Lucky Break (11 page)

I laughed, rolling my eyes. “I was just in Italy, and the men there can get away with saying stuff like that, but aren't you supposed to be an icy cool Manhattanite?”

It was good to see Arno. It was just his personality to be forward, so I could give him a hard time without worrying that it meant anything.

“You're right, that was embarrassing,” he said, putting his arm around me. “Why don't I buy you a drink and you can tell me all about Italy … and whether you're finally single so I can ask you out.”

My face fell. It was completely involuntary and instantaneous, but Arno picked up on it in a second.

“Uh-oh. That's a boy-trouble face if I've ever seen one. What's his name?”

“Actually,” I said, pushing him away, “I don't really want to talk about it.”

“What's his name?”

“Alex.” I sighed at last. “Alex Altfest.”

Arno crossed his arms over his chest and cocked his head at me. “Please tell me you're not all broken up over
Alex Altfest
.”

“Why not?” I blurted out. “You know him?”

“I know the kid. And let me tell you, Flan, he ain't worth one pretty little tear of yours.”

The mention of my tears must have had some sort of physical response, because I could feel them welling up. Who did Arno think he was, saying Alex wasn't worth it?

“If he's not worth it, then why am I—” I cut myself off.

“Flan, come on.” He reached for my shoulder, but I pulled away. His fingers snagged on the chain of my amulet and I felt the sharp tug of it catching around my neck. A second later, it snapped off. The glossy stone Buddha cracked in two clean pieces on the floor.

“Crap,” Arno muttered. “Where'd you get that? I'll buy you another one.”

“You can't
buy
me another one Arno. That's the point of the amulet—it's not replaceable. It's valuable because of who gives it to you and why. And I don't want one from you.” I knew it was unfair to go off on
him, but at this point, I couldn't stop. “I don't need the necklace anyway, just as much as I don't need you telling me who or what to cry over. What I need …” What did I need? “What I need is to get out of here,” I said, nearly tripping over the line of Thai-riffic orderers and rushing out of the bar.

This party was a disaster, and if I didn't find a bathroom quickly, I was going to cry in front of the still-giggling elevator girls.

I ducked behind a Buddha statue and collapsed on a bench out of view from the partygoers. I wanted to call my friends, but I didn't know if I could bear to be reminded that they were all having a blast with their boys. I already felt so far away from them. I pulled out my phone to find two text messages, one from Camille and one from SBB.

Camille's said:

THINKING OF YOU FROM THE TOP OF THE CENTRE POMPIDOU. XANDER SAYS ALEX IS AT THE KNICKS GAME TONIGHT—NOT THAT YOU SHOULD WASTE YOUR TIME THINKING ABOUT HIM. JUST THOUGHT YOU SHOULD KNOW THAT HE'S STILL IN THE CITY, AND YOU'RE OFF SEEING THE WORLD!

I guess it was sweet of Camille to put it like that, but all her text did was fill me with questions. We used to go to Knicks games together. We'd sit in his family's
box seats and order oysters from the Grand Central Oyster Bar and try to shoot oysters every time LeBron James shot a three-pointer. Who was he taking to the games now? Before the word
Cookie
could fully form in my head, I opened SBB's text:

AFTER A WEEK OF HOLLYWOOD MEETINGS, JR REWARDS ME WITH AN ORDER TO WEIGHT-TRAIN IN SYDNEY. HMPH! I KNOW YOU'RE BANGKOK-ROCKING, BUT OZ ISN'T SOOO FAR FROM YOUR HOOD, IS IT? WANNA POP DOWN AND HELP LITTLE OLD ME BECOME NOT-SO-LITTLE OLD ME??? PLEASE???? BIANCA WILL BE HAPPY TO JOIN US IF NEEDED….

Hmm, SBB might be joking, since just popping down to Australia was a pretty ridiculous idea. But then I remembered Patch and Agnes's presentation. Would they still be in Sydney? Only the world's most strings-pulling travel agent could work this kind of flight-reservation miracle. I crossed my fingers as I dialed my mom….

After one last night sleeping under the mosquito nets, and one final canoe ride down the Chao Phraya, I was back at the airport, holding a last-minute plane ticket to Sydney.

I'd spent the whole morning apologizing profusely to Feb for my behavior (namely for blowing into their no-stress zone only to turn around and dash off, leaving a trail of tears). Not surprisingly, Feb would have none of it.

“Will you shut up already?” she said, kissing me good-bye at the airport. “You'll have much more fun down under with Patch. It's impossible to sulk in Sydney. Frowning is practically illegal. Now get on the plane. Call me when you're over he who shall not be named.” She practically shoved me through the gate.

Following her last orders, I trooped down the runway toward the small first-class-only jet. When I found
my window seat (thanks, Mom!), I sank into the smooth leather recliner, happy to see that there was a computer screen on the seat back in front of me. My iPhone reception had been so spotty in Thailand, it felt like years since I'd been able to check my e-mail, and I was dying for the extended version of the news from Paris. But the first thing I did when I logged on was a quick scan to see whether the Jerk of New York had decided to apologize (negative … hmph!). My spirits lifted when I saw the subject line of Camille's e-mail: THIS IS A LONG ONE; SIT DOWN. I snuggled into my down airline blanket, glad that Feb had insisted on taking me to the airport extra early so she could get back in time for her session with the guru. Now I had plenty of time to read before takeoff:

CHÈRE
FLAN,

HAVE FINALLY RECOVERED FROM YOUR CRAZY JET-SETTING NEWS ABOUT THAILAND. MUST KNOW EVERYTHING! ARE YOU SWIMMING IN TOM YAM KUNG SOUP? ARE YOU BUDDHIST YET? WHAT ARE THEY WEARING IN BANGKOK?

It was funny, I'd been sort of bummed thinking about how I hadn't given Thailand much of a shot before I jumped on the first plane out of town, but reading Camille's e-mail, I was pleasantly surprised to have answers to all of her questions. I
had
tasted
real tom yam kung, and I
did
have a memorable Buddhist moment. I even had the freaky Marilyn Monroe dress to prove how wild the fashion was. My short visit had exposed me to some really amazing new things.

I was feeling pretty good about myself until I got to Camille's next paragraph, where she launched into a series of questions about how I was doing re Jony. Of course, she had to ask—she was my best friend—but I didn't want to sink into that particular depression at the moment. So I just glossed over it and started reading again when she switched subjects.

Finally, this was the good stuff—a long description of what everyone had been eating (lots and lots of almond croissants), how many boutiques she'd spotted Jade Moodswing couture in (six), and how many times Morgan had gotten pissy because the daily half-hour rain shower was making her hair frizz (eleven). She also detailed this great lost-in-translation anecdote about Xander being chased down the street by a crazy French woman wielding a cast-iron pot, all because he'd accidentally called her a cow while trying to ask if she knew where he could find a good hamburger in her neighborhood.

I was laughing so hard that tears were rolling
down my face (oh yeah, I remembered these—the
good
kind of tears!), when a soothing voice overhead said:

“Well, at least I know she's got a sense of humor. That's always a good sign.”

I looked up to lock eyes with a tall guy a few years older than me. He was a dangerous combination of Zac Efron and Christian Bale, with an Aussie accent to boot. He lifted a bag into the overhead compartment and slid into the seat next to me.

“I'm Dave,” he said, giving me a very manly handshake. “We'll be each other's entertainment for the next nine hours.”

Dave had shiny light brown hair that he had to keep shaking out of his dark hazel eyes. He was really tan, with a splash of freckles across his nose and a smile that seemed to spread through every one of his gorgeous features. If this guy was from Sydney, I understood what Feb meant when she said that frowning was culturally illegal.

“I'm Flan,” I said, smiling too.

“And you're flying from Thailand to Sydney,” he said, scratching his chin, “to meet up with your boyfriend? Oh, I can see that was the wrong question. On some sort of modeling junket, right?”

As the flight attendants closed the cabin doors and
the plane pushed back from the runway, Dave seemed to be sizing me up.

“Not exactly.” I laughed, feeling myself turn red. “My brother's in Sydney and my friend's meeting me there.” Usually, I would have left it there, but even though Dave was a stranger, there was something really trustworthy about his face. I was surprised to find myself saying, “As for the boyfriend part, I guess you could say I'm flying
away
from him. We just broke up.”

Two Shirley Temples and an assorted-nut-and-cheese platter later, I'd given Dave the entire rundown. Not just the breakup story with Alex, but also the story of my whirlwind spring break. I even offered up the details of the looming threat of Bianca, which, when I showed him the photo SBB had sent, made both of us wince.

“Let me get this straight—you're traveling to three continents in nine days to get over one guy?”

I nodded, laughing to hear it phrased so succinctly.

“That reminds me of a card trick I know,” Dave said, reaching into his pocket for a deck of cards. “You didn't take me for an excellent magician, did you?”

I shook my head and Dave proceeded to show me the most elaborate card trick I'd ever seen, involving three queens, the nine of hearts, and a joker. After he bowled me over with a few more tricks, I decided to
show off my skills and beat him at a few games of gin rummy. When the captain announced that we were flying over New Zealand, it reminded Dave of this song on the new Bob Dylan album, so we biPodded for a little while. After that, we flipped through the movie channels and realized both SBB and Danny Tumble, an Aussie actor friend of Dave's, had cameos in
Arctic Lightning
. It was only when the captain turned on the seat belt sign to indicate we were landing that I realized I was having more fun on this airplane than I'd had all week on the ground in Italy and in Thailand.

“This is why I love long flights,” Dave said, giving me that contagious smile. “By the time we land, we'll have already been on three dates.”

“Oh, I get it,” I said coyly. “Picking up girls on planes is your thing.”

I phrased it as a joke, but I was also really hoping that Dave would insist it wasn't true. Luckily, he laughed.

“Yep, last flight, I met a lovely screeching infant. She really opened up to me, but then”—he mimicked a sniffle—“she never called.”

“You just never know with babies, do you?” I joked.

It had been so long since I'd looked at another guy.
I couldn't believe how easy it was to fall right back into flirting. Dave and I smiled at each other and didn't say anything for a moment. Then he reached into his bag and took out his phone.

“Speaking of calling people,” he said, “I'd say it's time for the obligatory number swap. Don't look so surprised—you're going to be in Sydney for a few days; I live in Sydney. It's only natural.”

My heart picked up. Was I really going to give out my number to a guy I just met on the plane? What would my friends say? This wasn't the first time this week that I realized how much I needed them.

“In case you need more convincing, I happen to have a pretty sweet beach house in Coogee,” Dave continued. “Don't you want to end your whirlwind tour on a high note?”

A brief vision of the Thoney girls flashed into my head. They'd be screaming their heads off for me to thrust my number at this gorgeous Aussie guy.

So I did.

First I saw the FLANNIE-BANANIE sign quaking frantically in the air at the Sydney airport terminal. Then I saw the body holding it absolutely lose control when I came into view. SBB threw her arms up, accidentally tossing her handmade sign into the face of an elderly Japanese tourist. She started running toward me.

“Ohmygodiamsoooooooogladtoseeyou!” we both screamed at the exact same time, throwing our arms around each other. We jumped up and down in the embrace a few times before I realized that something was very different about my tiny starlet best friend.

She wasn't so tiny anymore.

On anyone else, a few extra pounds might not have made much of a difference, but because SBB's base weight had been next to nothing, even one week's worth of bulk was a very big deal.

“Whoa, SBB, have you been taking 'roids?” I asked, only sort of joking when I pulled back to examine her suddenly ripped biceps.

“No way,” she scoffed. “Protein shakes and dumbbells.” When she shrugged dismissively, I could actually make out clearly defined delts (delts?!) through her layered Velvet tank tops.

“Well, it's working,” I said, watching in awe as the former lightweight scooped up my massive Balenciaga carry-on as if it were stuffed with feathers instead of heavy books and magazines. “Which way to the gun show?” I joked.

“Flan,” she said, putting on her serious face, “Australia is actually a very civilized place. It's not all hunting and bushmen.”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I was making a joke. You know, muscles, guns? Yours are enormous, by the way.”

“Not enormous enough!” she said, suddenly putting on the fierce. “They always say the early mass is the easiest to put on. What if I peaked prematurely? What if I never get to gladiatrix stature? What if—”