Sweet (6 page)

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 beb
é
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 voil
à
, 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
é
clair.

*   *   *

“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.

Back at the table, Rich and Tamara are talking about the next day's shoot.

Rich starts applauding as I walk up.

“Now that is what an ambassador does! He gets the crowd moving!”

“Thank you.” I laugh. I down a bottle of water. “I actually like to dance.”

My mom keeps pressuring me to go on
Dancing with the Stars.

But I don't know—that seems like a last resort.

I haven't given up hope on film.

“Tom, you are one intriguing fellow,” Rich says. “You should be the new ‘most interesting man in the world.' The teenage version.”

“That's not a bad idea,” Tamara says. “I'm going to text Molly.”

“It's what I do, people,” Rich says, twisting the ends of his mustache with a flourish.

Rich really is some kind of a publicity genius. His age is a secret, but he can't be more than twenty-two or twenty-three. He's known for big ideas and apparently only takes on one client a year. This year it's Solu.

I signal for more water.

“Wow. You are really sweating,” Tamara observes.

I've soaked through my tux shirt. Even the bow tie hanging round my neck is drenched.

“Yeah,” I say. “When you're in shape, you sweat a lot. That's what my trainer says.”

“You have some serious moves,” Rich tells me.

I do a little pop and lock. I grin.

“I can really work with this. I got some good shots,” Rich says, showing me his phone.

Then it happens—the new single from Daft Punk blares out, blasting over the end of the slow song.

It's the song my routine is set to! And I'm feeling good. Endorphins, probably.

“You want some video?” I ask, giving Rich a crooked grin. “Something worth posting?”

“Hells yes, I do,” he sings.

I toss back the rest of my water and throw the bottle on the ground.

I step out onto the dance floor, Rich close on my heels.

“Shoot it! Shoot it, y'all!” Rich calls out, recruiting others to take video.

On the floor, I dart back and forth, clearing a little space, top-rocking. Three bounds and I drop. Lots of handwork, a set of swipes, then windmills, working into my power moves, then I pop up onto my elbow.

Derek would be proud. I'll have to send him the footage.

I circle up on the tip of my elbow—I stole this move from him, with his blessing.

Everyone is screaming for me, hollering with surprise. Egging me on.

Rich is taping. I see him at the edge of the crowd.

I roll up into some footwork, now, a little break.

Then I knee-drop into some CCs. Up for some flares.

I feel good. I feel alive.

I wonder, for a second, if Sabbi's arrived yet.

I do a swipe to launch myself up onto my feet.

Only—SHOOT—the floor's too wet. My own darn sweat. I slip.

I fly forward, my feet coming out from under me, and I slam into a girl.

We go down.

THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU LOSE CONTROL, I'm shouting at myself in my head. THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU TRY TO HAVE FUN!

'Cause now
this
is what will run on YouTube—me trying to b-boy and then wiping out and taking this girl down.

Oh, man, I've flattened the poor girl.

“So sorry,” I say. “I'm an a-hole.”

And then I see who it is.

 

LAUREL

DAY ONE

I AM COVERED WITH TOM FIORELLI'S SWEAT.

Actually, I am covered with Tom Fiorelli
and
his sweat.

I'm on the floor. It's cold against my back, and Tom's body is hot and slippery on top of me. His face is buried in my neck.

(I cannot describe how incredibly good this feels. Even though my head hurts and I can barely breathe.)

He's heavy and muscular and now he's pushing off me so I feel his weight shift over me.

He takes his hand out from behind my head.

He starts apologizing and cursing himself.

My hip hurts, I realize. I must have taken the fall on my hip.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

I realize that I have a handful of the wet, slick cotton fabric of the back of his shirt clutched in my hand. I let go.

People are pulling us up now. Together.

Tom's massaging his hand. I think he hurt it.

“Are you all right?” he asks. He's shaking off the people around him. Rich, my friend from the gangplank, is there.

“I'm okay,” I squeak.

Rich is right close to us. “You okay, girl?”

“You sure?” Tom asks me.

I nod.

“Kiss her,” Rich says, under his breath.

“What?” Tom asks.

“Trust me. Just kiss her.”

Tom looks at me, a question in his eyes.

I blink.

Is a blink a yes? Because then Tom leans forward and takes my face in his hands and kisses me.

I feel shocks running through my body as if I've been touched by a live wire.

It's a very, very thorough kiss.

It's a whole-body kiss.

The people around us burst into huge CHEERS.

They are going nuts.

I realize my hands are holding Tom's back. The muscles under my hands are firm and rippling.

It's the best kiss in my life.

I'm flooded by feelings—and suddenly I realize under all of it I feel anger.

He's using me. This kiss is some kind of impromptu publicity stunt.

(And it's such a good kiss.)

But no.

I put my hands on his (sweaty, hard, cut) pecs and push away. The people around us are screaming and hollering in delight.

Tom releases me and the guys around him are slapping him on the shoulder.

“Epic!” one of them says. “You rule!”

The crowd surges around us. Mostly people surrounding him and I get pushed away from him.

Viv's in my face. “Oh my God, Laurel!!! I can't believe that just happened.”

“I want to go,” I say.

“But we can't go now!” she yells. “You just got, like, famous!”

“Vivika.” I grab her and look hard into her eyes. “I'm leaving!”

I storm away and I hear someone ask Viv, “Who is that girl? Is she your friend?”

Viv stops to answer and I get out of there.

*   *   *

(Hooray for me) I make it back to the room without getting lost or throwing up.

I take a shower to get Tom Fiorelli's sweat off me.

My hip is red—there will be a bruise there.

I let the hot water pound me from three different fancy nozzles.

He kissed me because Rich told him to.

He kissed me.

He kissed me because he knocked me over and made a fool out of himself and the kiss would give people something else to think about. Make it look like a victory, or a plan, or something.

Tom Fiorelli kissed me.

And I hadn't liked the circumstances, but I sure as hell liked the kiss.

Rats.

I try to untangle my feelings about it as I get into our (whoa, the softest sheets ever) bed.

The shades have been drawn for us and the bed is turned down.

There's a chocolate on each of our pillows—a Solu chocolate, of course.

I put mine on Viv's pillow. I'm not going to take any chances of the nausea coming back.

It would have been easier to hate Tom if it hadn't been for one thing.

His hand.

He protected my head when we fell.

I remember him shaking his hand out—he hurt it when my head slammed down on it.

Somehow—in our jumbled bodies colliding with each other and then the floor—he had put his hand out so my head wouldn't hit the dance floor.

And in the dark, in the king-size bed in our luxury cabin, I smile.

It may be hard to stay mad at Tom Fiorelli.

 

TOM

DAY ONE

“HEY, MAN!” COMES DEREK'S VOICE
. “I was wondering when you'd call. How's the ship?”

It's good to hear his voice. Really good.

“All right,” I say. “Pretty sweet, actually. You should see my room. And I did the set.”

“What?! How'd it go? Wait, no. Give me your food first and then I want to hear all about it.”

I tell him everything I ate during the day.

That's how we do it.

People wonder how celebrities stay in shape. We have trainers like Derek. He's my secret weapon.