Are You Going to Kiss Me Now? by Sloane Tanen Read Free Book Online

giving whoever was in the car a wide berth.
    From the limo emerged a chubby young guy with a big head and white, spiky hair, wearing khaki shorts and a crisp purple Izod. His walk was inappropriately diva-licious considering his reception was about as warm as mine. He had an unobstructed walk to the hangar. Apparently, nobody wanted to take his picture either. He was pulling four piled-up pieces of neon-yellow luggage, and he had a long brown cigarette dangling casually from his lower lip. There was a big bulge in his pants pocket that I assumed was a cell phone from 1999. At least, I hoped that’s what it was. He did look sort of familiar, but I couldn’t place the face. I thought he must have been one of those chameleon-type actors who are so respected because they’re not so easy on the eyes.
    “Hi!” I said cheerfully, as he walked past me, staring at the pavement. He shot me a dirty look. Strike two. He looked like a younger, gayer version of my uncle Allen. Maybe he was a flight attendant.
    There was such a scene over at the curb that I was simply dying to know who was in the Prius. Whoever it was would have to pass me on the way in, so I just sat and waited. I reached into my pocket and took my phone out to jot down notes before I transferred everything on to my laptop. Maybe I could capture some of my first impressions before I forgot how it felt. I had decided that if I made the Seventeen diary truly spectacular, the magazine would feel compelled to run it, even after they found out that Jon Manning was not in fact dead but practicing sun salutations with Betty Crocker in Lake Oswego, Oregon.
    My thumbs were paralyzed. What could I say? It was too much to absorb. I pretended I was typing anyway. I instinctively understood that gawking like a fan wasn’t a good move. Appearing to look busy and uninterested was the way to go. I thought of Heidi Montag and that stupid, camera-ready smile she always had on. Nobody likes her. People definitely like you better if you’re not available.
    And, by the way, the fact that I knew so much about celebrities did not, in fact, mean that I was starstruck. I just enjoyed seeing a little cellulite on America’s unofficial royalty. Who didn’t? I mean, if you think about it, celebrities are the most overrated, self-absorbed, indulged, and superficial group of people on the planet. Sure, they’re living the fabulous life, but at what cost to their soul? I didn’t envy them, I pitied them.
    And then I heard the voice rise from the crowd. That magic, unmistakable voice. “Oh my god ,” I said out loud—even though I meant to say it in my head only. I dropped my phone. An evil, guttural snicker erupted behind me. I whipped around. It was the Izod boy, staring down at my empty lap, smoking a cigarette and drinking a cup of coffee. I didn’t know how long he’d been standing there. I was sure he had gone inside. Why would anyone voluntarily stand in this heat drinking hot coffee?
    “Who are you?” he asked, in the most condescending tone I’d ever heard from anyone under the age of twenty. He exhaled, and a hateful, Joker-like grin crossed his pointy little face. He looked about twelve.
    “I’m a writer…for Seventeen ,” I said, with as much confidence as I could fake. “Francesca Manning.”
    “Is that so?” he smirked, giving me the once over. “How old are you?”
    “Sixteen.”
    “And you’re a staff writer at Seventeen ?” he asked.
    “Well, I won an essay contest, and the prize was—”
    “Ahh,” he said, interrupting me mid-sentence. “That’s sweet.” It seemed he had the information he came for, and he looked satisfied that he could now place me firmly below him on the feeding chain.
    “Chaz Richards,” he said, introducing himself and giving me a sidelong appraisal as he waited for the impact of his name to sink in. He took a deep drag on his cigarillo.
    “Who?” I asked, knowing full well who he was, but if he thought I was giving him that