The fact that I’ve been dealing with celebrities my entire life leaves me not so easily impressed, which is probably the number one reason they’re always so quick to like me. I mean, while I’m okay to look at—tall-ish, skinny-ish, with long dark hair, fair-ish skin, and bright green eyes that people like to comment on, I’m pretty much your standard issue girl. Though I never fall to pieces when I meet someone famous. I never get all red-cheeked and gushy and insecure. And the thing is, they’re so unused to that, they usually end up pursuing me.
My first kiss was on a beach in Rio de Janeiro with a boy who’d just won an MTV award for “Best Kiss” (clearly none of those voters had actually kissed him). My second was on the Pont Neuf in Paris with a boy who’d just made the cover of Vanity Fair. And other than their being richer, more famous, and more stalked by paparazzi—our lives really aren’t all that different.
Most of them are transients—passing through their own lives, just like I’m passing through mine. Moving from place to place, friendship to friendship, relationship to relationship—it’s the only life that I know.
It’s hard to form a lasting connection when your permanent address is an eight-inch mailbox in the UPS store.
Still, as I inch my way closer, I can’t help the way my breath hitches, the way my insides thrum and swirl. And when he turns, flashing me that slow, languorous smile that’s about to make him world famous, his eyes meeting mine when he says, “Hey, Daire—Happy Sweet Sixteen,” I can’t help but think of the millions of girls who would do just about anything to stand in my pointy blue babouches.
I return the smile, flick a little wave of my hand, then bury it in the side pocket of the olive-green army jacket I always wear. Pretending not to notice the way his gaze roams over me, straying from my waist-length brown hair peeking out from my scarf, to the tie-dyed tank top that clings under my jacket, to the skinny dark denim jeans, all the way down to the brand-new slippers I wear on my feet.
“Nice.” He places his foot beside mine, providing me with a view of the his-and-hers version of the very same shoe. Laughing when he adds, “Maybe we can start a trend when we head back to the States. What do you think?”
We.
There is no we.
I know it. He knows it. And it bugs me that he tries to pretend otherwise.
The cameras stopped rolling hours ago, and yet here he is, still playing a role. Acting as though our brief, on-location hookup means something more.
Acting like we won’t really end long before our passports are stamped RETURN.
And that’s all it takes for those annoyingly soft girly feelings to vanish as quickly as a flame in the rain. Allowing the Daire I know, the Daire I’ve honed myself to be, to stand in her place.
“Doubtful.” I smirk, kicking his shoe with mine. A little harder than necessary, but then again, he deserves it for thinking I’m lame enough to fall for his act. “So, what do you say—food? I’m dying for one of those beef brochettes, maybe even a sausage one too. Oh—and some fries would be good!”
I make for the food stalls, but Vane has another idea. His hand reaches for mine, fingers entwining until they’re laced nice and tight. “In a minute,” he says, pulling me so close my hip bumps against his. “I thought we might do something special—in honor of your birthday and all. What do you think about matching tattoos?”
I gape. Surely he’s joking.
“Yeah, you know, mehndi. Nothing permanent. Still, I thought it could be kinda cool.” He arcs his left brow in his trademark Vane Wick way, and I have to fight not to frown in return.
Nothing permanent. That’s my theme song—my mission statement, if you will. Still, mehndi’s not quite the same as a press-on. It has its own life span. One that will linger long after Vane’s studio-financed, private jet lifts him high into the sky and right out of my life.
Though I don’t mention any of that, instead I just say, “You know the director will kill you if you show up on set tomorrow covered in henna.”
Vane shrugs. Shrugs in a way I’ve seen too many times, on too many young actors before him. He’s in full-on star-power mode. Thinks he’s indispensable. That he’s the only seventeen-year-old guy with a hint of talent, golden skin, wavy blond hair, and piercing blue eyes that can light up a screen and make the girls (and most of their moms) swoon. It’s a dangerous way to see yourself—especially when you make your living in Hollywood. It’s the kind of thinking that leads straight to multiple rehab stints, trashy reality TV shows, desperate ghostwritten memoirs, and low-budget movies that go straight to DVD.
Still, when he tugs on my arm, it’s not like I protest. I follow him to the old, black-clad woman parked on a woven beige mat with a pile of henna bags stacked in her lap.
Vane negotiates the price as I settle before her and offer my hands. Watching as she snips the corner from one of the bags and squeezes a series of squiggly lines over my flesh, not even thinking to consult me on what type of design I might want. But then, it’s not like I had one in mind. I just lean against Vane who’s kneeling beside me and let her do her thing.
“You must let the color to set for as long as it is possible. The darker the stain, the more that he loves you,” she says, her English halting, broken, but the message is clear. Emphasized by the meaningful look she shoots Vane and me.
“Oh, we’re not—” I start to say, We’re not in love! But Vane’s quick to stop me.
Slipping an arm around my shoulder, he presses his lips to my cheek, bestowing the old woman with the kind of smile that encourages her to smile back in a startling display of grayed and missing teeth. His actions stunning me stupid, leaving me to sit slack faced and dumb—with heated cheeks, muddied hands, and a rising young breakout star draped over my back.
Having never been in love, I admit that I’m definitely no expert on the subject. I have no idea what it feels like.
Though I’m pretty sure it doesn’t feel like this.
I’m pretty dang positive Vane’s just cast himself in yet another starring role—playing the part of my dashing young love interest, if only to appease this strange, Moroccan woman we’ll never see again.
Still, Vane is an actor, and an audience is an audience—no matter how small.
Once my hands are covered in elaborate vines and scrolls, the old woman reminds me to allow the stain to take hold while she gets to work on Vane’s feet. But the moment her attention turns, I use the edge of my nail to scrape away little bits. Unable to keep from smiling when I see the paste fall in a loose powdery spray that blends with the dirt.