Sweet (11 page)

“It's funny, because I imagine you will think I'm going to say it's the weight loss. But you know what, it's not that. Solu makes you feel good. It makes you feel special and alive.”

Sabbi gestures me close to her and leans in to the camera, tilting her body slightly so the camera gets more cleavage.

“I think there's something in the Solu itself, that makes you feel just a little, itsy, bitsy bit…”

She purses her lips, then releases them. She shivers.

“Excited.”

Tamara gives me two thumbs way, way up and I know Sabbi just earned her million dollars.

And my respect.

She is a pro.

“It's really true, what they say,” Sabbi continues, “‘Solu: Life's delicious.'”

And she worked their ad slogan in?! I'm blown away.

The thing is—I'm not into her.

I'm not.

I can't fake it.

I'm sitting here thinking about Laurel and that if she knew that I was contemplating this thing with Sabbi …

Well, it would hurt her feelings, for one.

And she'd probably think I was sleazy.

Because … because it
is
sleazy. It's fake to pretend you like someone so people will take your picture and help you stay famous.

Seems like something I should have figured out a good long while ago.

Sabbi looks at me as her wardrobe guy fishes the lav mic out of her bust.

“That was fun,” she says.

I'm going to have to figure out how to tell Sabbi.

I think a call to Derek is in high order.

I smile at Sabbi.

“That was great!” I tell her. “You're amazing.”

“Mmm, I was beginning to wonder when you'd figure that out!” she says with a wink.

I kiss her hand and get the hell out of there.

 

LAUREL

DAY THREE

LAST NIGHT A LITTLE CARD
was set on our (luxurious, fabulously plump) pillows along with the Solu chocolate. It was an appointment card informing us that our weigh-in time for today is 10:00 a.m.

Viv is super-excited about it.

I am not so excited. Of course, I haven't lost any weight, so why would I be? But Viv reminds me that getting weighed every other day is actually mandatory—we signed an agreement when her dad bought the tickets that we'd participate.

“Are you sure you don't want a little muffin?” she asked me at breakfast. They were giving each passenger two little Solu muffins each.

“I know it works fast, but I don't think it'll help me lose weight between now and ten a.m!” I said.

“You never know!” she said with a grin.

It's nice to see her so happy.

I wave off the muffins. Really, I'm just not into it.

I do have about ten packets of Solu squirreled away in an unused airsickness baggie.

(Just in case I overcome my morals and have the chance to sell them in Cozumel.)

I put them in the safe in our room. I didn't want Viv to see them. I think she's still a little mad that I'm not taking them.

And it was fun to program the safe.

I made “BOOTS” the code.

They've made a treatment room in the (world-class) spa into a weigh-in center.

It reminds me of a fancy version of Weight Watchers. (Viv made me go with her for two months in seventh grade.)

The same scale from the gangplank is set up here.

“Good morning!” A sixty-something woman with maroon-colored hair greets us. (Hello, Clairol.) “How are y'all feeling today?”

“I feel fantastic!” Viv gushes. “I'm so happy!”

“That's what we like to hear!”

Maroon-Hair Lady swipes Vivika's ID card and then motions for Viv to step onto the scale.

“Oh my goodness. Can you step off and step on again, dear?”

Viv darts a questioning look at me, steps off the scale and back on.

“Hun, you have lost thirteen pounds!” the lady says.

Viv's mouth drops open.

“Oh my God!!!” she squeals. She pulls me into a crushing hug.

“Thirteen pounds! I can't believe it!”

Maroon-Hair Lady beams. “Hun, body-percentage wise—this is one of the biggest losses we've seen!”

Viv is hugging herself, jumping up and down.

“Before I came on board I thought, ‘If I lose five pounds, I'll be happy!' Thirteen pounds! I have to call my dad!”

“Now, I have to ask you—have you been eating more than the recommended three to five servings a day?”

Viv looks at me.

Of course she has.

She has two Solu pastries at breakfast, a Solu dessert at both lunch and dinner
and
they give us two packets at every meal
and
there's that chocolate on our pillows at night.

“Maybe,” Viv says. “I'm not sure.”

“Well, you know, this is an exciting loss, but I think you're going to want to restrain yourself now. Three to five servings is right for a young woman like yourself. I'd play it safe.”

Viv is nodding, nodding, agreeing.

I'm going to have to remind her of what the lady is saying. I can tell Viv is hardly listening.

“Okay, sweetie,” the lady says to me. “Why don't you step up here and let's see what Solu's done for you!”

I step on.

(Cue a comic wah-wah-wah.)

“Well now, huh,” she says. “It must be the boots. Remove your shoes, honey.”

“But I was wearing them when I got weighed the first time,” I point out.

“Is that right?” The lady looks bereaved. “Well, I'm stumped. This is not at all what I expected.”

She looks at me, like she's a doctor giving news of a fatal illness. “Sweet girl, you have lost seven ounces so far.”

“That's what I expected,” I say, but she rushes on.

“Tell me about your experience with Solu. Have you been taking the recommended dosage?”

“My friend was really seasick,” Viv butts in. “And she hasn't been able to take her doses yet. But she's feeling better, right, Laurel?”

“I guess so—”

“Oh! That's a relief!” Maroon-Hair Lady gushes. “I haven't had anyone fail yet this morning. I don't want you to be the first one.”

Fail?
That seems a little harsh.

“She's going to take it at lunch, right, Laurel?”

“I don't know—”

“You could up the doses, just a bit,” the lady says.

She pats me on the butt.

“You've got some tub to lose.”

She wrinkles her nose.

“Solu will just nip away the extra, you'll see.”

Viv bundles me out into the hall.

“Thirteen pounds!” she marvels.

“‘Nip away the extra,'” I say. “I hate that woman. She called me tubby.”

“Laur! Thirteen pounds.”

“I'm a failure because I didn't drop a bunch of weight?”

“She just wants you to get to feel what everyone's feeling!” Viv says.

“Maybe I'm happy the way I am! Maybe I don't want to feel what everyone's feeling,” I grump.

“Laurel!”

“Well, I don't!”

“No, of course, why would you?” Viv says.

She crosses her arms.

“Laurel Willard is not like anyone else. She's different.”

I do not like the tone her voice is taking.

“She has to practice her classical guitar. She always wears boots even when it's not appropriate. The cutest guy ever invented wants to get to know her, but she won't have him. No, she's above it all. She's soooo superior.”

“You're being a jerk,” I tell my best friend.

“Ditto,” she says. “Maybe you hold yourself apart like you do because you're a big, fat chicken. No, I correct myself, a perfect-the-way-she-is chicken, who doesn't even want to lose weight.”

“You're just mad because I don't want to try Solu,” I say.

Two women in the hall look at me with shock, not because I'm yelling, I don't think. It's because I don't want to try Solu!

“No,” she yells back. “I'm mad because you weren't even excited for me. Not even a little!”

“I don't think you're fat, Viv. I don't think either of us is fat. I think that we look perfectly normal. Why do we have to be thinner, thinner, thinner all the time?”

“Because when people see this,” Viv says, grabbing her belly, “they see weakness. And I don't want to be seen as weak.”

“That's not true!” I tell her. “That's not what I think when I see someone's belly—”

“Well, it's what
I
think,” Viv says. And I see her eyes flash to my gut.

That hurts.

This is an area we don't venture into—it's an unspoken agreement in our friendship. I allow her to obsess about her extra fifteen pounds, and we never mention mine.

“Well, I don't care how people see me,” I say, my eyes prickling with tears.

“I don't believe that for a second,” my best friend hisses at me. “All your weirdo choices are designed to make people see you as an outsider. You're scared to fit in.”

*   *   *

I go back to our room. I practice the Bach until my fingertips are screaming.

All the while I'm thinking about Viv and what she said.

At first, I'm just mad. How dare she blah blah blah.

But the thing about Viv is, she knows me.

And as I run the piece, I realize maybe she's right about me. About some of it, anyway.

I really don't mind my extra weight. I really think I look just fine.

But the stuff about dressing weird and not fitting in …

*   *   *

Around five the PA comes on. I'm expecting a message from Lorna Krieger about shuffleboard or something, but it's not.

“Good afternoon, guests. This is Captain Hammonds. I'm pleased to announce that Dr. Zhang has just informed the bridge that as of three fifty-five p.m. this afternoon, the ship as a whole has met its first weight-loss goal. The passengers of the famous Solu Cruise to Lose have lost a combined average of five percent of their body weight. We had expected to meet this goal on the fifth day of the voyage, not the third! To celebrate, we will hold a ball tonight in the Aurora Restaurant. Black tie is requested. Congratulations to all.”

Maybe forty-five seconds later Viv comes charging into the room.

“A ball! A ball!”

I stand up.

We apologize at the same time and just cut it all short with a hug.

“I don't know why I was so mean,” Vivvy says. “You were right about the weight. Neither of us is fat.”

“You were right about my stupid boots,” I tell her. She tucks a wisp of hair behind my ear.

“You're the best and I love everything about you and I was being stupid and selfish,” she says.

“Well, me, too.”

We hug again.

This is the thing about Viv and I. We're both only children so we feel like sisters. Always have.

Our fights never last long.

“Viv, I've been thinking. Tonight … will you dress me up?”

Viv looks at me—an Are-you-for-real look.

“I mean it.”

“I have dreamed of this day!” she says. “Oh my word. I am going to make you look so hot.”

Vivika grabs my hand and pulls me into our closet.

There's a long purple cocktail dress, a tight black-and-white-striped minidress, a skirt made out of silver sequins.

“I think that this might work best with your combat boots,” she says, taking the cocktail dress off the rack. “It would give you a kind of a punk glamour thing.”

“No,” I say.

She's not looking at me, instead she's rummaging through her drawers.

“You have to keep an open mind,” she chastises me. “I want you to promise you'll try on anything I say.”

“I meant, no, I'm not wearing my combat boots.”

Viv looks up.

“I want to borrow some of your heels.”

“Whoa,” she says. “Are you sure?”

“I am,” I tell her.

And I mean it.

Because, truth be told, Viv was right about me. I hide behind my alternative, weirdo choices. I need to take some risks, and for me, that means dressing mainstream and wearing heels.

She brings out a pair of stacked stilettos, like eight feet tall.

“Oh, please,” I say. “I'm not suicidal!”

“I just wanted to make sure the real Laurel was still in there.”

“It's me. I promise.”

Viv squeezes my hand.

“I told you this cruise would change everything.”

 

TOM

DAY THREE

THEY REALLY KNOW
how to do over the top on this boat.

The vibe in the ballroom is ecstatic. Women in sparkly gowns, men in black tie. Champagne flutes chiming. Candlelight glimmering in the chandeliers.

The big band is playing some old-school jazz. Uptempo. And the belle of the ball is the old man Timothy Almstead. He's surrounded by a constant cluster of people thanking him and wishing him well.

A uniformed waiter passes by with a tray of these little perfectly crispy lamb chops. It's unreal, how delicious they are. Lamb is lean enough. I have three and ask him to find me when he comes out again.

After a good long talk with Derek, I e-mailed Rich and Tamara. I was really careful to tell them that I know what a great opportunity this is, but that I've met a girl and it wouldn't be right to investigate a relationship with Sabbi when my heart's elsewhere.

Yeah, it was a bit of a leap on that respect. I mean, me and Laurel hardly even know each other, but it was the best way to get out of the Sabbi thing.

Rich sidles up, taking me by the elbow.

“Good evening, Mr. Fiorelli,” he says, suave as ever.

“Same to you, Rich.”

He looks sharp. Black shirt, charcoal-gray tie, neon-green pocket square.

“Rich, you really know how to wear black tie,” I tell him.