“Jesus. That’s horrible. Don’t you ever think about...what is that they call that thing where you can divorce your parents?”
“Emancipation?” she said. “Nah. I thought about it, but I figure I’d be better off hanging tough until she either overdoses or gets something vital sucked up the hose when she gets her next round of lipo. After the childhood she gave me, she’d better leave me rich.”
I was about to ask her if she meant it - sometimes it was hard to tell if she was joking or serious - when I saw a tall, dark figure approaching us from across the quad. I could tell before I saw his face that he was someone - you get a sense of this kind of thing, growing up in Hollywood. There are some people whose presence ripples through the crowd before they've even finished entering a room - the old legends or the famous beauties. There's a hush and a whisper - a kind of shiver that passes through everyone, as though charisma were palpable.
Sometimes it isn't even a famous person - just someone who ought to be, because they are so exceptionally, unnaturally beautiful.
And he was.
I couldn't be sure it was him at first. He was even better looking than I remembered, if such a thing was even possible. His black curls bounced almost to his shoulders, his long legs eating up the yards as he crossed the quad. He wore worn old jeans, their black faded to a pale charcoal, and you just knew from looking at them that the denim would be soft as butter at the knees. His eyes were covered with a pair of mirrored Aviator shades, but as he approached he removed them with such grace that it looked like a tribute, like a courtier's doffed cap.
It was then I realized he was looking at me.
"Well look at you, Ruby Tuesday," he said, stopping right in front of me. "All grown up and graduated yet?"
I nodded. I could feel the burn of Everglade's disgust behind me, but I didn't care. I was too caught up in the moment - it was astonishing enough to me that he was real and that he remembered me. "Amber," I said. "My name's Amber."
"I know that, baby," he said. "I remember. Like the stuff that flies get caught in - the shade of honey and twice as sticky."
"Resin," I muttered, hugging my books to my chest. "You're thinking of resin."
"Right," he said. "But then it gets hard and turns to amber, right?"
Everglade snorted. I could feel my face flare hot at the way he said 'hard' - deliberate and dirty.
He laughed. "I don't think your friend likes me."
"What gave me away?" said Everglade. "The general fuck-off vibes or the moment you realized I could tell you were full of shit?"
I winced and she caught my eye. She looked wary but jerked her head in the direction of the coffee shop. I mouthed 'thank you' and she just sighed and sloped off.
"You'd best follow her, Ruby Tuesday," he said. "How do you know I'm not a psycho killer?"
"I don't." I couldn't figure out if his eyes were closer to blue or gray. His lips were fuller and lusher than even my memory of them, his eyelashes even blacker. He had a rosary around his neck and when he caught me looking at it he took it off.
"You ever been to Mardi Gras?" he said, reaching out and dropping the rosary over my head.
"No."
"You know how it works, right?" he said. "I give you beads, you show me something."
I stared at him for a moment, unable to quite believe what he was saying. He wanted me to flash him right here in front of everyone? The worst thing was I would have done it too, if only he hadn't laughed at my wide-eyed expression. "Not right here," he said. "But you owe me, okay?"
He started to walk away. I dropped half my books as I pulled the rosary up over my head - it had managed to get caught in my hair. "Wait!" I yelled. "Your necklace."
He turned on his heel and laughed. "Keep it," he said. "It belonged to my grandmother." And then he turned back and walked away. I scrambled to pick up my books and straightened up in time to see him roar away on a big, old-fashioned motorcycle. Holy shit.
An artsy looking girl in ballet flats came a couple of steps closer. "Justin Theroux," she said, looking in the same direction as me, the direction in which he had vanished. "I would give my left tit to hit that."
I laughed, more from surprise than anything else. "Really?" I said.
"Oh hell yeah," she said. "What's your secret?"
I shrugged. I had no idea. She looked more like the kind of girl I'd imagine he was into - clever, cynical and kind of bohemian. She had a copy of Kerouac's Big Sur sticking out of her bag and while her face was otherwise scrubbed bare of make-up her lips were painted a shade Everglade liked to call 'Fuck-you Red'. Her long brown hair was bundled up in a messy bun on the back of her head and she had one of those big, retro sailor-style tattoos on her upper arm. Next to her I must have looked like an al-dente noodle - thin, white and largely tasteless.