Sweet (3 page)

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.

The messed-up thing is that Viv and I weigh around the same. I think we look fine. Like normal young women with curves in more or less the right places.

But Viv hates her body. And sometimes I can tell she thinks I should hate mine, too.

Maybe the reason Viv and I feel so different about our weight can be explained by our parents—or by the shape of our parents.

Viv's dad is built like a fireplug. Short and fat. Exudes wealth, and perhaps because of that, he could care less about his weight. Viv's mom? Even though she counts calories with a microscope, she's still a wee bit oversize. She's always wearing “foundation garments” and trying to get Viv and I to wear them. I think she might even wear Spanx to bed.

My dad? Regular height. Regular-dad beer belly. And my moms? Exactly like me. We're both 5′ 7″. Both size fourteen. Ample breasts, belly, and rear.

So genetically, both Viv and I are set up to have the bodies we have.

But here's the thing: My Dad loves the way my mom looks.

My mom will come home from a day at the bank with her hair frizzy, her suit jacket rumpled, her bust straining the buttons on her blue button-down shirt, and my dad will take her in his arms and gaze at her like she's the most beautiful woman on earth. He thinks she's sexy and perfect the way she is. (I know this because he tells her. Frequently. Often in public.)

So I know it's
possible.

It's
possible
to find a guy who will find me attractive. I could even find one who finds the overflowing scoopfuls of me sexy and perfect.

Viv, on the other hand, has had to watch her dad grow steadily disgusted with her mom's body over the years.

Right before the divorce, maybe a year ago, I was at their place, out at the pool, and Viv's mom came out in just her bathing suit. Her dad said, “Jesus, Nadine, put a sarong on or something.”

Her mom put her hands down over her thighs like they were some monstrosity and apologized, “I couldn't find one anywhere. Where does Maria hide my beach cover-ups?!”