Free First Stop, New York by Jordan Cooke

interested in
me.
”
    “But I’m not a cute girl, JB. I’m Corliss Meyers, the four-eyed wonder—aka Corliss Myopia! Besides, even if I were a cute girl, I would
so
not be into pretty boys like Trent Owen Michaels.”
    “First of all, m’lady,” JB said, sucking up the last of his Arnold Palmer, “you wouldn’t have to go through with anything—just distract Trent enough to dissipate his ardor. ‘Dissipate his ardor’ is a phrase I learned from Rocco. In this case it means ‘throw some cold water on Trent’s board shorts.’”
    “Um, thanks for the translation, but I scored pretty high on my SATs.”
    JB smiled. “Of course you did. That’s why it’s a delightful surprise that you are a total cutie-pie.”
    “I am not, JB.”
    “Face it, Corliss, you are. It’s just that your cutie-pie-ness is buried under a pile of crazy bad taste.”
    That stung. “Thanks a lot!”
    “I can say it ’cause it’s the same for me,” JB explained. “If anyone ever really cut my hair, gave me a prescription for Acutane, and whitened my Arnold Palmer–stained bicuspids, I wouldn’t be half bad-looking.”
    Corliss had a hunch this might be true. Even though JB looked like one of those undernourished fry cooks at Mickey D’s, if she squinted she could see some underlying dreaminess.
    “So what are you suggesting, JB?”
    “I’m suggesting a Corliss makeover. Top to bottom.” Heblushed. “Not that your bottom needs—”
    “Let’s keep my bottom out of this, okay?”
    “Fair enough. My sister gets all those girl magazines and I read them when I’m on the toilet and—”
    “TMI, JB.”
    “Sorry. I read them when I’m
otherwise engaged.
Another phrase I learned from my supremely articulate new friend, Rocco. Anyhoo, I just happen to know how to bring out female beauty. Clothes, hair, et cetera.”
    “Wait, are you gay, JB?”
    “No—and it’s the tragedy of my young life. All that knowledge about styling and where does it get me? Discriminated against in the best salons because I like boobies!”
    Corliss laughed and laughed. “I don’t know why, but ‘boobies’ always kills me.”
    JB smiled at her. “So is it a deal? We’ve got a short day today. Want to hit some stores when we’re done? Turn Corliss Myopia into Corliss Majestica?”
    Corliss thought about it. Wasn’t this idea entangling her further in the drama-rama she was trying to
disentangle
herself from? Was JB right that she should stick with her job? And what if his idea miraculously worked and Trent went for her? Most importantly, what if JB oversold his styling talents and she ended up looking like some psychedelic drag queen?
    But he
was
so sweet, sitting next to her, chewing his ice as he tried to come up with solutions. And he was always so helpful—first with her fanny pack, then with her stomach distress, and now with her ridiculous job. There was justsomething about JB that made Corliss feel safe.
    “Okay, JB. You’re on. I’ll meet you in the parking lot when shooting’s done today. But don’t tell anyone. All of this has to be between you and me.”
    He raised his hand. “I swear on Britney Spears’s divorce papers!”
    Malibu Hot Springs—3:11 P.M.
    Corliss and JB lay immersed in adjoining tubs of hot mud. Steam rose from their submerged bodies. Their glasses were entirely steamed up. They looked like four Coke bottles buried neck-first in a lava pit.
    “This feels awesome,” said Corliss.
    “It takes off the dead skin cells.”
    “Hey, my skin cells are in pretty good shape, thank you very much.”
    “Corliss, almost ninety percent of the body’s surface is made up of dead skin cells. I read that in an article entitled ‘Your Body: Dead on the Surface.’”
    “Creepy. Your sister subscribes to a dermatology magazine?”
    “No. I read it in
CosmoGIRL
!
” said JB without flinching.
    “And you’re sure you’re not gay?”
    “Outside of a tiny bro-crush on Justin Timberlake, I’m as straight as Ashlee