How I Stole Johnny Depp's Alien Girlfriend (6 page)

“W
here did you find her, Frog?” Malou comes out of the kitchen with a can of Mom's beluga caviar and a spoon. So much excitement has sparked her appetite.

“She's Dad's patient. Was.” The way I mumble, I wonder if any-one can hear me.

“No way!” Malou's laughing. She finds us very amusing—Zelda, in her Paco Rabanne swimsuit, standing in the middle of the living room, and me beside her, blushing with all my might. “Your face was all over TV this morning,” she tells Zelda. “Everyone's looking for you. And here you are with Frog, playing Spacegirl and the Little Boy.” She puts a large spoonful of caviar in her mouth and frowns. “Why the Spacegirl act? Is it like a political thing? Or is it just to become famous? It's sort of brilliant, in a very dumb way.”

She laughs again and sits down on the sofa. “Do you do any special tricks? Like some cool space kung fu?”

Malou demonstrates what she means by thrashing her arms around and splattering caviar all over the perfectly white sofa. I run to the kitchen to get a dishcloth. When I'm back, ready to
save the sofa, Zelda isn't demonstrating any space kung fu. She's standing over Malou, staring into her eyes, her hand pressing hard on Malou's shoulder. “I will hurt you. Talk!”

“Why do you want to meet him?”

“He's my chosen one. He belongs with me.”

I wish Zelda would make up something else.

“Johnny Depp and you, huh?” Malou drops the spoon in the caviar and the caviar pot on the coffee table. She looks up at Zelda and pushes her hand off her shoulder. “I'm sorry, darling, I don't think you're his type.”

“GET HER OFF ME!”

It's that Vahalalian short temper again. Zelda's sitting on top of Malou on the floor, but instead of singing her a cute intergalactic lullaby, she's holding her down by the throat.

I don't blame her. Malou can really get on your nerves.

“Tell. Me. Where. To. Find. Him!” Zelda says, banging Malou's head on the carpet:
Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

“Da. Vid. Help. Me!”

Forget about Zelda forbidding me to ever touch her again. I grab her by the shoulders and pull as hard as I can. “Zelda! Stop! She's practically my sister!”

She stops strangling Malou to push me away. “Don't interfere, Pudin. This is standard Vahalalian interrogation protocol.”

“THIS GIRL IS NUTS!” Malou screams, once she can breathe again. “Tell her to get off me!”

Malou searches for something in the pocket of the top layer of her many skirts. A knife? A gun? A picture of an ex-boyfriend?

Pepper spray! She points it at Zelda's face. “Slap me one more time, and I'll—”

Zelda slaps her hard across the face. Which is another lesson
learned: Never challenge a Vahalalian.

Malou closes her eyes and triggers the spray. Nothing happens. It's empty.

“Shit! Asshole!” Malou shakes it, trying to squeeze out a last drop. “The guy I stole it from said it was full. You can't trust anyone!”

Zelda snatches the spray and throws it to me. She grabs Malou's hands. “I will crush every single bone in these hands unless you tell me where to find my chosen one.”

“You can torture me all you want, bikini girl. I will never give the address, phone number, or any embarrassing physical details of any of my celebrity friends. Not for all the money in the world.”

“What about nine hundred fifty-two euros?” I ask, squatting beside her.

She turns to me. “What did you just say, Tadpole?”

“It's all my savings—nine hundred fifty-two euros. All yours if you tell us where to find him.”

“Deal!”

“What am I buying exactly?” I ask.

We're sitting in my bedroom, negotiating around bottles of diet ginger ale.

“For this kind of money, I'll deliver him to you. Packed, cleaned, and ready to go. You can do whatever you want with him.” She's about to drink some ginger ale. She stops, looking at me sideways again, like she's having second thoughts. “By the way, what are you going to do with him? You're not going to
harm
him, are you?”

“No, nobody's going to get hurt. Right?”

Zelda shrugs, like,
I don't know yet.
“I don't trust her, dwarf.”

“Dwarf?” Malou laughs her head off. “And you give me shit for calling you Frog.”

Sigh.

“Do we have a deal, then?” I ask.

“Nope. No money, no deal.”

“It's in the bank, in my savings account.” I was saving it to buy the ultracool Vespa scooter that was supposed to make me popular. “I can't get it before Monday.”

“So Monday is the day you get to meet Johnny.”

“I cannot wait that long,” Zelda says, pushing her ginger ale bottle out of the way. “I will torture her instead.”

“All right, all right, all right!
Chill out
!” Malou hides her hands behind her back to avoid additional torturing. “I trust you, Tadpole. I give you Johnny over the weekend. You give me the money on Monday. Jesus! Someone give this girl a Xanax.”

Malou has a car. It must have been nice looking not so long ago, sporty and all that. Expensive. Red. Now it's smashed up like some-one chewed it with a mouthful of mud and spat it out in this parking place on a street right behind the Pantheon.

“My ex-boyfriend gave me this piece of trash. It used to be his wife's car. He's divorcing her now. They have issues.”

I'll say.

“Hop in the backseat, Tadpole.”

I knew she would say that. It's a small coupe with no real backseat.

The inside of the car reminds me of the inside of her apartment. She pushes down magazines, fast-food trash, empty plastic bottles, old dirty clothes, and a couple pairs of shoes to make room for Zelda in the passenger seat.

Surprisingly, the car stinks of cigarettes.

“You're smoking now?”

She used to say, “If smoking is so cool, how come Dad's doing it?”

“My ex-boyfriend's wife did. I could never get rid of the stench.”

Malou's speeding down the riverbank highway. She's driving us to a bar near the Champs-Élysées. According to Malou, Johnny Depp owns the place. It's not like he's going to be there mixing drinks, but she knows a waiter who knows someone who knows everyone.

“I love the black-coat-and-swimsuit fashion statement,” Malou says, glancing at Zelda. “And the broken vase on your arm—very fashion forward. Did you know it's a Starck? It's worth gazillions.”

I wish she was able to talk and watch the road at the same time.

“Imagine the Queen Bee's face if she saw Spacegirl in her
beloved
black coat. She'd probably die of a stroke before she could even start yelling at you. Think of it, the old bitch dying. You'd finally be free, Tadpole.”

“Don't talk about Mom like that.” I hate it when Malou or anyone talks about Mom. I know she's a dragon with a taste for blood, but she loves me. At least a few hours per week. Mostly on Sundays.

“He's funny, this little guy,” Malou tells Zelda. “She's such a bitch to him, but he never bites back. I don't know, Frog, you must be bottling it up.”

I wish 952 euros could also buy her silence.

“Do you have parents, Spacegirl?”

“They have been destroyed.”

No wonder she comes across as a bit cold.

“I don't mean in your space fantasy life. I mean in real life.”

“Her parents are dead, okay?” I say so Malou will stop asking questions, but that's not knowing Malou.

“Yeah? How did they die?”

“My mother was decapitated during the Unholy Wars. My father was disintegrated as he tried to escape the Tower of Tor. He was a violent and undisciplined specimen from the planet Bova.”

Ha. Now I know where she gets that temper from.

“I wish my father was disintegrated, too,” Malou says thought-fully. “Just imagine. Beamed.
Zouf.
Gone. A heap of ashes with his stupid Armani glasses on top. Wouldn't that be cool, huh? Tadpole? Can you pass me that bag of chips you're sitting on?”

Malou disappears into the bar, leaving me and Zelda to wait in the car.

“Zelda?” I pick up the bag of chips Malou was munching on.

“Yes?” She turns to me, and I offer her the chips. Another Earthling invention worth discovering.

“You know, it might not be a good idea to tell everyone who you are and where you come from.”

She takes a potato chip and smells it suspiciously. “They ask. I answer.”

“But if you tell people something else, they might just let you be and not try to lock you up in a nuthouse.”

“Something else?” She bites off a small corner of the chip and chews it slowly, like she's conducting one of her experiments in gustative biochemistry. She seems satisfied with the results and throws the rest of it into her mouth.

“Like, you don't need to tell everyone you're from another planet and that your father was turned into ashes with a laser beam.”

“But I
am
from another planet, and my father
was
disintegrated, though there was no laser beam. It was an antimatter field.”

Sigh.

“Make up a story. Be creative.”

“Creative?” She shrugs, reaching for more chips.

“Don't you have movies, fairy tales, books on Vahalal?”

“Yes, we have books, of course, but reading or producing what you Earthlings call fairy tales is a sin. We stick to science, war strategy, and Zookology.” She takes the whole bag from me. So far, she's very happy with Earthling junk food.

“So you never lie?”

“No.” Chips.

“Have you ever tried?”

“I told you. It is a sin.” Chips.

“Could you say…um…‘My name is Maria, and I come from…Sweden'?”

She stops chewing. “Why would I say that?”

“I don't know. Just give it a try, okay?”

“My-name-is-Maria-and-I-come-from-Sweden.”

No. It sounded totally wrong.

“Maybe you should put more heart into it. Like, if I asked you, How old are you,
Maria
?”

“I am three hundred twenty-five years old. That is, three hundred twenty-five on Vahalal, the planet I come from.” Chips.

“Forget it.”

“That was nine hundred fifty-two euros easily earned.”

Malou's all happy with herself as she gets back into the car. She winks at me. “Johnny will be at a party in Le Marais tonight. An art gallery opening or something. And now I'm invited by this totally reliable guy and I'll be bringing you, Spacegirl. I can say you're my new girlfriend or something.”

“Wait a minute. What about me?” I ask.

“What about you, Tadpole?”

“You're getting me in, too, aren't you?”

“Sorry. It's not a kids' party. No sponge cake. No clown. No balloons. And no
you.
”

Ha! “Zelda, tell her!”

“Tell me what?” Malou asks.

“That you
need
me!”

Malou gives her a look, like, “I'm sorry, Zelda. They're cute, but they're very naive at his age.”

“I don't believe this!” I say.

“Believe it. I'll drive you home. Zelda's coming to my place. I'll find her something less Lady Gaga to wear. She meets Johnny Depp tonight. We meet in front of your bank on Monday. Ciao, Tadpole.”

W
e're living in a cruel world. No, let me rephrase that. We're living in a cruel universe.

“This is not a good plan. I have a bad feeling about it,” I say, refusing to get out of the car.

“Out!” Malou shouts, throwing a handful of chips at me.

I extricate myself hesitantly, brushing away crumbs. We're double-parked right in front of my building. I have this feeling that Zelda could never survive without me. Or I could never survive without Zelda. I'm not sure which anymore. Whatever it is, I refuse to close the door on her, and I want to throw myself on my knees right here on the pavement, grab her, and beg her to take me with them.

“What about the Pudin thing? You said we were supposed to be like
this.
” I knot my hands together to show how tight we're supposed to be. “Aren't we, like, breaking one of those really important Vahalalian rules that can't be broken or else the universe melts?”

She nods like she gets my point and turns to Malou. “Are you absolutely sure I cannot take my Pudin along?”

“No, you cannot take your pudding to this kind of party. They won't let him in.” Malou leans over Zelda to take hold of the door handle. “It's your choice. Him”—she nods toward me—“or Johnny boy.”

Zelda shakes her head. “You've been a very good Pudin. I will never forget you, Earthling.”

Slam!
Malou closes the door, and the universe melts. “Love you, Tadpole!” she screams gaily through the open window. “See you on Monday. Have that cash ready for me. Thanks for flying Air Malou, and have a lovely day!” She laughs and drives away.

The car veers off at the crossroad. Zelda waves hesitantly. I want to wave back, but it's too late. She's gone for good. So fast.
Poof.
Vanished from my life.

I enter my building and decide to climb the stairs. I can't stand the idea of finding myself locked inside the elevator.

My heart is broken. David Gershwin, killed by a Vahalalian. Zelda. For Chrissake! I close my eyes. Even thinking her name is painful.

Who's going to sing to me now?

I reach our floor. I don't want to go in. Malou's right. It's so cold inside this apartment, and I don't mean the temperature. It's cold. And small. And empty. And I'm trapped in there for years and years to come, breathing their cigarette smoke and listening to them yelling at each other until their voices break.

I unlock the door and walk in.

“David.”

“Dad!”

He's standing in the corridor, a cup of coffee in his hand. Past him, I see Mom sitting on the sofa. She's uncharacteristically quiet.
Two of the uniformed policemen assigned to bring Zelda back to Cornouaille stand up silently. I don't like the way they're staring at me. Like they've all been waiting for me.

“Where is she, David?” Dad asks.

“I…”

“David? Did you…?” Mom's voice is shaking, like something really horrible has happened. “Did you really give this crazy girl my black coat?”

I hear them calling my name and running after me in the staircase.

I didn't wait. I didn't explain. I didn't say “Hello” or “I'm sorry for the coat,” or “Don't kill me, Mother.” I followed my instincts and ran, ran, ran, as if my life depended on it.

I rush out of the building and choose not to go through the park. I turn at the Théâtre de l'Odéon. I'm not much of a runner (it's a size thing), but hell, I know each corner of each street of this labyrinth known as the Quartier Latin. One right: rue de Condé. One left: rue Saint-Sulpice. One right: rue des Canettes. One left. And down the subway ramp at Saint-Sulpice station. I jump over the turnstile and catch a train right before the doors close.

Look at me! I'm a gangster, a hustler, the master of FREAKING lobsters. I AM THE MAN!

Phew.

Wait a second…

I'm totally cooked.

“
Velkome to zee Penthouse,
” Malou says, opening the door of her studio-apartment-revolting-little-cupboard-of-a-place. She's not even surprised to see me. “We thought you'd come here.”

“How did you know?”

“You should watch more TV, Frog. Considering.”

Her place is exactly the way I remembered, like a miniaturized dump site. She has no furniture. Everything lies directly on the floor—trash, clothes, magazines, the mattress Zelda's sitting on.

“Here. Come. Have a seat beside your girlfriend.” Malou pushes me down on the mattress. Zelda is hugging her knees tight against her chest, completely avoiding looking at me.

“Hello,” I say hesitantly.

“You're making my mission IMPOSSIBLE!” she barks back.

“I…” I shake my head in disbelief. I've done absolutely nothing wrong. I point toward the door. “For your information, I just escaped from the police. They were running after me. A whole bunch of them. And I was, like…” I show them with my hand:
zoom zing boom!
“I wish you could have seen me—I was WILD!”

“Wild's the word, huh, Zeldie?” Malou teases Zelda with a good push on her shoulder. “Let me show you something that might be of interest.” She sits between us and opens her laptop. “It's all over the place. It's like you're this total YouTube sensation.”

She clicks the YouTube video to full screen. “Ta-da.”

I recognize the Notre Dame bridge. It's a stupid cell phone video. The picture pans from the cathedral to…Zelda. Then to me. Zelda leans over me. And…OMIGOD!

She's FRENCH KISSING me! And there are already 199,995 views and 52 comments!

Damn you, YouTube!

“Aaaaah, love. I feel all gooey just sitting between you guys.” Malou laughs.

“This has nothing to do with the concept of love.” Zelda sinks deeper behind her knees. “Love is a sin. I was sampling his DNA. It was an experiment in gustative biochemistry.”

“Yeah, I'd say you were sampling him real bad, sister. Look at that tongue going! It's like you're trying to eat him.”

The kiss just won't stop. I didn't remember that she'd had her hands in my hair and held me so tight. It doesn't look like an “experiment in gustative biochemistry” at all. It looks like two lovers passionately making out over the Seine. And my heart is going to explode if someone doesn't stop that video soon.

It finally freezes at the point where Zelda's lips part from mine. My eyes are shut. I look lost. She stares at me, smiling, looking truly happy. How could I have missed that back there on the bridge?

The screen goes black.

“Replay?” Malou asks. She laughs again.

Malou's going out to borrow some props from a friend, like a wig and a new coat that could fit Zelda's long frame. “I'm sure you two need some privacy, anyway,” Malou says, winking at me again. “Feel free to
sample
more. This apartment is an emancipated zone.”

She turns back just before leaving her studio. “You know, that smooch on the bridge explains a lot. She was all cranky after we dumped you.”

We're alone again. We haven't moved an inch since we watched the video.

“I think we should abort tonight's outing and work on a new strategy,” I say hesitantly.

Silence.

Silence.

And then suddenly, Zelda periscopes up from behind her knees. “I wasn't cranky at all. This Malou creature is a very unreliable specimen. Travelers dispose of their Pudins frequently. You mean absolutely nothing to me.”

She periscopes back down while a ball of pain grows like an acid sponge in my stomach.

Silence.

Silence.

More freaking silence.

It's my turn to be cranky. “What's wrong with you, Zelda?!” I'm just one tiny notch short of yelling.

“Nothing is wrong with me.”

“Don't you ever feel
anything
?”

She looks at me blankly. “No, I do not.”

“I don't believe you.” Someone who doesn't feel anything doesn't smile the way she did after we kissed.

“Fine,” she confesses. “I feel rage sometimes—I want to beat up and kill things. But that is a sin, too.”

She means feeling rage is a sin. Beating up and killing things is absolutely fine.

“And besides rage?”

She frowns. “Besides rage, what?”

“Any other emotions?”

“Of course not. Emotions are poison.”

“When we kissed”—I point toward Malou's laptop—“you looked like…you were feeling a…like, serious bunch of emotions. You did!” And 199,995 YouTube viewers are my witnesses.

“No, I didn't! I…”

“You
what
?”

“I don't like this conversation at all,” she says coldly and—
SLAM!

The conversation is over anyway, since Malou bursts back into her studio and goes, “Omigod! We're totally in trouble.” She rushes to the only window to check the street below. “I'm being
followed
!”