Sweet

by Emmy Laybourne

  “He’s mine!” said one.

  “You’re married! Give him to me,” the other one cackled.

  “There, there,” I said. “I can put one hand on each of you.”

  I didn’t really feel like joking around with them. They were pretty worn-out looking, but I guess it’s a part of the job.

  A beefy man in a polo shirt was behind me.

  He put his hand on my shoulder.

  “Lord, get a load of the traps on this fella!” he called, massaging my back.

  Yeah, yeah, yeah. Manhandle the celebrity.

  “Didn’t you used to be tubby, like the rest of us?” he joked.

  I pretended it was funny.

  On Deck 6 there are open areas where the lifeboats are on these giant braces, suspended above us. In case of an evacuation, they are lowered down and we board right from the side of the deck, then the whole thing gets lowered to the water level.

  “What say we give it a test drive?!” the beefy guy called to the perfectly nice crewman supervising us.

  “I’m afraid that’s not allowed,” the crewman answered with a bright smile. “We’re just waiting to hear that everyone has arrived to their stations and the drill will be over.”

  There was a small cheer from the guests.

  One of the cougars pinched me on the arm.

  “I’d like to get you alone in one of those,” she said, indicating the lifeboat with a lift of one of her penciled-on eyebrows.

  Just then the crewman got an all clear from his walkie-talkie. “That’s it! Thanks, everyone,” he called out.

  I got away as fast as I could.

  Gross.

  * * *

  Tonight’s dinner is Black Tie Optional. Optional for everyone except me.

  “Are you kidding me?” Tamara gasped after I asked Rich if I could, maybe, just wear a sports coat. This was after our guided tour of the ship and I was feeling pretty wired out.

  Rich patted Tamara’s hand with an unspoken “I’ll take care of this,” and turned to me. He threaded his arm through mine.

  “I know you’ve had a long day, Thomas,” he said. “But I want you to think of yourself as an ambassador on this trip. When you show up looking fine, it elevates the whole event. These people are here for romance and transformation—and you’re like an angel, standing at the pearly gates of gorgeousness and fitness and luxury, welcoming them in. Can you see that, baby? Can you visualize it?”

  I like Rich, with his crazy mustache, so I worked hard to nod and look like I was really letting his words sink in.

  I did not roll my eyes.

  Tamara didn’t feel the need to be so “inspirational.”

  “I think you’re forgetting how lucky you are,” she scolded me. “Solu selected you, and you alone, to do the media coverage for this cruise. I mean, this is the exclusive of the century. You’re it, Tom. So if Rich asks or if I ask you to show up in a tux, I expect your question to be ‘Zenga or Armani?’”

  “Okay. Zenga or Armani?” I asked.

  “Whatever makes your ass look better,” she snapped.

  Nice, very nice.

  * * *

  I wore the Armani.

  And I’m glad I did.

  Because as the maître d’ leads me to my table in the Aurora Restaurant, I see he’s going to seat me right next to Sabbi Ribiero.

  Sabbi’s dressed in a glittering green cocktail dress. She kind of looks like a boa constrictor.

  I greet everyone, introducing myself where I need to, and then sit down. Luka Harris is seated on Sabbi’s other side. His shaggy blond do must take hours to get like that. Jenny Palmer, who was a Bachelorette in 2014, is there with the guy who won her—can’t remember his name. And there’s Tamara, scowling at me, and the grub guy from Survivor, who looks like he’s been making up for lost time.

  Sabbi extends her hand to me palm down and I have no choice but to kiss it.

  I hope I look calm and collected. Inside I’m shouting at myself for not figuring out what I wanted to do about Sabbi.

  It’s too late now, I realize. I’ve lost the chance to back out.

  “You know what they call you in Brazil?” Sabbi asks.

  “What?” I say.

  “Tomazino. In Brazil, they hate abbreviations for names. Nicknames. I don’t know why, but it’s true.”

  “That’s strange,” I say. Tamara gives me the evil eye. “I mean, in an interesting way.”

  Jenny interrupts, “To me, you’ll always be Baby Tom-Tom!”

  “Well, I actually prefer Tom—” I try to say.

  “It’s just the cutest name and when I think about you as a toddler…”

  Her eyes are welling up with tears. We’re not being filmed, so I think they are actual tears. She turns to the rest of the table.

  “Oh my God, remember that episode when he got his pants caught in that elevator and they ripped off! What were you? Four?”

  Everyone gushes about the episode.

  I was six. I didn’t want to do the bit and my mom made me. The elevator doors closed on my pants. I got tipped over so I was upside down, on a rig, of course, facing the elevator doors.

  As my pants got pulled up, my body started slipping down. That wasn’t a part of the plan.

  I tried and tried to hold those pants on and that’s what made everyone laugh so hard.

  “Television history!” Luka Harris bellows.

  I tell you, as a six-year-old boy, I just didn’t want my pants to fall off.

  I just didn’t want my butt to show.

  If my smile looked fake before, I’m sure it looks forced now.

  “Baby Tom-Tom! Dude. You’ll always be Baby Tom-Tom!” Luka crows. He pats me on the back.

  It’s all I can do not to grab Luka Harris by his trademark blond shag and slam his head into the table.

  “Didn’t you hear him?” Sabbi says, her voice suddenly cold. “He prefers Tom.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “No,” she says. And that’s that.

  Luka mumbles an apology and starts a conversation with the Grub Guy.

  I look at Sabbi and she gives me a wink.

  Saved by Sabbi Ribiero … Maybe she’s not so bad?

  There’s the sound of microphone feedback and all eyes turn to the bandstand.

  “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen,” says the captain, who’s now standing in front of the band. “I’m Captain Kevin Hammonds and I’d like to take this moment to welcome you all aboard.”

  I see Cubby set up, taping, nearby.

  “It is my privilege to welcome you to the Extravagance. My crew is going to take special care of each and every one of you. We are honored to host the momentous and historic launch of the new sweetener, Solu.”

  Big cheers from the audience.

  “Please welcome Timothy Almstead and Dr. Elisa Zhang to the stage.”

  Almstead and Zhang come to his side.

  “Hello, everyone,” Dr. Zhang says, way too loud. You get the feeling she doesn’t know her way around a microphone. “When I was growing up in Shanghai, I never dreamed I would be on a ship like this, talking to people like you. Much less did I dream that I would create a new substance that would bring such important change to the world. Science is all about change. And our world needs change. I think.”

  Everyone applauds. She has a unique charm to her. An I-don’t-get-out-much thing going on.

  Almstead takes the mike.

  “That’s right, Elise. Hey there, everyone! You know why we picked the name ‘Solu’? Well, research and development, of course. They said people liked it the best, so there you go. But why did people like it best? Solu. It’s short for ‘solution’! We got a problem—people don’t like to be fat. And Solu’s gonna fix it. Solu-tion! Maybe that sounds like an oversimplification, but I’m a simple guy!”

  Cheers for this. People love this guy.

  “You know, we picked the Extravagance because it could seat all of you at the same time. It’s the only cruise shi
p that can do it. Dinner for five hundred! Imagine that!” Almstead says, grinning. “We wanted you all to get your first taste of Solu at the very same time. So without further ado … here we go, folks.”

  At this point, waiters swarm out of the kitchen with trays loaded with pastries.

  They set a dessert plate in front of each of us.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, you are the first people in the public to taste … Solu!”

  And everyone goes nuts, applauding and cheering.

  Now the only sound you can hear is the tinkling of cutlery as people cut into their cream puffs.

  This is the moment I had hoped would not come.

  ’Cause I’m not taking Solu.

  I discussed it at length with my trainer, Derek. Several times. Diet pills can backfire. I’ve seen it a hundred times.

  I’ve worked too hard to get my body the way it is. Every pound I lost, I lost the hard way. Clean eating and exercise.

  I’m not going back.

  I cut up the pastry and move it around on my plate.

  “Oh, wow, it’s really good!” says Jenny.

  Tamara digs in with gusto.

  “Yeah, I like it,” Sabbi says. She licks the cream off her fork.

  “Aren’t you eating yours?” Luka asks. “Dude!”

  “I tasted it. It’s great,” I say. And the people at the table take notice.

  “Baby Tom—I mean, Tom—you’re not eating it?” Jenny says. She looks horrified.

  “I tried it!” I lie.

  Tamara glares at me like she’s out for blood.

  “I’ll eat yours!” Luka says and, in three bites, he’s cleared my plate. Jerk.

  Now the army of waiters is bringing around coffee and tea, pouring it into the cups already set at our places. I see there are some little pitchers of cream set around each table, but no sugar.

  Then a waiter sets down a little sterling dish at the center of each table filled with packets of Solu. They are the trademarked shade of lavender.

  The color was blended by an exclusive French color expert. It’s supposed to be a shade that gives hope and comfort.

  I know this because it’s on my list of talking points, along with their motto, “Solu: Life’s delicious.”

  Tamara picks up the dish and takes a packet. Then two.

  She passes it to the next person.

  The attention of everyone at the table is focused on that little silver dish and those slim lavender packets. It goes around the table and everyone, politely, takes two packets.

  When it comes to me, I plan on passing, but I see Tamara glowering at me. I take two packets.

  There were exactly two packets per person at the table. So that’s that.

  LAUREL

  DAY ONE

  I AM STARING AT AN ÉCLAIR.

  My stomach is seizing up sporadically. Clenching up to let me know that if I lay one fork tine on that slender little pastry, I’m gonna blow bile all over the beautiful linen tablecloth.

  So, yeah, I’m still really seasick.

  I’m also horribly underdressed.

  Viv was right—my wardrobe is completely inadequate.

  I don’t know what I’m going to do. It’s not like I can write home and ask my mom to send me a care package of better clothes (to a ship at sea!).

  Apparently there’s a boutique on board, but I’m quite certain the fifty dollars my parents gave me for an emergency won’t buy me the evening dress I’m wishing I’d packed.

  I am wearing, instead, a form-fitting black tank top and my very nicest black jeans.

  Around my neck, I have a set of dog tags that actually were a free giveaway at the mall. (They say, ARMY OF RAD GIFTS AND NOVELTIES! but I’m hoping that no one looks at them closely.)

  Viv is wearing a trendy little dress made of neon lace over navy-blue material and matching heels. It’s maybe a twitch too tight on some of her more curvy aspects.

  “Here it comes,” Viv says. “My first taste of a new future!”

  She digs into her dessert.

  Around the table, everyone follows suit.

  When we were first seated at the eight-top, I saw Viv’s face fall when she saw who shared our table. I am a nice person but even I have to say—it’s a table of losers.

  Rich losers.

  There’s one family with two ninth-grade boy twins, and a fat couple who look like they’re at retirement age. The two teenagers just look at their phones through the whole meal. I guess their parents aren’t concerned with the exorbitant fees for data usage on board. The mom and dad look like they wished they were looking at their phones and the two old people just kept their heads down and ate everything that was put in front of them without saying a word.

  There was not a celebrity in sight.

  Well, I could see Tom Fiorelli. He was in my sight. Sort of. He was seated way in the center of the room, with good old Sabbi Ribiero and other people of his kind.

  I flushed red with embarrassment, even just seeing him at a distance.

  “There he is,” Viv said, under her breath. “El bebé T. T.”

  “Obviously, I need to avoid him for the rest of the cruise,” I said.

  “I dunno. It’s a pretty small ship,” she noted.

  Just then the waiters arrived at our table with our plates, and voilà, dinner was served.

  “Oh,” I said, as my stomach gave a decided and audible protest.

  “Oh my Lord, look at the size of that steak!” the husband of the miserable family said.

  “Yummy!” Viv chimed in.

  The giant steaks were some kind of icebreaker and everyone started chatting. We all told about where we were from … and if it was our first cruise … that kind of thing.

  I cut a bite. It was pink in the center and juicy, with a crust of herbs on the outside.

  I put the bite in my mouth. It was both delicious and repellant at the same time.

  I didn’t want to waste it. It was probably the nicest steak I would ever be served in my whole life.

  But I also could not have it in my mouth.

  I tried a teeny tiny bite of the fluffy, buttery mashed potatoes and got some acid reflux up my gullet.

  That was it. No more food for me.

  Not even a historical éclair.

  * * *

  “Wow! It’s delicious!” Viv exclaims.

  “You’d never know it wasn’t real sugar!” the mom agrees.

  “I don’t know,” the dad says. “Tastes a little chalky to me.”

  “If it makes me lose weight, I’ll eat straight chalk!” the retired man hollers. I think he is a bit deaf.

  I set my fork down.

  “What? You don’t like it?” the mom asks me.

  “I’m not feeling well,” I say.

  “Dude, look at her face,” one of the ninth-grade twins snickers, pointing to me. “She’s gonna hurl.”

  “No, she’s not!” Viv says. “Are you?”

  I shake my head no.

  (But I may.)

  I can keep it down. I think I can keep it down.

  Viv flags over a waiter.

  “Can you get my friend another ginger ale?” she asks.

  The waiter returns a moment later with another soda and, glory be, a couple of heavy-plastic travel-sickness bags.

  “Thanks,” I whisper as I tuck the bags into my giant purse.

  Viv pats my hand kindly.

  “Sweetie,” Vivvy says. “If you’re not going to eat your dessert, do you mind?”

  TOM

  DAY ONE

  WE’RE AT THE CLUB CASSIOPEIA.

  Sabbi hinted she’d be coming here after she changes outfits. Rich and Tamara insisted we come. I don’t love being bossed around, but at least I get to dance. Get in a little cardio.

  The truth is, I like dancing. I’m good at it and the same thing happens that happens when I run—after about twenty minutes, I get an endorphin release and I can forget about everything for a while.

  Some girls dance
up around me and try to engage. I dance with them. But I don’t lock eyes.

  I’m in it for the endorphins.

  I see some people taking pictures of me with their phones.

  I’m sure Rich and Tamara will be happy about that. They want me tweeted and Instagrammed and Snapchatted all over the Web. That’s what Solu’s paying me for, I guess.

  I do like to dance.

  When you’re twelve or thirteen, I think most guys all decide that dancing’s for girls, but when I was twelve and thirteen, I wasn’t really around guys my age. I was getting tutored on set and hanging around with my mom. The only kids I hung out with were my “sisters” on the show.

  In fact, when the producers figured out I actually liked to dance, they brought in an instructor to work with me.

  All a part of that initial phase where they wanted me to lean down.

  It was cute for me to be chubby as a little kid, but when I hit eleven, they decided it wasn’t so adorable anymore.

  Mari Ayn showed up and I started spending an hour a day on hip-hop lessons. It was fun. Yes, they were trying to control me and shape me up according to some plan they had, but it was fun.

  After a year, Mari Ayn brought in B-Boy Derek and then it got interesting.

  And now I can b-boy, or breakdance, as the old folks say. I have a little routine put together. I’m not that good, not enough to compete, for sure, but maybe someday.

  At first I was just a twelve-year-old kid and Derek was just my b-boy coach, but then we became friends. Derek has since stopped focusing on dance and he has his own personal training business. He trains me and we talk, every day.

  I hadn’t focused on b-boy since that first year with Derek, but when I started seeing Bonnie Lee I got the idea to surprise her at her eighteenth birthday party.

  Me and Derek worked on it in secret.

  When she dumped me I almost spilled it.

  Can you imagine: “But I can be fun. I’m gonna breakdance at your birthday party!”

  TMZ would have had a field day.

  Some kind of slow song comes on and a short but very pretty brunette tries to lock me in, but I back away.

  “Gotta hydrate,” I tell her with a wink.

  Fake smile, fake wink. It’s easier to dodge girls when you act like a jerk. So I do it sometimes.