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?!”
Then she went back inside and she didn’t come back out for the rest of the afternoon. She never came back out to swim.
Vivika kept on reading her Vogue like nothing had happened, but I couldn’t get my mind around it.
Viv’s mom didn’t swim that beautiful, sunny Saturday afternoon because her husband thought her legs looked too fat to cross their lawn unveiled.
Is it any wonder Viv is always trying to slim down? (Her mother is thinner than she is.)
“I’m going to say what I always say—” I warn Vivika.
“Don’t say it.”
“You’re beautiful the way you are.”
“You said it.” She sighs. One of her open suitcases is sticking out from under a rack of clothes and she nudges it with her foot.
“Because it’s true.”
In the suitcase, I catch a glimpse of a bag of Oreos. I dart my eyes away just as Viv leans over to shut the suitcase with her hand.
So she brought Oreos. No big deal.
A woman with a voice like a kindergarten teacher comes over the PA and welcomes us all aboard. She explains that she’s our cruise director and talks about the welcome dinner at seven sharp in the Aurora Restaurant (I guess that’s the main dining hall) and that there is a mandatory muster drill at four.
“A muster drill?” I ask Viv.
“They show us how to use lifeboats and stuff,” Viv tells me.
“Oh,” I say. “That’s cool.”
She shrugs. “We had to do it on the Regent cruise I took last year. It’s boring, but it’s over fast. And we can scope for hotties. Sabbi Ribiero brought her whole entourage!”
I should probably mention my brush with famousness, but, eh. Viv will get so into it and I’ll have to recount every breath I spent in the presence of her Brazilianess.
Viv digs through a folio of papers from the concierge that was set on top of the desk.
“I signed us up for all the best excursions!” she says. “Snorkeling in Roatan, which has real pirate ships, and we can take dune buggies out in Belize!”
“I will drive!” I tell her. “You drive like brakes don’t exist.”
“What is this word brakes?” she says.
I cross to read over her shoulder.
She’s looking at a little shipboard guide with information about the cruise. It’s printed on heavy stock.
She traces a map of our route with her finger.
“Tomorrow is Key West, then we hit Cozumel, Belize, then Roatan, which is this tiny island off Honduras!”
“Viv,” I say. “I’m not going to thank you like a million times and drive you crazy, but really … thanks for bringing me.”
“Please. Shut up,” she says. And she hugs me.
There’s a kind of a lurch underfoot.
“What was that?” I ask.
“The ship’s finally moving!” Viv exclaims. She grabs me by the arms. “It’s happening! We’re on our way!”
I’m distracted by the engine’s rumbling and the slight, slight sensation I feel—the floor is moving.
Hmmm. Not so sure I love that feeling.
“Hey, my stomach feels … like … it doesn’t like the floor moving,” I say.
Viv turns to me, a gleam in her eye.
“Come on,” she says. “The air up top will take that feeling away.”
She puts her arm through mine.
Oh God, the room lists gently to the side. My head feels weird.
“Let’s go mingle!” Viv says.
TOM
DAY ONE
AFTER THE INTERVIEW, TAMARA escorts Almstead and Dr. Zhang toward the entrance to the elevator.
The ship’s moving now and I was right—the breeze is cooling it down.
We’re up on the top deck, which runs around the pool deck, sort of like a track. There’s a small swimming pool below, as well as tables and chairs set in the shade, and a long, fancy appetizer buffet.
My stomach growls.
“I’m getting hungry,” I say to Cubby, stretching.
“Me, too,” Cubby says.
My trainer, Derek, says on days like this I need to eat every four hours to keep my metabolism amped. Stoke the fire, he tells me.
Protein and greens, ideally. I can see some shrimp cocktails in crystal dishes set into a bed of ice near an ice sculpture of a giant S. It takes me a second to realize the S is for Solu. Duh.
Tamara hustles back.
“Okay, we need more teens, a few more celebs, and then we’re done for the afternoon. Having fun?”
I hate that question.
The answer is no. I’m working.
Work doesn’t have to be fun. It’s work. That’s the idea.
“Yeah,” I lie. “Sure.”
Tamara has wrangled three giggling girls in bikinis. They’d better watch it with the Solu—I don’t see where they’re going to lose any weight from.
I ask them some questions and they laugh and answer. I flirt with them and they respond. It’s easy when I’m on camera—I know my role.
But off camera … I don’t know what to talk about with girls.
I don’t know where to look. It’s like they’re always gazing into my eyes, trying to tell me something, and it just makes me want to leave and go work out.
Especially after what happened with Bonnie. It was … not good.
I should have known what was coming. What an idiot.
I liked her, in the public eye.
I pursued her, in the public eye.
The whole thing was under some kind of publicity dome—every night out recorded and tweeted about and blah blah blah.
So, of course, the breakup would be public. Of course, she’d leak my voice mails to TMZ.
But the thing is that I thought it was real.
I really liked her so I thought she really liked me. The way we’d talk about being sick of the cameras and wanting privacy. It all seemed real to me.
I kept telling my publicist,
“Molly, please. Get the paparazzi off our trail. Bonnie and I want to be alone.” And she promised—she swore to me that she’d stopped leaking any of our itinerary to them. Yet there they were. Photographers shouting our names anywhere we tried to go. Hiking in Laurel Canyon. Getting tacos down in Manhattan Beach. At La Parilla in Silver Lake.
So, duh—obviously Bonnie lied to me. Bonnie hadn’t told her people to let up on us. Her publicist, Shane, was feeding them everything.
Anyway, ancient history.
A girl who leaks your voice mails is an a-hole. Plain and simple.
She can send me apologetic texts all she wants. She can blame it on Shane. On being drunk. Whatever.
She’s cut off.
* * *
“Where are you, Tom?” Tamara asks. “You’re fading.”
“Sorry, what?” I say. “I’m just a little hungry.”
“Have you met Sabbi yet?” Tamara asks.
I shake my head.
“I got an interesting text from Rich. Apparently her people are wondering if you two might want to hang out on the cruise.”
I eye Tamara.
“Are you kidding?”
“Not in any way.”
I exhale and turn out to sea.
“Hang out” is code for a planned romance—something that our publicists can use to push us onto the front pages of People and all the rags.
“Rich Weller thinks Almstead would be very happy about it,” Tamara says. “And God knows your image would benefit. Not sure why Sabbi’s interested, frankly. Unless, gasp, she actually thinks you’re an intriguing person she’d like to get to know.”
“No. Absolutely not,” I say. “I can’t believe you’re even asking me.”
“Most guys your age would leap at the chance to be Sabbi Ribiero’s boyfriend, even if it’s only pretend.”
“Yeah, well, most guys didn’t just have their heart stomped on by a teen pop princess.”
“Bonnie Loo was a skank.”
“It’s Bonnie Lee,” I say.
“You have to move on. She certainly has.”
Bonnie’s dating the lead singer of the band Creeping Phlox. Stupid name for a band. Creeping Phlox is a flower used for ground cover. I looked it up.
“I really need to eat,” I tell her.
“Okay, let’s get those two and then we’re done,” Tamara says. She’s pointing to two curvy girls standing right at the tip of the bow. One of them’s wearing combat boots.
That’s a good sign. Maybe she’ll give me something besides “Oh my God, I’m so excited to be here! This cruise is awesome!”
We head over. Cubby elbows me.
“I’ll give you ten bucks you get one to say, ‘I’m the king of the world!’” he says.
I laugh.
Cubby brings the camera up to his eye and rolls tape.
“Hi,” I say to the girls. “Excuse me, how are you two finding the Titanic so far?” I pimp. Can’t give a better setup than that …
One of them turns and flashes me a broad grin.
“Oh my God!” she says. She elbows her friend in the ribs. “This cruise is so amazing! I can’t believe we’re getting to meet you!”
Then the other girl turns.
She’s got strawberry-blond hair that’s coming out of some kind of braid up-do. She’s pretty. Not too skinny at all. Her face is covered in freckles and her skin …
Her skin is green.
“How do you like the view?” I ask.
Then blondie hurls.
She pukes up her lunch all over the deck and all over my feet.
Tamara says, “Cut.”
LAUREL
DAY ONE
IF ONLY I COULD JUMP OFF the boat and become a mermaid and swim out into the sea.
Or sprout gossamer wings? Take to the air like a vomity fairy? Or keel over and die?
Anything to not have to look up from the puke-covered, really-nice leather loafers of my childhood TV crush into the incredulous, really-gorgeous hazel eyes of my childhood TV crush.
But there’s no magic I can call to power and so I just have to look up.
Baby Tom-Tom is horrified.
His cameraman has dropped the camera down to his side.
“Wow! This is—I’m so—God, Laurel—” Viv is mortified (for me or by me?).
“Seasick,” I say to Tom, as way of apology.
“Yep, I’d say so,” he answers.
And now the smell is hitting the people around us and, of course, they’re turning to stare.
I grab Viv and stagger toward the door to go inside.
So much for mingling.
* * *
A waiter came up and gave me a linen napkin to dab my puke-face with, and he gently suggested I visit the medical center, which was a very good idea. So, after reassuring Viv, like, a million times that I would be okay and I could find my way to the medical center alone, I set off alone. (She was so excited to mingle.)
Now I am lost.
I took the elevator (terrible choice—lurch much?) and now I’m on Deck 4, where the waiter told me I’d find the medical center, but I don’t see it. Just a bunch of doors that look like I’m not supposed to go through them and then some big empty rooms with stuff stored in them like stanchions and deck chairs.
A leggy, tan girl comes out from a hallway door, holding some costumes covered in plastic dry-cleaners bags.
She holds the door open for me, looking a bit irritated.
“Thanks,” I say softly.
I should ask her directions, but she seems so crabby.
But now the whole look of the hallways has changed. The carpeting is plain and the doors aren’t wood—they’re gray painted metal.
Ugh, the boat keeps doing this slow roll.
Obviously I’m in the wrong place.
But, oh, I need to rest. Just for a second. I lean against the wall.
Don’t want to puke again.
“You all right there?” a really kind-looking guy asks me. He’s fixing a name tag onto a red vest. He’s slender, has dark skin, doesn’t look much older than me. I think he’s Indian.
“Is this your first cruise?”
I nod, miserable.
“Seasick?”
I nod again.
“You must be a performer,” he says.
(Okay, how on earth can he tell I play the guitar just by the look of me?! Do they hire psychics on this ship?)
“I’m Jaideep. I’m a waiter. You must be the new singer.”
“No,” I say. “No.”
I flush.
“I’m a passenger.”
“Oh!” he’s embarrassed. “Excuse me, miss. It’s just—”
“I know, the way I’m dressed. I look like a bum.”
“No! No. You—you are in the staff quarters. I assumed—”
The ship tilts slightly and my stomach rolls. I groan.
“Let’s get you back where you belong,” he says. “You’re really not allowed down here.”
“I was looking for the medical center,” I mumble.
“They need to put a bigger sign on it! Come on, I’ll help you there.”
He bends down and slides an arm under my shoulder, helping me to stand.
The voice of that nice lady comes over the PA. In a singsong voice she announces, “Attention, crew members, Code Ingrid in suite 826. Code Ingrid, suite 826.”
“Who’s Code Ingrid?” I ask.
Jaideep laughs.
“It means that someone in suite 826 is in need of medical attention,” he tells me. “Ingrid is for ‘injured,’ that is how I remember it. There are many codes, for different situations.”
And as he escorts me to the medical center (I am on the totally wrong end of the ship), he distracts me by listing the codes.
Code Ernie—environmental hazard (something’s gone over the side of the boat).
Code Frieda—fire.
Code Sherman—security breach (!).
Code Rosa—bomb threat (!!). r />
Code Oscar—man overboard (!!!)
Code Matthew—fatality (um,!!!!!!!).
“God,” I say. “Do you get a lot of bomb threats and deaths and people falling overboard?!”
“No!” he laughs. “Never! But we are prepared. We run drills.”
“Well, thank you for being prepared,” I say.
“Here you are,” he tells me, depositing me at the medical center doors.
“Thanks,” I say. “I really mean it.”
“Give it a day or so. You will soon be a regular sailor,” he tells me.
I’m in there just long enough for them to press some Dramamine into my hand when that super-peppy lady comes back on the PA and tells us all it’s time for the muster drill.
TOM
DAY ONE
SO I SAW SABBI AT THE MUSTER DRILL.
We all had to file into the Celestial Lounge—which is a big theater where they do the shows at night, and sit around while safety procedures were explained to us by the cruise director, a woman named Lorna somebody.
She kept on saying things like “Now, I’m not used to giving these directions to big celebrities like Luka Harris and Sabbi Ribiero, but just bear with me!”
Sabbi was seated at the back of the room and people kept turning to check her out when the cruise director mentioned her name. I felt like Sabbi was looking at me, waiting for me to turn around and nod or something.
I didn’t. I just stared ahead at Lorna what’s-her-name.
I guess I hadn’t made up my mind yet about what to do about the “discreet” offer made to my people by Sabbi’s people.
We learned about the “abandon ship” signal—one long blast, followed by seven short ones. We also heard about the life raft capabilities—some of them have motors and some of them don’t; we were called in groups and led single file down through the boat to Deck 6.
They had us put a hand on the person in front of us and make a human chain.
Two heavily made-up cougars were joking around, elbowing each other out of the way so they could be in front of me.