Diamonds are a Teen's Best Friend

  “If your dad sees you, he will kill me.” Holly shakes her head. “You look about twenty-one.”

  “Really?!” I check out my reflection again. I guess I do look a lot older. It’s the make-up. And the . . . um . . . the “chicken fillets”, as Holly calls them. “You think the chicken fillets look real?”

  Our two sets of eyes both move down to my chest, where, underneath my strapless boned gown, two pieces of skin-colored plastic are hiding. Kind of like implants, but on the outside. Holly calls them her “secret weapons”—she doesn’t believe in the kind of implants that go on the inside.

  “Let’s put it this way,” she shrugs, “do you think mine are real?”

  Now our two sets of eyes move to Holly’s chest.

  “But yours are!” I say. “They must be, because I’m using the secret weapons tonight.”

  “Think again, babe. I’ve got a pair and a spare.” Holly smiles and then leans forward to reapply her lipstick. “What if I lost one in the pool? I always carry a pair and a spare.”

  “In the pool? More likely in the racing car driver’s spa.” I give Holly a look. Between practice sessions this afternoon, she’d ducked off to have a spa with the racing driver. A private spa. (He has the flashiest and most expensive suite on the ship.)

  Holly looks over at me with one raised eyebrow. “I keep telling you. It was just a spa. Nothing else. Antonio is a perfect gentleman . . .” She pauses and looks thoughtful for a moment. “Well, most of the time.”

  Hmmm. I decide that maybe this is the right time to bring up the Nessa’s Lessons in Love thing. With all her badminton and spa bookings, I haven’t had a chance yet. Frankly, I’d been a little freaked out by watching Holly make what could only be called a fool of herself at badminton. “Um, Holly?”

  “Mmmhmmm?” she replies as she fluffs her hair.

  “Nessa’s Lessons in Love. If they’re not working out for you . . .”

  Holly waves a hand. “Oh, they’re just a bit of fun. And I’m having fun. I’m lucky you reminded me that’s what I should be doing.”

  “Well, that’s good, but maybe if you toned it down a bit.” I startle as the phrase comes out of my mouth. Tone it down a bit? Who am I? My dad?

  “Maybe.” Holly keeps fluffing.

  “I mean, a bit of flirting is good, but you don’t want to look silly or anything.”

  “Of course not.” Fluff, fluff, fluff.

  “You seem to be spending a lot of time with Antonio. Maybe finding PM is going to be easier than we thought?” And maybe, if Holly finds herself a nice boyfriend, she won’t need so much badminton coaching, or so many spas.

  Holly sighs. “I hope that’s true, but I have to remember that, this time around, I’m going to move a bit more slowly. No more rushing into engagements for me. I’ve learned my lesson. The hard way.”

  “But what if Antonio really is PM?”

  Holly turns her whole body toward me. “But if he really is PM,” she says, lisping, her mannerisms, her whole being changing before me, “he really will wait for me.”

  My eyes practically pop out of their sockets, as I instantly forget all about my Nessa’s Lessons in Love nagging. “How do you do that?” It’s like Holly is Marilyn Monroe. We may both be dressed exactly like her—pink, blond, and diamonds—but it’s almost as if Holly’s channeling the woman when she drops into character like that.

  She laughs. “Years of practice. I used to make my family laugh themselves sick when I was little. I’d do impersonations of anyone and everyone they asked me to. Famous people, people we knew, whoever. They’d even get the neighbors over to watch sometimes, like I was a circus act. Anyway, enough about that. Are you ready?”

  We both take a final look at ourselves in the mirror.

  “I think so,” I say. But really, I’m lying. I’ve never been less ready for anything in my life.

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” I say, clinging on to the black curtain in front of me for support. I take another peek out at the audience. There must be a few hundred people out there at least. “No, I really am going to be sick.” I look around for a bucket (though what a bucket would be doing back here, I have no idea). Behind us, some guy with the most disgusting ventriloquist’s dummy you’ve ever seen sniggers at me.

  Holly throws him a look. “That’s just wrong,” she says, eyeing off the doll that he’s got his hand stuck up.

  “Hey!” he pipes up now. “It’s a dummy.”

  She turns back to me, pats my back, and shakes her head. “What is it with those dummies? Why can’t they ever make a nice-looking one? I mean, how could you sleep at night, knowing that thing was in your house?”

  My thoughts exactly.

  “Hey, he can hear you, you know.” The guy looks first at Holly, then at the dummy, who looks back at him.

  I shudder.

  Holly just shakes her head. “Forget about them. Are you really going to be sick?” She keeps patting my back rhythmically.

  I pause. Will the flow back down my throat. Take a deep breath. “I think I’m going to be okay.”

  “Good for you. Just don’t think about it too hard. Just think about it as another rehearsal. It’s when you think too hard that you lose it.”

  I roll my eyes. “Like you’d know! You’re a natural!”

  Holly snorts. “Is that what you think? I was petrified of performing for the longest time. Especially in plays. I used to throw up three or four times before I went on every night. Night after night. It can’t have been good for me.”

  “Really?”

  She gives me a look. “Yes, really. I’m petrified now, in fact.”

  I forget about my own fear entirely when I hear this. “Really? Of performing in some silly talent quest?”

  Holly shakes her head. “No. I’m scared that your dad’s going to catch us. He’ll never speak to me again if he sees you looking like this.”

  Now it’s me who shakes my head. “Don’t worry about it. He’s working tonight.”

  “I certainly hope so. For my sake. No, actually, for both our sakes.”

  I forget how queasy I’m feeling and snort. “Can you see my dad looking for a good time and heading to the talent quest? I don’t think so. He’d be more likely to be alphabetizing the magazines in the gift shop, for easy referencing.”

  Holly frowns now. “You’re too hard on your dad, Nessa. You don’t realize what a complete and utter sweetie he is.” But then she can’t help but giggle. “I can just imagine him doing that—alphabetizing the magazines.”

  “Believe me, I don’t have to imagine. I’ve seen him doing it.”

  “Really?” Beside me, her eyes widen, Marilyn Monroe style.

  “Well, no. But I could see he wanted to.”

  Holly giggles again.

  “Stop it!” I say. “You’re freaking me out. It’s like Marilyn’s really here.”

  “Sorry.” Holly stops giggling.

  “Marilyns?” A guy sticks his head back through the curtain and looks at us.

  “Yes?” we say, in unison.

  “You’re on.”

  The great thing about being on stage is that the lights are so bright you can’t actually see much beyond the first few rows of people. This, however, is scary enough for me—I haven’t even performed in front of a number like the thirty people or so who fill up those rows, let alone a few hundred. Surprisingly, though, things go quite well. Like Holly told me to, I pretend we’re rehearsing again. That it’s just me and Holly in her suite, each wearing a ton of make-up, a very tight pink dress, a scratchy wig, and baking under a spotlight. Hmmm, sure. I think of Marilyn singing “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend” in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, and like Holly, I try to be her. Pink-outfitted, diamond-encrusted, man-hunting Lorelei.

  Step, kick, step, kick . . . twirl and step and step . . . (quick, surreptitious check that bracelet and necklace are still attached) . . . arms out, arms in, twirl again . . .

  By the time we’re halfway
through our little number, I’m even starting to enjoy myself a bit, and Holly gives me a big wink just as there’s a flash from the audience. I look down to see the ship’s photographer. Hey! It’s Ted! Just like he’d promised, the photos of Holly and me had appeared under my cabin door the very same evening that I’d spoken to him. And not just one or two copies—ten copies! And a note, saying that if I wanted any more photos taken of Holly and me, just to let him know where and when we’d be doing things. Wasn’t that nice of him? I flash him an extra big smile as Holly and I head into our finale.

  Step, kick, step, kick . . . twirl and step and step . . . arms out, arms in, twirl again . . .

  I really get into the spirit of the thing with our last sequence.

  Twirl, kick, step, kick . . . “Diamonds!” I belt out. “Diamonds! Diamonds are a . . .” twirl, kick, step, kick. Wow. This is easier than I thought. This is fun. Maybe I should consider a career on the stage? Twirl, kick, step, kick . . .

  Oh. Cancel that. Maybe I won’t.

  Because, oh.

  Oh no.

  No.

  Dad alert. Dad alert.

  And I must freeze, because I think Holly notices, and she looks over to see him only a fraction of a second after I do. He’s hanging around the aisle in one of the front rows, searching for a seat. Someone hands him a program and he holds it up. At first quite close to his face and then a long way away. His glasses, I think to myself, trying to keep my steps in time with Holly’s while, at the same time, Ted’s camera flashes away, lighting us up even further. Making us even more obvious than two pink-outfitted, bewigged, diamond-encrusted girls can be. Hello! it says. Look at the girls on the stage! Pay attention to them! Eyes up here!

  But me, my eyes stay on my father. What is he doing here? He starts along the row, goes to sit down, finds a spot, and then does the in/out/in of the program thing again. There’s a word or two with the woman sitting next to him, who points out a line on the program and then he . . . oh, no . . . glances up.

  Oh, no.

  No.

  He squints first at me, then at Holly, then looks back down again and does the in/out/in of the program one more time. And then, just when I think my time has run out, without a backward glance he gets up and starts to leave.

  What? Hello? Dad! Over here! Daughter to be grounded! Maybe even for years!

  I watch him come toward me, passing through the people in his row who obligingly lift their knees up (again) so he can pass. He’s walking, walking, walking. Um, and the totally weird thing is—I don’t think he’s noticed I’m on stage at all.

  “Diamonds!” I keep singing, trying not to rush through the song, even though my voice now sounds strangely wooden. Step, kick, twirl . . . There’s another flash of Ted’s camera and I decide just to go for it. To go for it and get off stage as fast as possible. I mean, what’s going to happen is that my dad’s going to look up right now. He’s going to look up right now and see me, and reach up and drag me off the stage.

  But he doesn’t. He keeps moving along the row. Oh. Well, okay then. May as well go out with a bang.

  And I do.

  “Are a girl’s best . . .” Da, da-da, da, da, da-da, da, da-da, daaaaa, the music fills the room and I fling my arms out, ready for the final pose.

  Which is when it happens.

  My dress pulls down as my arms go up and one of the chicken fillets goes flying through the air and lands . . . thwack . . . on my dad’s balding head as he passes right in front of me on the stage.

  “. . . best friend.” I squeak my last line as Dad’s eyes meet mine with another squint. Beside me, Holly is silent, her mouth in a small O.

  There really is silence then. The music cuts out and, for a second, Holly and I just stand there on stage. Paralyzed in our final pose.

  And I might have stayed there forever if Holly hadn’t pulled herself together, reached over, grabbed me, hoisted me up, and dragged me off the stage. It isn’t until we’re peeking out from behind the curtain that the entire audience bursts out laughing.

  Clinging on to the black curtain again, I groan. I groan long and loud. “I just want to die. I want to die right now. Please. It’s not fair to keep me alive. It’s not kind.”

  Holly looks over at me, still silent, her eyes wide, like before, but now not Marilyn-like. Instead they’re more “I can’t believe what just happened.”

  “Well . . .” she starts, but then pauses. “I guess I’m lucky I did bring a pair and a spare. I’ll be needing that spare,” she continues. And then she loses it.

  But me, I’m not ready to laugh about anything.

  The audience was ready years ago, however. Out in the ballroom, they keep laughing. And laughing. And laughing.

  Really. I wouldn’t complain if I dropped dead now. I really wouldn’t.

  “Oh, Nessa.” Holly pats my arm. “Lighten up, sweetheart. You know something?”

  “What?” I look over at her.

  “Worse things have happened at sea.” She screeches again.

  I can’t help but force back a chuckle when she says this. It’s one of my dad’s favorite sayings.

  “At sea! At sea!” Holly’s practically wetting herself she’s laughing so hard now. I hope she brought other spares as well—like spare underwear.

  I shake my head, but as I watch her, I just can’t help myself. My little chuckle turns into a big chuckle, and then I start laughing. First normally, then harder and harder as I think about that chicken fillet flying through the air. And I may as well have a good laugh. When my dad finds me I probably won’t just be grounded, I may never be allowed to laugh again.

  Anyway, we laugh for ages. Until we almost do wet ourselves.

  “You chicks are weird,” the ventriloquist dummy guy says as he pushes past to go on stage. We stop laughing. Then . . .

  “Chicks! Chicks! Chicken fillet!” Holly says, and we lose it all over again.

  It takes us less than a minute of his act (that ugly dummy would sober anyone up) to pull ourselves together properly.

  “Oh, boy . . .” Holly takes a deep breath, then another one, and leans against the wall, wiping a tear or two away from her face. “I don’t think I’ve laughed that hard since . . . I don’t know when.” She leans forward, peeking out into the audience again. “Hey,” she says, turning back towards me for a second. “Your dad’s not there. He’s gone.”

  I take a look myself. She’s right. And then I groan again. “Probably because he’s making his way back here to roast my drumsticks.”

  “Ha!” Holly laughs again, but then she stops. “No, wait. I was wrong. He is still there. He’s waiting for the elevator.” She turns back towards me again, a big grin on her face. “But it doesn’t look like there’s anything wrong. Nessa, I don’t think he saw us!”

  “No. I’m sure he did. He looked right at me.” I move forward, jostling for space. It only takes me a second to spot him. He’s waiting for the elevator now, the program doing the in/out/in thing again. “Oh!” I grab Holly’s arms. “He really didn’t see us! The thing is, he doesn’t have his glasses, and he’s as blind as a bat without them! All he would have seen is two big pink blobs!”

  “But he was so close . . .” Holly peers out.

  “I know! I thought he saw me when he passed in front, but the lights must’ve been too bright. Holly! He didn’t see us!” I reach over and grab my pink partner in crime.

  And then, with this realization, Holly and I spend the next thirty seconds dancing a little jig around the backstage area, dodging the next lot of contestants. “Oh, but stop!” Holly cries out as we go to take one more turn around. “We’ve got to get out of here. And quick. If your dad sees you in pink tonight and remembers what the song was, you’re probably done for.”

  I nod. She’s right. We take off fast. And we don’t stop running until we get to Holly’s suite.

  ***

  It takes us all of two minutes to wrench our clothes off, pull the wigs and bobby pins off our hea
ds, take Holly’s jewelry off (still on my neck and wrist, thank goodness), wrestle some jeans and shirts on, and slap baseball caps over our flattened hair. We look like we’ve spent the evening watching movies in Holly’s suite. Just like I’d told my dad I would be doing.

  We’re tissuing the last of the make-up off when there’s a knock on the door. Still hyped up and jittery, the first thing we both do is panic. “Who could it be?!” I grab Holly’s arm and our eyes meet in the bathroom mirror.

  “I don’t know! I don’t know!” She grabs mine back.

  “Should we answer it?”

  Holly opens her mouth to answer, when a voice calls out. “Delivery, Ms. Isles.”

  Our bodies relax. A delivery? Well, phew.

  Shaking her head, Holly goes over to open the door while I wait in the lounge room. “Yes? Oh! No, I’ll take them . . .”

  She comes back inside carrying two bunches of flowers. One absolutely gigantic bunch and a smaller one, which is still huge. They’re both stuffed full of pink flowers. All kinds of pink—shocking pink, pastel pink, candy pink, and so on. On the way back over, she reads the attached card out loud: “For the most exquisite pink petals . . . Love always, Antonio.” She brings the larger bunch up to her face to smell them. “Oh, aren’t they gorgeous, Nessa?”

  I nod. “They’re beautiful. I can’t believe he sent me flowers as well. And I can’t believe how quickly they arrived.”

  Holly’s eyes widen. “Those Italians, they don’t mess around, do they?”

  This time, I shake my head. “If this is anything to go by, we should have you engaged in the next half-hour, married tomorrow morning, and your first child graduating from college by the end of the cruise.”

  Holly laughs and comes over to give me the smaller bunch of flowers. “For a moment there I was sure it was going to be your dad.”

  “You and me both.”

  Her eyes move toward the phone on the bench beside us. “You know what? You should call the cabin and see if he’s there. At least it’ll put your mind at rest.”

  “You think?”

  Holly nods and passes me the phone. “Here,” she says. “I’ll take the flowers and put them in some water.”