by Shane Bolks
“Okay. But I want to do something to help. What can I do?”
“I know you probably have plans with Hunter.”
She waves my concern away. “He’ll understand.”
“Okay, then, can I stay with you this weekend?” I say with a weak smile. “My phone won’t stop ringing, and when I stopped home to drop off my stuff from work, there were a couple of reporters hanging around. It was bad before, but now…”
Rory stands. “Of course you can stay with me. I need to shut down my computer and get some files to work on, and we’re out of here.”
“You won’t get in trouble?” I scoot out of her way.
“No. Mr. Yates is at a conference this week. Everyone’s been cutting out early.” She starts stuffing files into her bag. “This is going to be fun—a slumber party! Should we order pizza? You need pizza and ice cream after all this. I couldn’t stand being the center of attention. I’d have a panic attack if a bunch of reporters were waiting outside my door.”
“Yeah. Rory, I kind of need you to do one more thing for me.”
“What’s that?”
“Brave the reporters in front of my house, go in, and feed Booboo Kitty.”
Her face crumples, then she takes a fortifying breath. “Okay, this is like in Return of the Jedi when Han, Luke, and Leia needed to disable the shield generator on the Endor moon so the Rebel fleet could blow up the Death Star. They went in the back way. Of course, there was an ambush, but that’s only because Darth Vader sensed—”
“Rory! What are you talking about?”
“Don’t worry, Allie. The Force is with me.”
I sigh. Sometimes I’m not altogether sure whether Rory is living on this planet or a galaxy far, far away.
13
Flat Foot Floogee
Rory drops me off at her place and comes back two hours later with my pajamas, my toothbrush, and a pizza. She tells me she got into my house “undetected” and not to worry. If she’d quit saying things like “shield generator,” “endangering the mission,” and “undetected,” maybe I wouldn’t worry.
I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep, but I pretty much pass out as soon as my head hits the pillow. I don’t move until Rory comes in, sits on the bed, and says, “Allie?”
I crack one eye open. “What time is it?”
“After ten.”
“Hmm.” I close my eyes again.
“Allie, something bad happened.”
My eyes snap open. “Was it another of your missions?”
She shakes her head, and I notice she’s holding the newspaper.
“More about the lawsuit or me getting fired in the paper?”
She shakes her head again.
“Then what?” I sit up and push the hair out of my face. I hold my hand out, but she doesn’t hand the paper over right away.
“Did you go to a fashion show for”—she glances at the paper—“Cara St. Loren?”
“It’s Ciara, and yes. Why?”
“Were there any photographers there?”
“Probably. Why?”
“I think it might be bad.”
“Give me the paper.” I hold my hand out again. Rory hesitates. I scramble to my knees. “Give me the paper!”
She hands it over and I stare at the picture on the front page. It’s me and Nicolo at the fashion show. The picture is grainy and slightly unfocused, but there’s no question his hand is between my legs. I don’t move. I don’t breathe. I don’t speak. I just gawk at the picture and wish I were dead.
I force my eyes to the caption beneath: “Prince Nicolo Bourbon-Parma entertains Chicago socialite Allison Holloway.”
“Allison, are you okay?”
“Am I dead?” I croak.
“No,” Rory says, sounding worried.
“Then I’m not fine.”
She grabs my hand. “Allison, it’s not the end of the world.”
I stare at her. “Rory, I was on national TV playing with a gyrating vibrator, I violated my contract, I was fired, and now I’m in the paper with a guy’s hand up my skirt. How much worse can it get?”
“The photographer was on TV.”
“Oh, my God.”
“Just now on MSNBC he said he was taking pictures of the models and when he developed them he noticed a pretty face in the background. He blew up that section of the photo, and got this.”
“Bastard. Why didn’t you wake me up?”
She shrugs. “I was trying to think how we could fix it.”
“I know how to fix it.” I glance around the room for my cell phone and remember I dropped it on Rory’s table. Probably under the box of pizza now. “I’m calling Nicolo and—” I break off as Rory begins shaking her head.
“On CNN the photographer said—”
“He was on MSNBC and CNN?”
“Yeah. And, um, he said he offered to sell the photos to Nicolo, figuring the prince wouldn’t want a picture like this to come out, but the prince told him to go ahead and print them. He didn’t care.”
I jump off the bed. “I’m going to fucking kill him. I’m going to get a corkscrew, shove it in each and every one of his bodily orifices, and screw him!”
“Allie, I don’t think—”
“Who the fuck does he think he’s dealing with?” I pace the room. Back and forth. Back and forth. “Does he think he’ll get away with this? I’m going to skewer him on national TV. I’ll call The Enquirer and tell them he has a small dick, that he sexually abuses young boys, that he likes to wear women’s underwear.”
“Is that true?”
I halt. “No. But neither is it true that I’m a slut who let him feel me up at a fashion show! I bet the reporter didn’t mention that one second after that picture was snapped, I got up and walked out. I bet the paper”—I pick it up and throw it across the room, so the pages fly up and out, settling on the floor and the bed in a heap—“I bet it didn’t report that we had a huge argument outside the club, and that I told him he could go fuck himself. No, all you get is me with my legs spread.”
“You can’t see anything.”
“That’s not the fucking point!”
Rory flinches.
“Oh, God, I’m sorry.” I crawl on the bed and hug her. “I don’t mean to yell at you.”
“It’s okay,” Rory says, hugging me back. “But that’s not all.”
I freeze. How can there possibly be more.
“There was a lady, a Mrs. Chippendale—”
“Mrs. Chippenhall.”
“Yeah. She was on right after the reporter. She’s suing your firm for shoddy workmanship. You, in particular, are named in the suit.”
“Oh, my God.” I’d expected something like this from Mrs. Chippenhall, but coming right on top of the rest of it, it’s too much to digest. I bolt upright. “What time did you say it was?”
Rory glances at the clock. “It’s almost eleven now. Why?”
“I have to drive Grayson to basketball camp. Today is the last day, and there’s a big party. If he’s not there, the kids will be really upset.”
I start digging through the bag Rory packed for me and pull out a long, black silk skirt and a beaded top. I give her a confused look. “What is this?”
“You said to grab you some clothes.”
“Yeah, but why did you bring this? This is for formal occasions.”
Rory shrugs. “It looked like something you normally wear, and I didn’t know what you’d be doing today.”
“Well, I’m not going to a dinner party at the governor’s.” I go through the bag again and pull out flip-flops. Red flip-flops from Target with blue Gatorade stains. I stare at them.
“They’ve got pretty red flowers on the toe strap. I thought they’d look cute,” Rory says.
I nod. Did Dave see the story? Is he thinking he was lucky to get rid of me, that he got off easy with a pair of cheap flip-flops?
“Allie?” Rory says. “Honey, just stay in your pajamas. I’ll drive Grayson. You can’t go
out to the basketball camp.”
“I need to see Grayson.”
“Allie—”
I hold up a hand. “He’s my brother, and I need him. Do you have a pair of shorts and a T-shirt I can wear?”
“Sure.”
Twenty minutes later I’m in the car, on the way to the basketball camp. Gray wasn’t home, so he must have gotten another ride to the camp. The smart thing to do would be to go back to Rory’s, but I can’t. I need my big brother. I need to talk to someone who’s been through worse than this and made it to the other side. After I see Gray, I’ll brave the reporters at home, pack a bag and Booboo, and head for Lake Geneva. I can hide out there until I decide what to do tomorrow and pretty much the rest of my life.
I pull at Rory’s T-shirt. It says, “ANNUAL CREATURES AND FEATURES EXTRAVAGANZA 2004” on the front and “YEAR OF THE JAWA” on the back. What the hell is a Jawa? The shirt’s too small, so “CREATURES AND FEATURES” is stretched across my chest and almost unreadable. The shorts she loaned me are jean cutoffs she wore in high school. She’s outgrown them, but they’re still too big for me, and I have to hike them up.
How does Rory buy clothes? She’s small and delicate on top and normal-size on the bottom. Come to think of it, she’s a better dresser than I’d thought. I’d never even noticed the disproportion.
I decide to take a back road to the camp in case reporters are staking out the main road. It takes a little longer, especially when I realize I’ve spent half an hour going the wrong way, but I finally recognize an abandoned barn and a small farmhouse. Of course, by then it’s almost four and camp’s probably already over, but I can’t find my way home until I find a reference point.
But the farmhouse is apparently the best I’m going to get because about a half-mile past the farmhouse, my Z4 slows and won’t respond when I hit the gas. I shift into neutral and it sort of coasts a bit farther, then sputters and stops. What the—?
I glance at the fuel gauge and want to bang my head on the steering wheel. I’m out of gas. I’ve been meaning to get some for two days, but every time I think of it, I get fired or am publicly humiliated again.
Okay, time to call in reinforcements. I reach in my red Fendi bag for my cell and pull out three credit cards, a tube of M·A·C’s Coconutty lipstick, a piece of gum, a ten-dollar bill, a tube of NARS’s Shanghai Express, Great Lash mascara, an emery board, a hairband, a paper clip, and a tape measure.
I pull open the glove compartment and paw through a ring of paint chips, Ralph Lauren sunglasses—oh! I’ve been looking for these—an old bottle of OPI Redipus Oedipus nail polish, a map of Cleveland—don’t ask—and about a dozen condoms. I guess at some point I was feeling optimistic. No more. Because my cell phone is sitting under an empty pizza box in Rory’s apartment. How could I be so stupid!
Okay, no big deal, I’ll walk to the gas station, in the red-flowered flip-flops, and buy gas.
I glance around. Hmm. The odds of a gas station being close don’t look favorable. I’m on a gravel road, surrounded by fields and cattle, and the last building I saw was the abandoned barn. Okay, no problem. I can wait until someone drives by and hitch a ride.
To tell the truth, I’m pretty proud of myself. I’m being so calm in the face of all these crises. All is not lost. Someone will drive by any moment.
One hour and four minutes later, I start walking. I’m still not panicking, but I’m starting to feel a little uneasy. In the hour I’ve been standing on the side of the road, next to my obviously incapacitated vehicle, only two cars have driven by, and neither stopped to help me. Do I look like a serial killer or something? I mean, come on. What are the chances that a woman holding a Fendi bag and standing next to a BMW Z4 convertible on the side of a farm road in Illinois is a serial killer? Like ninety-nine-thousand billion to one?
I take a deep breath, and clutch my friends tightly. Mitsy always says that diamonds are nice, but credit cards are a girl’s new best friend. What can’t a girl do with MasterCard and Miss Visa?
I don’t remember passing any gas stations, so I decide to follow the road until I 1) reach a gas station, 2) reach the camp, or 3) am mauled by an angry cow who doesn’t like me trespassing on her field.
An hour later, I’m hot, tired, limping, and pretty sure I’m going to die out here. I don’t know if these fields are planted with corn, but I’m starting to imagine all kinds of Children of the Corn scenarios as the sun sinks lower. I am so screwed. No one knows where I am, which in light of recent events should make me happy. The irony is that now I’m so lost, even I can’t find me.
I limp to the top of another hill, promising God to send money to orphans or monks or anyone He wants if He’d just make a bottle of water appear. I’d drink tap water at this point. I’d drink blue Gatorade!
At the top of the hill, I stumble from surprise. There’s no bottled water, but in the distance I see lights, and I hear music, singing…angels?
Garth Brooks. Well, if God’s got friends in low places, then we’re in Heaven. Otherwise, I think I’ve staggered upon the Bait Shop, where Gray, Dave, Cindy!, and I ate a few weeks ago.
I stroll—okay, limp—inside, wave the ten-year-old hostess away, and head straight for the bar on the deck. I distinctly remember seeing someone talking on a phone back there.
The place is more crowded than you’d expect for early evening, even on Saturday, so I have to wriggle through a few people to reach the bartender.
I lean both elbows on the bar and say, “I need water, and I need to use your phone.” My voice is raspy, and all semblance of politeness eked away a couple of miles back with the sole of my right flip-flop.
“Sorry,” the bartender says, barely glancing at me. “Phone’s for staff only.”
“I’m staff.”
“Nice try.”
I snort. After what I’ve been through, he thinks “nice try” is going to faze me? “Hey.” I tap the shoulder of the guy on my left. “Do you want another beer?”
“Uh—okay.”
“Bartender, get this guy another beer. There. I’m staff. Now give me the phone before I—”
A small metal object is thrust in front of my face. I squint and read Nokia. Nokia! A cell phone! All is right with the world.
I snatch the cell, turning to pledge undying devotion to the saint who’s blessed me with this holy relic, then scream and drop the phone as if it were the key to an eternity spent burning in Hell.
Satan catches the phone before it hits the deck. He grins. “Yeah, I like to scream at this thing sometimes, too.”
“You.”
“Sucks, huh? You thought you were rid of me.”
Dave. Why is Dave here? Oh, of course Dave is here. The question is why I’m here, and more important, how I got here. Dave holds the phone out to me again.
“Still need to make a call?”
I sink down on a bar stool next to him. “Oh, what’s the point?” I put my head in my hands. “I’m tired of trying to hold it together.” I put my forehead on the bar.
“Stu, a margarita for the lady and another beer for me.”
I lift my head. “Just water, please. Three glasses to start.”
“You’re a cheap date.”
“Ha-ha.”
He frowns. “I didn’t mean it that way. Sorry, I—”
I shake my head. “It’s okay. Make fun of me. I’m at the wallowing-in-self-pity phase anyway.” The waiter puts three glasses of water before me, and I down them like a frat boy at a keg party. I slam the last glass on the bar and say, “Another, Stu. Keep ’em coming, buddy.” I feel like laughing, but I’m afraid if I start, I won’t be able to stop.
“Are you okay?” Dave asks.
I give him a sidelong look. “Am I okay? Well, I guess that depends on how you define ‘okay.’ Is humiliation on a national TV show okay?”
Dave shrugs. “It’s not the end of the world.”
“I see. How about getting fired from your job because Dai Hoshi, the billion-dol
lar global media conglomerate, will sue your ass for breach of contract if you aren’t terminated immediately? Is that okay?”
“It’s not good, but—”
“How about your phone ringing constantly and your house staked out by reporters who hope to buy their next car from the profits made by selling your story?”
“Red—”
“Or, oh, is it okay if you’re pictured in the paper with a guy’s hand up your skirt? Is that okay? Wait, is it okay if, on top of all that, your car runs out of gas and you have to walk for like two hours in Rory’s clothes and cheap-ass flip-flops just to get to a”—I raise my voice—“hole in the wall, where they won’t even let you use the phone! Is that okay?”
Dave looks at me for a long moment. “That pretty much sucks.”
He says it with such a straight face and in such a sincere tone that I burst out laughing.
“Bartender, another water for the lady.”
I smile at him. “Thanks.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
“Want a real drink?”
“Better not.”
“Want to hang out and watch pudding wrestling?”
“What?”
He gestures to the area near where the band has taken up residence. “They’re having pudding wrestling tonight. You know, women clawing at each other while sliding around in a tub of pudding. Can’t ask for much more than that.”
“No, I guess you can’t.”
We sit in silence for a while, me sipping my water, Dave swigging away at his beer. It’s not an uncomfortable silence. Not that it’s comfortable being with Dave. I’m hyperaware that he’s beside me, that he’s drinking a Sam Adams, that he’s spun the cell phone on the bar eight times now. It’s the silence of two people who don’t know where they stand with each other and aren’t sure if they want to try and puzzle it out again.
Finally, Dave says, “Who were you going to call?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Rory, I guess, but I’ve already imposed on her too much.”
He glances down at the T-shirt, and I wonder if he notices the shoes and remembers them. Then he says, “I’ll take you home.” I nod again. We’re silent, and I can feel the tension rising in him. He’s trying to decide right now whether he should say anything or not. My head is telling my legs to start walking before he opens his mouth, but they’re not listening.