Chapter Ten
By the time I got home that night, the table had already been set and dinner was beginning to cool.
“Sorry I’m late, Mom. We were hanging over at McCartney’s,” I said and let my bag fall to the floor before slipping into one of the empty seats.
“And how are things over at the Janning’s?” Mom asked, placing a heaping spoonful of what appeared to be tuna noodle casserole onto my plate.
“Fine. The usual,” I answered and poured myself a glass of milk.
“And where are McCartney’s parents this week?”
“Um, I think Paris, maybe,” I said, scratching my head. “Or maybe it’s China. I can never keep track.”
“Well, you guys let me know if she needs to stay here for a few days,” she answered, taking a bite of her food.
“Thanks, Mom, but it’s not exactly like McCartney’s alone in the house,” I said, my mouth full of cheesy goodness. “She’s got Teddy, and like, three other housekeepers hanging around 24/7.”
“I know, but it’s not the same as having family around,” mom started to lecture.
“Mom. That is her family,” I tried to explain for about the hundredth time. We were constantly having this same conversation. Mom feeling bad over the fact that McCartney was basically raising herself, and me insisting that not only was McCartney used to it, but she preferred it that way. Changing the subject, I added, “Speaking of family, how are things going with you?”
If all else failed, ask people about themselves. People love talking about themselves.
As I thought this, Mom smiled at me as if I’d just announced that I decided to run for Daughter of the Year.
“Thank you for asking, Arielle. That is so thoughtful,” Mom said, placing her fork down on her plate. “I just got another client today. And this couple is a doozy. I can’t tell you who it is, but I can tell you that they’re in the entertainment industry. It’s going to be a challenge with these two, because neither have really had successful relationships in the past and their lives are so public.”
My mom must have thought I never turned on the TV or walked past those gossip mags, because if she did, she wouldn’t be giving me such easy clues as to who her newest famous clientele were. I was already making a mental list of who she could be talking about as she continued to chatter on distractedly.
“I mean, after my book came out and I started doing guest appearances on talk shows, I began to realize what these celebrities’ lives must be like. To lose your anonymity like that…” she said thoughtfully. “But, oh well, that’s the life that I chose—I guess giving up some of my privacy to the public is a small thing compared to helping people.”
I began to tune her out, since this was also a conversation we’d had before—that is, if you could call my mom rambling on while I stared off into space a conversation. My attention was piqued though, when I heard my name.
“I just want to make sure that you understand what being in the public eye could mean for you. Before you decide whether to agree to this or not,” Mom was saying.
“Huh? Agree to what?” I asked, my forkful of food stopping halfway to my mouth.
“The interview. With The Kennedy Daily?” she said. And then she narrowed her eyes at me like she was just realizing I hadn’t actually been listening to her after all. This was her biggest pet peeve and I wasn’t about to endure another lecture about being a mindful conversationalist. So I played along.
“Oh, yeah, that,” I said and coughed a few times.
My mom sighed, like she wasn’t up for the lecture either. “I was just telling you that a reporter from The Kennedy Daily left a message, requesting an interview with you for her column,” she explained for the second time. “But I want you to really think about it before deciding what you want to do. If you say yes, it would mean making your personal life public knowledge. Everyone in town would know everything about you. And I mean, everyone. Your neighbors, your teachers, the kids you like, the kids you hate—they would all know your personal business. Your life would be on display.”
Though I wasn’t exactly thrilled to know that my loogi-snorting math teacher might read all about my non-existent love life in his morning paper, I had to admit, I was intrigued.
“Who wants to do the interview?” I asked, running through a mental list of the columns that were usually published in the paper.
My mom got up and walked over to the pad of paper we kept near the phone, so that we could write down messages for each other. My mom of course, was the only one of us who ever remembered it was there. It was like I had this strange mental blank spot when it came to passing things along. Somehow my mom’s Obsessive Compulsive side hadn’t extended to me. Thank God.
“It’s a woman named Sylvia Longood,” Mom read off the scrap of paper. “She writes a column called…”
“Sylvia’s Secrets?” I asked, surprised. Sylvia’s column was basically our town’s equivalent of “Sex & the City.” Only with a lot less sex and even less city. McCartney and I had been reading the column since we’d discovered it back in middle school.
“Yeah. She says she’s doing a piece centered around dating and wants to talk to you about your fundraiser,” Mom said, handing the slip of paper over to me.
“It could be cool to at least meet with her, I guess,” I answered, trying not to sound as excited as I felt. “I mean, it would be rude not to.”
“You know I’ll back up any decision you make, honey,” my mom began, “but I don’t want you to feel at all pressured to bend to the will of the media. And if you do choose to meet with her, I need to know you understand what you’re getting into.”
“I appreciate that Mom, but my privacy was sort of taken away the day I decided to put my first kiss up for auction on the Internet,” I answered. “People at school already know what’s going on, and I was mentioned on the radio the other day, so I’d say the word is already out. Maybe it’s time I told my side of the story.”
My mom was silent for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, she smiled and resumed eating.
“Then I’m behind you one hundred percent,” she said, with a firm nod. “Would you like me to come with you? I have had a bit of experience in this arena myself.”
“I think I can handle Sylvia on my own,” I answered. Seeing my mom’s slightly hurt expression, I added, “But if anything comes up, you’re my first call.”
Happy to hear this, Mom began to clear the remnants of our dinner from the table. As soon as she was distracted, I took the note with Sylvia’s phone number on it and snuck up to my room to give the reporter a call.
* * * *
I agreed to meet Sylvia Longood for coffee at The Roast the following morning before school. It was 6:30 am and I was running late. It was hard enough for me to get up on time for the ungodly hour that school required of us, but to have to be coherent before the sun had barely begun to shine, was practically torture.
Still, I’d agreed to meet Sylvia Longood for coffee at The Roast that morning before school. And that was more important than a few extra minutes of sleep.
Wishing I was more awake, I stumbled into the coffee house and looked around for my interviewer. I’d studied her picture in the paper the night before, but as I searched the place, I didn’t find anyone that resembled the journalist.
Finally, I noticed a woman wearing black-rimmed glasses, her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, waving at me enthusiastically from the corner. Turning around and finding no one else behind me, I realized the enthusiastic greeting was, indeed, intended for me.
I smiled nervously before shuffling over to the table where the woman had set up shop.
“Arielle, right?” she asked. “Hi. I’m Sylvia Longood. Well, aren’t you just the cutest thing!”
She looked me up and down, nodding her head in approval, but it just made me feel self-conscious. So I hurried to sit down, landing awkwardly on my butt before settling into my seat.
Great first impression, Arielle. Really stellar.
As Sylvia flipped through the pages of her little notebook, I snuck a glance at her. Take away the glasses, shake out the hair, apply some serious makeup, and she’d almost look like the woman I’d seen in the newspaper. My guess was that photoshop was her friend.
I was still studying her when a waitress came by to ask if I wanted to order. Sylvia insisted that our breakfast was “on the newspaper,” so I ordered a chocolate chip muffin and a coffee.
I’d never actually had coffee before, but I didn’t want this big-time journalist to think of me as a kid. Even if I technically was. I wanted Sylvia to see me as a young lady on the verge of womanhood. Someone worthy of the attention of her readers. Not that drinking coffee would do all that, but hey, it didn’t hurt. When the steaming mug arrived in front of me, I took a small sip and instantly resisted the urge to spit it back into the cup.
Who would drink this foul-tasting stuff willingly?
All too aware of Sylvia’s eyes on me, I forced myself to gulp down another mouthful, thus proving my adult-ness. Then, as nonchalantly as I could, I reached across the table and began dumping bag after bag of sugar into my cup in an attempt to make it taste better. As I did this, Sylvia gave me a Cheshire Cat grin.
“So?” I fished, trying to take the focus away from my coffee-flavored sugar water.
“Soooo,” Sylvia purred. When neither of us said anything else, Sylvia cleared her throat and fiddled with her pad of paper. “Well, I guess you know why I asked you here, right, Arielle?”
She pronounced my name oddly, putting a lot of emphasis on the “L,” and then letting it trail off at the end. I hadn’t even been there for five minutes and the woman was already irking me.
“I’m guessing you want to ask me about the whole eBay thing, right?” I asked, stirring my coffee methodically. I figured if I was stirring it, I wouldn’t be expected to drink it.
“Exactly,” Sylvia said, pen poised above her paper.
There was another uncomfortable silence.
“Well, what do you want to know?” I asked finally.
Geez. Was I supposed to do her job for her or what?
“Why don’t we start off at the beginning,” Sylvia said, her smile practically taking up her whole face. “How did you get the idea to sell your first kiss on eBay?”
“Um, well, I’m a freshman this year, and haven’t, you know, kissed anyone yet, or anything,” I said, staring into my mug and feeling my cheeks turn red despite myself. I wasn’t sure why I was still embarrassed to talk about it—it wasn’t like everyone didn’t already know the deal. Pressing forward, I told Sylvia about how McCartney and Phin had gotten the idea to solve my “problem,” and how things had developed since then.
“I think the bid’s up to two hundred bucks or something,” I finished, shrugging.
Sylvia nodded as I spoke. “That’s fascinating. People sell stuff on eBay all the time—why not a kiss?” she said almost to herself as she scribbled something furiously on her paper. I picked up my mug of coffee to give myself something to do while I waited for her to finish.
“Is there someone you hope wins?” Sylvia asked finally.
No one had bothered to ask me that before, and to be honest, I hadn’t given it too much thought. Until right now. Was there someone at Ronald Henry that I wanted to kiss? Had I already met him yet or would my first kiss be from the person I least expected. I had no idea how to answer Sylvia’s question. Eventually I spit out the first thing that came to my mind.
“Really, at this point, I just want to get it over with,” I answered.
Sylvia grinned as if I’d just said exactly what she’d been hoping I’d say. This, of course, made me nervous. Had I done something wrong? Should I have not answered at all? Before I could ask to take it back and start all over again, Sylvia reached across the table to shake my hand and then placed a few bills on the table and stood up.
“That’s it?” I asked, surprised. We’d been talking for less than twenty minutes.
“I think I’ve used up enough of your time, Arielle,” Sylvia said, letting the “L” linger even after she’d started walking away. “The piece will probably be in tomorrow’s paper, so be sure to keep your eyes peeled. Ta, ta.”
Then she left me to sit at the table by myself, staring after her and wondering exactly what the heck had just happened.