Brittany Geragotelis

  We walked over to where the woman and Mom were talking, and I attempted what I hoped was an I’m-super-excited-to-be-here smile, despite the fact that I was probably going to throw up at any moment. She didn’t smile back. In fact, her face seemed to fall even more as we made eye contact.

  “You Arielle?” Miss snippy asked me, the annoyance in her voice loud and clear.

  “Uh, yeah. That’s me,” I answered, raising my hand slightly before letting it drop to my side again.

  “Uh, huh,” Miss snippy said, then sighed. “Walk with me.”

  She abruptly turned and began to march down a nearby hallway, making turns without giving us any notice. I looked back a few times, trying to keep track of where we were going, but after a while it was useless. We were like Hansel and Gretel minus the tasty treats to mark our way back home. Or in this case, out of the TV station and back to our car.

  How was I supposed to make a speedy getaway if I didn’t know where I was getting away to?

  “Wait here until someone comes to get you,” Miss snippy said, before disappearing from the room she’d just deposited us in.

  “But how long will we—” my mom began, but the girl was already gone. “Well she was rather…brusque.”

  “More like a bit—” McCartney said.

  “McCartney,” Mom warned before she could finish her sentence.

  “Sorry Mrs. S.”

  I busied myself by getting ready, since none of us knew exactly how long it would be before they’d bring us to the set. I dumped my makeup bag out onto the empty counter, which was surrounded by ten tiny lightbulbs. Then I went over to my bag and retrieved the outfit I’d finally decided on—Free from any possible malfunctions…trust me. I checked. Twice—and skipped over to the bathroom in the corner to put it on.

  A few minutes later, I walked out in a pair of jeans and a pink iridescent tank top. I pulled on my favorite pair of cowboy boots and wrapped a beige belt around my waist.

  No way anything was falling out of this.

  McCartney opened her mouth to say something, but I cut her off.

  “I don’t even want to hear it,” I said, both hands up in the air defensively. “I don’t need to dress like I’m going clubbing at the buttcrack of dawn. This is what I’m comfortable in and at least I know everything will stay put. You’re gonna have to deal with it.”

  McCartney snapped her mouth shut again as I finished my speech, but she continued to eye my tame outfit wearily. Finally, she stood up and made her way across the room until she was standing right in front of me.

  “Fine. But I’m doing your makeup,” she said, picking up my mascara and twisting it open.

  “Deal,” I answered relieved, and sat down on the stool in front of her.

  I may not trust her to dress me, but I had to admit that McCartney was a genius when it came to wielding a makeup brush. She had a natural touch and the uncanny ability to pick The perfect shade to match your complexion and compliment your outfit—all without making you look like a clown or a drag queen. I was always trying to convince her to go to cosmetology school, but she insisted it was more of a hobby of hers than a calling.

  “If you become famous, do you think you’ll move to new york? Or maybe la would be better. I’m not sure I could handle you being so far away. Unless, I move to Cali with you, in which case…” McCartney chattered on distractedly as I tuned her out.

  There were so many things that could go wrong during the interview. I’d already come up with over a dozen scenarios that would lead to the demise of the rep I’d managed to create at school so far. A few of these included, but were not limited to: the reporter finding the idea of me selling a kiss so funny that she literally laughs me off the stage; Being interrogated and questioned about my views on child prostitution; and me getting so nervous that I start to hyperventilate and then pass out on live TV. At least the last one ensured that I would be unconscious for most of the humiliation.

  A knock at the door interrupted my obsessing session and I glanced over to see who it was. Luckily Miss snippy had been replaced by a tiny blonde with a black headset of her own. Only, unlike her predecessor, this one seemed friendly.

  “Arielle?” the girl asked, enthusiastically.

  “That’s me,” I said meekly.

  “Cool! if you’re ready, I can take you to the set now,” she said.

  I wanted to tell her that I might never be ready to go out there. That I would rather be stranded at the bottom of a pit-full of flesh-eating cockroaches than chance the social suicide I was about to walk into. I knew it sounded dramatic, but well, wasn’t TV all about drama?

  But instead, I said, “Sure,” and stood up to follow the new girl.

  As I walked by the mirror, I paused to check out my reflection. McCartney had added a little shimmer to my eyes, making them pop more than usual. Despite her pushiness, I could always depend on McCartney to make me look good. Makeup-wise at least.

  “Here,” she said, shoving a lip gloss into my hand. “Finishing touches for when you’re right about to go on.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and gave her a clumsy hug.

  After waving goodbye, I nervously followed the stage-hand out of the room and down the hall. As we walked, she explained to me that while Mom couldn’t come to the studio with me, she and McCartney would both be able to watch the interview from the holding room. I just nodded and tried not to trip as I trotted along behind her.

  “I think it’s so cool what you’re doing,” the girl said as she pointed me to a door with a sign that said, to WAKE UP. “I wasn’t nearly as clever as you when I was your age.”

  I murmured to let her know that I was listening, but the truth was, I was too distracted to think of anything to say. When I didn’t answer, the girl just smiled knowingly and then pointed to the door.

  “Just head through that door and wait at the side of the stage until someone mics you,” she said. Then she gave me a wink. “And good luck, Arielle.”

  “Thanks,” I managed to say.

  I was going to need it.

  I HAD TO practically force myself to walk over to the door and push it open. Last night’s dream was still fresh in my mind and I couldn’t help but worry it was a warning of what was to come. Still, it was too late to back out now. Even if I wanted to. Even if everything in me was screaming to head back the way I’d come and convince my mom to take me home.

  Nope, this was happening.

  As I inched my way into the room, I could hear two people talking from a spot I couldn’t see. Walls were built up around what I assumed was the set, blocking my view. I looked around quickly and spotted an opening and tip-toed over to it. Peeking around the corner, I caught a glimpse of a pretty, young brunette, and a guy about my grandpa’s age sitting on stools behind a desk. As they spoke, a dozen other people moved around the room, fiddling with cords, aiming cameras, whispering into headsets, and otherwise taking care of all the things that had to do with taping the show.

  “Here’s a new twist on the old kissing booth fundraiser, folks. When we come back from break, we’ll be talking to one local teen who’s really putting her money where her mouth is,” the woman read off the teleprompter near the camera.

  She and the old guy looked at each other and smiled before the lights dimmed in the studio and someone yelled, “We’re at commercial!”

  I started to have a major déjà vu moment as a guy with choppy hair and highlights made his way onto the set and began to touch up the anchors’ makeup (yes, even the old guy wore makeup. And if it was supposed to help hide the wrinkles, it wasn’t doing its job.), while an older woman fussed over their hair.

  “Who are you?” a male voice demanded from behind me.

  I turned around, startled to see a slightly balding man in glasses, staring at me with his hands firmly planted on his hips.

  “Arielle?” I said, blinking at him. Then, realizing that my name probably meant nothing to him, I added, “Um, I’m supposed to be interviewed next
?”

  “Ahhhhh,” he answered, a smirk creeping onto his face. “You’re the Kissing Queen.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t exactly say that…” I started.

  “A kid makes out for money and it’s called a fundraiser, but you try to do that as an adult and suddenly you’re jailbait,” He muttered, shaking his head. “Come with me.”

  I was too shocked by this to actually say anything, so I just scurried behind him as he soared across the room and onto the stage where the anchors were finishing with their touchups. Baldy pointed to the only empty chair and commanded me to “sit” the way someone would scold a dog. I did what I was told, because frankly, I was too nervous to worry about some middle-aged d-bag on a power trip. So, I sat there silently until the anchors noticed that they were no longer alone.

  “Well, hello there, Sweetheart!” the male anchor greeted me brightly. “I’ll take one box of the Thin Mints and one of the Samoa’s. My wife’s thrown out all the cookies at home—she says that I’ve gained a few pounds—but I have a mini-fridge in my dressing room that I can hide them in.”

  I stared at him blankly for a few seconds, before realizing that he thought that I was a Girl Scout. In what world could anyone mistake me for one of those sweet, little ankle biters? I felt myself start to sweat with embarrassment. When he started fishing through his pockets for what I imagined was the money to pay for the cookies I wasn’t selling, I finally spoke up.

  “Um, I’m not selling cookies,” I said, in a much quieter voice than I’d intended. Suddenly shy, I looked around to see if anyone else was listening to the exchange we were having.

  “What was that?” he asked, scrunching up his face in confusion. His wrinkles were so baggy that it was possible they were actually covering his eyes and he couldn’t make out who he was talking to.

  “I’m—”

  “For Pete’s sake, Gary, the kid’s not a Girl Scout,” his co-anchor said dryly. The brunette rolled her eyes at the older man, and gave me a sympathetic look. “You’re Arielle, right hon?”

  I could tell she wasn’t saying it to make me feel like a kid, but instead as a term of endearment. She oozed coolness and was easily one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen…in real life at least.

  “Yeah,” I stammered, nodding like a bobble head doll.

  “I’m Kara,” she said, a genuine smile on her face. Then she leaned across the old guy as if he weren’t even there and shook my hand firmly. “You excited to do this?”

  I started to lie and tell her that I was super-psyched to be there, but then opted for the truth. I had a feeling Kara wasn’t going to judge me.

  “Actually, I feel like I’m gonna throw up,” I said, looking down at my lap. “I don’t know how you get up here and do this every morning. Doesn’t it freak you out?”

  Kara bent forward and rested her elbows on top of the table. Her deep chocolate brown hair fell over her shoulders, framing her heart-shaped face like a piece of art. I found myself wondering why in the heck she was a reporter when she could’ve easily had a nice cushy career as a supermodel.

  “You bet it freaks me out,” Kara said, her eyes wide. “The first three months I worked here, I threw up in a garbage can right off set, every night before we went on air. I’m pretty sure people thought I was either pregnant or had an eating disorder, but it was really just good, old-fashioned nerves.”

  “Why did you keep doing the show then?” I asked incredulously. It was hard to imagine that a pretty, put together woman like Kara would do anything unladylike, but it sort of made me like her even more.

  Kara shrugged. “I fell in love with it,” she said simply. “Not the throwing up part of course, but being in front of the camera, bringing people the news…there’s just no other feeling like it. It’s such a rush. And to be honest, I sort of feel like, in a little way, I’m making a difference in other people’s lives. And doesn’t everyone want to know that they’re here for a reason, that they did something to impact the world in some way or another?”

  I nodded my head, totally understanding what Kara was saying. Ever since I’d gotten to high school, I’d felt a little like I had no idea who I was or where I fit in. Add to that, the fact that everyone else around me seemed to have connected with someone on an intimate level, and it was hard not to feel like a total loser. How was I supposed to leave my mark on the universe if I had nothing to offer?

  “I wish I had something I was good at like that,” I admitted. “But I think the only impact I’m going to have on people today, is by being their comic relief.”

  “Or,” Kara chimed in, “Maybe by talking about how you took your life into your own hands instead of just sitting around depressed or unhappy, you’ll inspire other women to do the same. I think you’re very brave. Your story actually makes me feel motivated to take a stand myself.”

  I started to blush under Kara’s stare. Sheepishly, I looked away. “What do you have to take a stand on?” I asked softly, thinking she was just humoring me.

  “Honey, you’re not the only one with man problems.”

  I couldn’t stop myself from giggling, and we both sat there laughing together for a moment. It was exactly what I needed to hear in that moment, and for that, I was immensely grateful.

  I was still smiling when a guy in jeans and a baseball cap standing near the biggest camera in the room yelled for everyone to be quiet. The lights flashed back on and I squinted as my eyes adjusted to the brightness. Sweat began to pool under my arms, across my stomach and at my hairline, causing me to fidget in my seat uncomfortably. It was so freaking hot underneath these lights! like being stuck in an over-sized tanning bed. Thank God I’d opted for a tank top instead of the sweater I’d been considering.

  “Okay, Arielle, we’re about to start. Here’s the deal. I’ll do a little intro, ask you a few questions and then that’s it. Relax, have fun, and try not to think about the camera. Just act like you’re chatting with one of your friends and you’ll do just fine,” Kara explained, tapping her papers on the top of the desk absently. “Any questions?”

  If I pass out, will you cut to commercial or just let me lay there while you try to fill the dead air?

  But I answered, “I don’t think so.”

  “Alright. Here we go,” Kara said, as the guy behind the camera counted us down from three, then two, then one.

  Showtime.

  “That was epic!” McCartney exploded as I walked through the door of my changing room. “I mean, seriously. I’ve never seen you like that before! you were funny and totally chill…you couldn’t tell that you’re totally a freak over public speaking.”

  I shot her a look. “Gee, thanks.”

  “Don’t act all shocked. You know it’s true,” McCartney said, brushing off my response. “Anyways, the point is, you were great. I’d totally kiss you.”

  My mom and I both stopped to stare at her.

  “If I were a guy,” McCartney finished. “I’d kiss you if I were a guy. Sheesh, get your mind outta the gutter, perve.”

  I shook my head and started to stuff my things back into my bag. As I retrieved my makeup from the counter, I replayed the interview in my head. And I had to admit, McCartney was right. Once the camera’s red light had started to blink, it was like someone turned a switch on inside me, allowing my inner rock star to shine through. My head had cleared, and before I knew it, I was smiling at Kara and the old guy like I’d been on the show a million times before.

  I had to give most of the credit to Kara though. She’d been gentle with me, remaining just as nice on the air than she’d been when we were talking one on one. Any other reporter might’ve asked me inappropriate questions or treated the segment like an interrogation rather than an early morning entertainment piece. But Kara had done the opposite. She’d been kind.

  “Yo, space Cadet,” McCartney said, snapping me back to reality.

  “Huh?”

  “I was asking if we were still heading over to times square…because I so
rt of told Phin we’d bring him back something from MTV,” she said as the three of us headed out the door.

  I looked over at my mom questioningly.

  “It’s fine with me, but we need to leave in about an hour,” my mom said, pulling out her phone which had just begun to ring.

  McCartney gave me a high five and started to rattle off all the things she had to do while we were walking around 42nd street, including singing with the naked Cowboy, taking a picture with a ny cop and eating a hot dog from a street vendor.

  “I don’t think you’re actually supposed to eat those things,” I said, making a face. “I saw this thing on TV once and they found all sorts of gross stuff in the street meat. They even found a rat in one of the hot dog bins.”

  “Why do you want to ruin my dreams?” McCartney said dramatically.

  My mom flipped her phone shut and rejoined us as we walked toward the elevators.

  “Was that Grandma? Did she see me on TV?” I asked her.

  “Nope, and there may be a change of plans,” she answered slowly. “That was the booker at the You Snooze, You Lose show. They saw your segment and want you to fill in for a cancelled guest they had today.”

  “You said yes, right? Please tell me you said hell yeah, Mrs. S,” McCartney blurted out, eyes wide.

  My mom raised her eyebrows at McCartney’s choice of words, but didn’t say anything else.

  “I thought you wanted to go to times square?” I asked my friend.

  “I want to go where the stars are, and it sounds like that’s going to be next to you,” McCartney said. She turned her attention back to my mom. “When do we go?”

  My mom hesitated before answering. “They’d need us over there within the hour if we want to do it,” she said, looking straight at me. “But we can always skip it and go to times square like we’d planned. It’s up to you, Arielle. What do you want to do?”

  I looked from McCartney to my mom, and then down the street as I thought about my options. A few feet away, a girl exited her tiny NYC apartment and strutted down the street like her life was a walking photo shoot. She was young, confident and clearly going places. Suddenly I knew my answer.