Free How I Stole Johnny Depp's Alien Girlfriend by Gary Ghislain Page B

savings account.” I was saving it to buy the ultracool Vespa scooter that was supposed to make me popular. “I can’t get it before Monday.”
    â€œSo Monday is the day you get to meet Johnny.”
    â€œI cannot wait that long,” Zelda says, pushing her ginger ale bottle out of the way. “I will torture her instead.”
    â€œAll right, all right, all right! Chill out !” Malou hides her hands behind her back to avoid additional torturing. “I trust you, Tadpole. I give you Johnny over the weekend. You give me the money on Monday. Jesus! Someone give this girl a Xanax.”
    Malou has a car. It must have been nice looking not so long ago, sporty and all that. Expensive. Red. Now it’s smashed up like some-one chewed it with a mouthful of mud and spat it out in this parking place on a street right behind the Pantheon.
    â€œMy ex-boyfriend gave me this piece of trash. It used to be his wife’s car. He’s divorcing her now. They have issues.”
    I’ll say.
    â€œHop in the backseat, Tadpole.”
    I knew she would say that. It’s a small coupe with no real backseat.
    The inside of the car reminds me of the inside of her apartment. She pushes down magazines, fast-food trash, empty plastic bottles, old dirty clothes, and a couple pairs of shoes to make room for Zelda in the passenger seat.
    Surprisingly, the car stinks of cigarettes.
    â€œYou’re smoking now?”
    She used to say, “If smoking is so cool, how come Dad’s doing it?”
    â€œMy ex-boyfriend’s wife did. I could never get rid of the stench.”
    Malou’s speeding down the riverbank highway. She’s driving us to a bar near the Champs-Élysées. According to Malou, Johnny Depp owns the place. It’s not like he’s going to be there mixing drinks, but she knows a waiter who knows someone who knows everyone.
    â€œI love the black-coat-and-swimsuit fashion statement,” Malou says, glancing at Zelda. “And the broken vase on your arm—very fashion forward. Did you know it’s a Starck? It’s worth gazillions.”
    I wish she was able to talk and watch the road at the same time.
    â€œImagine the Queen Bee’s face if she saw Spacegirl in her beloved black coat. She’d probably die of a stroke before she could even start yelling at you. Think of it, the old bitch dying. You’d finally be free, Tadpole.”
    â€œDon’t talk about Mom like that.” I hate it when Malou or anyone talks about Mom. I know she’s a dragon with a taste for blood, but she loves me. At least a few hours per week. Mostly on Sundays.
    â€œHe’s funny, this little guy,” Malou tells Zelda. “She’s such a bitch to him, but he never bites back. I don’t know, Frog, you must be bottling it up.”
    I wish 952 euros could also buy her silence.
    â€œDo you have parents, Spacegirl?”
    â€œThey have been destroyed.”
    No wonder she comes across as a bit cold.
    â€œI don’t mean in your space fantasy life. I mean in real life.”
    â€œHer parents are dead, okay?” I say so Malou will stop asking questions, but that’s not knowing Malou.
    â€œYeah? How did they die?”
    â€œMy mother was decapitated during the Unholy Wars. My father was disintegrated as he tried to escape the Tower of Tor. He was a violent and undisciplined specimen from the planet Bova.”
    Ha. Now I know where she gets that temper from.
    â€œI wish my father was disintegrated, too,” Malou says thought-fully. “Just imagine. Beamed. Zouf. Gone. A heap of ashes with his stupid Armani glasses on top. Wouldn’t that be cool, huh? Tadpole? Can you pass me that bag of chips you’re sitting on?”
    Malou disappears into the bar, leaving me and Zelda to wait in the car.
    â€œZelda?” I pick up the bag of chips Malou was munching on.
    â€œYes?” She turns to me, and I offer her the chips.