Sweet

by Emmy Laybourne

  “Laurel! There you are!” Viv crushes me in a giant hug from behind. “Stop gaping at Baby Tom-Tom like a dork.”

  “I wasn’t gaping!” I protest.

  She drags me away from the little crowd.

  “You have to see our room!” Vivika exclaims. “You’re going to D-I-E die!”

  TOM

  DAY ONE

  HI, I’M TOM FIORELLI and I’m sweating through my third shirt of the day.

  Very classy.

  It’s hot. I don’t know why the heat is taking me by surprise—it’s June and we’re in Fort Lauderdale. But there’s no airflow and I’m kind of sweltering here on the deck.

  My producer, Tamara, is checking something off on her iPad, scowling as usual. I like Tamara. No one else treats me as poorly as she does and I like that. She doesn’t handle me with a bunch of flattery. I imagine she treats me like she would any one of her seven brothers and sisters.

  We’ve been working together for over a year. She’s my producer and also my manager for my hosting gigs. Tamara has big ambitions for me—the VMAs, New Year’s Eve, The Voice.

  There are about five girls in bikinis just “hanging around.” I guess they’re hoping I’ll pick them to interview.

  I will. I should. I’m pretty sure they’ve brought on a bunch of attractive “ringers” for us to use. But I duck back toward the cameraman, Cubby, and take a sip of water. Just taking a break while Tamara’s distracted.

  “Gotta hydrate,” I say.

  Cubby’s mopping his head with a handkerchief. Sweat has made dark stripes on his brown T-shirt.

  “Heck yeah. Feels like a hundred and ten in the sun. Seems to me like the whole deck’s acting like a magnifying glass or something.”

  I like Cubby. He’s friendly, but not needy. When you’re shooting with a one-man crew, you want to like the guy you’re working with.

  “Maybe once the ship starts moving it’ll cool down,” I say.

  It’s been go-go-go since we boarded. First we did red carpet stuff down on the dock. Now these interviews on deck. We’re shooting for another hour or so and then I get to go see my room and hit the gym.

  The ship is really nice. Tamara said it was world-class and, I have to say, she was right.

  This is nothing like the Carnival cruise my mom took me on when I was fourteen. I had always wanted to go on a cruise when I was a kid. It was one of those things my mom would dangle over me when I didn’t want to do another take. Then they canceled the show and we went and it was a nightmare. Every time we tried to go to the pool, drunk frat boys would chant “Tom-Tom, Tom-Tom, Tom-Tom!” I spent most of that week in my room playing Xbox.

  This is different.

  The ship is sweet. White glove. Done right.

  Most of the passengers are wealthy people desperate for thinness. I’d say a quarter of the passengers are minor celebrities and attractive “set dressing” party people. There’s no one really A level. Luka Harris and Sabbi Ribiero, I guess. And that grub guy from Survivor. I’m sure all three of them—possibly all the celebrities—are getting paid to be here.

  There is more than a fair share of pretty girls. We haven’t even set sail yet and a bunch of them have busted out bikinis. I don’t know, maybe they had them on under their clothes.

  It’s been suggested to me that I use this cruise as a way to remake my image when it comes to girls.

  The way Molly, my publicist, put it was that people saw me as a tender heart, but now it was time for me to show them all how cocky and wild I could be.

  Tamara, my producer, was less politic. “The thing with Bonnie made you look like a loser. You gotta party on this ship. Flirt. Grab ass. Get laid.”

  Cubby elbows me.

  “Hey, what are the chances this shit works? The Solu?” Cubby asks, surveying the crowd. He’s got a sizable belly. He’s probably thinking about becoming a customer. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,” he tells me. “I’m going to wait a year and then try it. By then we’ll know if it works.”

  “If it does, I bet they’ll give the inventor a medal,” I say.

  “A Nobel Peace Prize,” he adds.

  “Claire, quit dawdling!” says a bossy lady wearing tons of jewelry and a large, floppy hat. She’s dragging along a girl whose on the obese side of obese. The poor girl is wearing a giant nautical striped outfit and looks profoundly miserable.

  I tap Cubby on the shoulder, nod toward the girl.

  He doesn’t quite get my meaning. I guess he thinks I’m telling him to check her out because she’s fat.

  “It’s a shame,” Cubby says, not meeting my eye. He thinks I’m about to say something mean about her.

  “No, no,” I say. “That’s not it. Tape me.”

  Here’s why I want to tape her: We should interview the people who Solu might actually, really help, not just pretty girls and petty celebrities.

  “Excuse me, miss,” I say. I reach out and tap her on the shoulder. “I’d love to hear your thoughts about the cruise.”

  The girl’s face is polite at first, then goes slack, as she realizes that it’s me doing the asking, then she turns beet red.

  Cubby has the camera up and is taping.

  “Are you excited about the cruise?” I ask her.

  Her mother doubles back for her.

  “Claire, come on!” she says. Then she sees me and the crew, taping. Her mouth drops, too. “Oh.”

  “How would you describe the boat?” I ask Claire.

  She’s looking at me, then back to her mom, then to me again. I’d put her at around twelve maybe. She’s definitely the youngest passenger I’ve seen so far.

  She’s quiet for so long I start to regret this. There’s an expression on her face that says she thinks I’m screwing with her.

  “I really do want to know,” I tell her. I give her a wink, smiling, encouraging.

  “I guess … it’s amazing!” she says, finally. “All the famous people and the ship’s really nice.”

  “Do you think Solu is going to deliver on its promises?” I ask.

  “God, I hope so,” she says. And it’s funny, the way she says it. Makes me laugh.

  And she laughs, too.

  There’s a sparkle in her eye.

  I think I just made her day, which makes me feel good. She reminds me of my cousin, Lizette. About the same age and everything.

  “Of course Solu will deliver!” says a creaky old guy in a suit. He walks right into our shot.

  Tamara is right behind him, mouthing something to me. I can’t understand what it is.

  “I’m Tom Fiorelli,” I say, extending my hand.

  “Timothy Almstead. And this is Dr. Elise Zhang.” He gestures to a cherubic Asian woman with tortoiseshell glasses.

  I get what Tamara’s mouthing to me: OWNER.

  Of course! Almstead is the CEO of Pipop, the country’s most famous beverage company and favorite soda of almost everyone on the globe, at last survey.

  “Mr. Almstead, what a pleasure to meet you,” I say. “And Dr. Zhang, congratulations.”

  Dr. Zhang is short and wearing an ill-fitting dress and smiling like she alone knows the secret to happiness. She pumps my hand five times.

  She should be happy. Zhang’s the mastermind behind Solu—the one who got the formula right. Her face is on the cover of this week’s Time magazine.

  Tamara is not so gently edging Claire and her mom away from us.

  “Young man, I had the idea that you should interview me,” Almstead says. “I think people will want to know about Dr. Zhang and myself, don’t you think?”

  “Of course,” Tamara answers for me. “It was on the schedule for tomorrow. We have a room booked. But, um, if this is convenient for you, we can do it right here—”

  “Carpe diem!” Almstead chirps. “When you get to be eighty-three, like me, you don’t set stock on ‘see you later’!”

  He smiles. I think I like him. He’s a bit dotty, and a bit mischievous.

  I take
another swig of water. I need to get this right. From what Tamara told me, Almstead wanted to hire Ryan Seacrest to do the coverage, but the cruise’s publicist, Rich, sold me. Told Almstead I would appeal to both the American youth culture, and to the older generations, who had watched me grow up on Andersons.

  Tamara also made it clear that this was a big break for me and I’d better not blow it.

  I take a breath, run my fingers through my hair, and reset my position, gesturing for Almstead and Zhang to step closer to me, against the rail. A small crowd has gathered.

  I nod to Tamara.

  She says roll, Cubby says rolling, and we’re off.

  “I’m Tom Fiorelli, coming to you from the deck of the Extravagance, and I have the pleasure of speaking to the two people who’ve brought us all here today: Mr. Timothy Almstead, America’s ‘Soda Pop King’ and the president of the Solu Corporation and CEO of Pipop; and Dr. Elise Zhang, the chief scientist of the Solu Corporation.”

  They answer with some “pleased to be here”s.

  “Tell us, Mr. Almstead,” I continue. “What’s in store for the five hundred people who’ve come aboard today?”

  “Fine dining. Shuffleboard. Some snappy shows featuring half-dressed showgirls.”

  He’s playing with me.

  “Really? Is that all?” I ask, pimping him a little.

  “Why no. Funny you should ask. Every single passenger aboard is going to lose five to ten percent of their body fat, Tom. That’s a guarantee.”

  The people around us give a little cheer.

  “People on board are pretty excited about it,” I say.

  “As they should be!” Almstead replies.

  Time to get Zhang in.

  “Dr. Zhang, you developed the formula for Solu. Tell us, what makes Solu different from other weight-loss products?”

  “The first difference is that Solu works,” she says. More cheers. “Solu safely and effectively shrinks fat cells. These excess fat molecules are voided harmlessly through normal physical elimination. Most importantly, once the subject has taken Solu for a period of six weeks, three doses a day, those cellular changes are essentially locked in for as long as one year and more for some people.”

  “So every year, people will need to eat Solu for another six weeks?” I ask.

  “Pretty savvy, don’t you think?” Almstead says with a wink.

  I laugh.

  “Yeah, that’s pretty clever,” I tell him. “But judging from the excitement of the people on board, you’re not going to have any trouble selling Solu. In fact, I’ve heard that stores around the country have already sold out.”

  “Well, now, no,” Almstead says, a stormy look coming over his features. “No one’s allowed to sell it until Sunday, a week from today. The product doesn’t launch until next Sunday! Until then, the Lux Lines here have an exclusive on the stuff.”

  “I misspoke,” I say.

  “Anyone sells it before Sunday, they’re breaking the law. I mean it.”

  “I meant to say pre-sales. From what I understand, Amazon and all major U.S. retailers have pre-sold millions of boxes of Solu.”

  Almstead is still frowning.

  “You, young man, should say what you mean. And I’ll repeat this, for anyone who needs a reminder: If you sell one box of Solu before next Sunday, you’ll be hearing from our lawyers. I mean it.”

  Dr. Zhang puts her hand on Almstead’s shoulder.

  “I think Mr. Almstead is looking forward to seeing the response of the passengers to Solu on this cruise. Everything is just as he wants it,” she says.

  Almstead looks at her and nods.

  “I can certainly understand that,” I say.

  “Did you know we painted a mark on the side of the ship?” Almstead asks me. “And they’ll paint another one when we return home. I came up with that idea myself!”

  “It’s a great idea,” I say with maybe more enthusiasm than necessary. His reaction about the sales thing threw me off my game a bit. “And I think the world is going to be thanking you two for a long time. In fact”—I pause for effect—“there’s a rumor that if Solu really is the solution to the obesity epidemic, you two will be on the short list for a Nobel Prize.”

  Almstead and Zhang grin at each other, surprised and delighted.

  Cubby’s too much of a pro to laugh aloud, but I see his shoulders shaking just a bit.

  This is how rumors get started.

  You just start them.

  LAUREL

  DAY ONE

  I FOLLOW VIV INSIDE THE SHIP.

  There is a central staircase that is all gleaming wood and sparkling brass. It’s open to the decks below, so you can see down into the ship. Three glass elevators run in the center, and on each side is a staircase that loops around as it lands on each floor.

  “This is the most beautiful stairway I have ever seen,” I murmur.

  “Yeah, yeah. Come on!” Viv says.

  She pulls me away from the landing and down a hall.

  Uniformed maids and bellmen smile as we pass. I see that the bellmen are delivering our luggage to our rooms.

  Viv taps her ID card twice on the door and it opens.

  “Whoa!” is about all I can say.

  The room is just totally gorgeous. The carpet, the bed, the twenty fat pillows arranged just so. Everything is cream colored. And there are these blond wood accents striped down the walls at intervals and the other furniture—the mirrors, the bed frame, the coffee table—they all match the wood.

  “This is like heaven but made into a little ship cabin,” I say in a hushed tone.

  “I know,” Viv says.

  We look at each other and … we shriek!

  I take a flying leap and jump onto the bed. Viv lands beside me, bouncing up and down on her knees.

  “Oh my God—my boots!” I say. “Ack!”

  I’ve tracked dirt on the plush, creamy carpet.

  I sit up and slip them off.

  “Ugh, those clodhoppers!” Viv complains.

  I hold them in my hand, looking around for something … well, something not cream colored to put them on.

  “Here,” Viv says, holding open the bottom door on the nightstand.

  I plunk them inside. Viv slams it shut. We laugh.

  Together we lie back on the king-size bed.

  I run my calloused fingertips over the duvet.

  “I think my fingers are going to faint from how soft this is,” I say.

  “And look,” Viv says, hopping up. “There’s a minibar.”

  “Really?” I say. “With liquor?”

  I mean, we’re both seventeen … (Born four days apart, actually, in the same hospital.)

  “What do you think?” Viv scoffs.

  She opens it and I see it’s fully stocked with juice and soda.

  “It’s like they knew we were minors,” I say.

  “Dur! They do know we’re minors. They know everything about us. I even told them about your allergy to kiwi fruit.”

  “Well, we should definitely lay off that minibar stuff,” I say. “My folks told me to be really aware of things like the minibar and, like, excursions. There can be a lot of hidden charges…”

  What I’m not saying comes through loud and clear—I am not allowed to spend any money. Vivika’s dad, Mr. Hallerton, is footing the bill for our trip. My mom and dad would never be able to afford a cruise like this. They’re saving every dime for a down payment on a house. I mean, I think my ticket probably cost a year’s rent for our two-bedroom condo. (And our rent is more than two thousand dollars a month!)

  Viv rolls her eyes.

  “Sweet love, this ain’t a Princess cruise. This is all-expenses paid. My daddy says we don’t have to worry about a thing.”

  She grabs a bottle of OJ and tosses it to me. “If you want to, take a bath in fresh-squeezed orange juice.”

  “Bathing in orange juice. Sounds very sticky,” I say.

  I peel the top off the plastic bottle and take a
swig.

  “Oh my God, even the juice tastes luxurious. Thank you, Mr. Hallerton!” I shout up to the ceiling, like he’s up in heaven or something.

  “Thank you, Daddy!” Viv shouts.

  I set the juice down and jump up on the bed.

  “Thank you, Vivvy’s daddy!” I yell, bouncing.

  Viv hops up beside me.

  “Thank you!” we call up together, bouncing like little kids and feeling like a million bucks.

  * * *

  So, Viv hates my clothes. She always has.

  And I have to say, as we unpack into the frickin’ walk-in closet (walk-in closet!), my duds are looking like … duds.

  “Tell me you brought some regular shoes,” she complains as I set out my other boots.

  I shake my head no.

  “You know, there are clubs on board. That’s plural. As in more than one,” she scolds me. “And all you brought is boots?”

  “I brought my fancy boots,” I say, offering up my white, prairie-style lace-ups.

  “There is nothing fancy about boots!” Viv complains. “I’m going to get you into heels if it kills me.”

  Vivika’s clothes are already hanging up in the closet and (really, even for Viv) it’s a lot of clothes.

  For example—I am not kidding—she has eight bathing suits.

  “Viv,” I say, holding up a silver one-piece. “It’s a seven-day cruise. You have one too many.”

  “Oh, ha-ha. Tres funny,” she says. “You don’t understand my plan.”

  She steps back and gestures to a bunch of clothes on her side of the closet.

  “These are the size I am now. Fourteen. Blech.”

  She gestures to the next set.

  “And these are all new—one size lower.”

  And she gestures to the last group.

  “And these are eights! Oh God, if I could fit into these by the end of the tour, I feel like my life would be complete. I even brought one dress that’s a six! Though that’s just insane…”

  She stands there fingering the material on a little black dress.

  Viv’s weight is her now-and-always obsession. I’ve known her since she was six, and even back then, she was pinching her belly and scowling at her reflection.

  Over the years, I’ve listened patiently (and sometimes not so patiently) while she laid out a hundred new “eating plans” or “ways of eating” (she read somewhere you shouldn’t use the word diet). I’ve tried to share her enthusiasm when these new don’t-call-them-diets let her lose five or ten or twenty pounds. And I’ve held her hand while she wept (every single time) when after a month or two, she’d gained back all the weight plus ten.