How I Stole Johnny Depp's Alien Girlfriend Page 6
“No, I would kill myself. Meet Zook. Be revived by a priestess with all the answers I’d ever need.”
Google feels safer.
She zips on her boots and—zoof—she’s on her feet, ready to hunt for him old style again.
“Wait!” I call after her. “Look.” I point at the screen and click on the link. “This Thursday, July sixth. At the Champs-Élysées.”
She looks at the fan page I just opened. It’s announcing the premiere of Johnny’s new movie. She doesn’t seem able to make sense of it.
“He’s going to be at his new movie premiere. Here in Paris. It’s in, like, six days. You know what a movie is, right?”
“Yes. A primitive form of entertainment designed to distract Earthlings from their real-life problems.”
More or less. “So we know exactly where to find him on that date.”
Uh-uh. She shakes her head. Not good enough. She shows me the key tattoo on her arm. It’s greener and weaker than the last time I looked at it, like it’s really disappearing fast.
“I need him NOW. Today! This very second. Are you coming, or what?” She’s not waiting for me anyway. She’s already on her way out.
I’m about to turn off my computer and run after her. But some-thing very familiar and unpleasant catches my eye on the screen. It’s a picture of Johnny on the same fan page, and standing right behind him is…I click on the picture to see it full size. “Zelda! I found something!”
“What?” she barks, coming back into the room with Mom’s black coat on, even though I begged her not to touch it ever again and volunteered my own old duffel coat instead.
“Malou,” I say, pointing at the girl behind Johnny Depp in the picture. “I know her. It’s Édouard’s daughter. Sort of my stepsister. Only Mom and Édouard aren’t married, so she’s not really my stepsister.”
If you search for Johnny Depp long enough on Google, you’ll end up finding Malou.
Malou the pest.
Malou the black sheep.
Malou the devil.
The picture was taken in some nightclub, Malou looking joyful in the background, Johnny looking bored in the foreground. The caption reads, “Johnny and friends partying the night away.”
She’s just eighteen, but she’s been living on her own since Édouard kicked her out of our apartment at age sixteen.
Édouard calls her “emancipated.” Mom calls her “promiscuous.” Mom is also known to have used stronger words to describe Malou’s lifestyle.
“She writes a blog about the celebrities she knows. She’s a model, too. She’s been in weird movies. She’s very…strange.”
“Get her!”
“What do you mean, get her?”
“She knows him.” Zelda taps Malou’s face on the screen. “Bring her here!”
“I can’t bring her here.”
There are about a million rules in this apartment. One stands very high on Mom’s list: Malou is never to set foot in here ever again, especially since she stole thousands of euros worth of Mom’s couture and jewelry and auctioned everything at a charity gala. “It’s for saving the freaking kids in Africa—chill out!” she explained when summoned to give everything back.
Zelda grabs me by my T-shirt collar and lifts me off my seat. “I’ve been wasting all morning on that useless piece of plastic.” She points toward my iMac. “Stop challenging my orders and bring her here. NOW!”
Dad’s right: Too much computer time makes people edgy.
“Frog?” Malou sounds like she’s eating something crunchy. “Why are you phoning me? Is Dad dead?”
Crunch crunch crunch.
“No, your dad’s fine. He’s having brunch with Mom.”
“Oh. Are you alone in the apartment?”
“Yes.” I look at Zelda. “I need you to come here.”
Crunch crunch crunch.
“Why?”
“There’s something I need to ask you.”
“Is there champagne in the fridge?”
“I suppose,” I say hesitantly.
“I’ll be there in five minutes.” She hangs up.
An hour later, Zelda is turning in circles in the apartment, kicking furniture, punching walls. “Why isn’t she here yet?”
I’m also turning in circles, picking up and hiding all the ridiculously expensive knickknacks that Malou might steal. “I’m not even sure she’ll come at all. You can never trust anything she says. And she surrounds herself with really bad people. Like, her boyfriends always look like aging serial killers. Édouard gets a rash just from thinking about her.”
Zelda shrugs. All she cares about is Johnny Depp and time running out.
Ding-dong. Here comes the hurricane.
“I’ll deal with her.” Zelda shoots toward the door.
I shake my head. “No way. You hide; I’ll deal with her. Trust me. She sees you, and we’re in trouble!”
Zelda grumbles in her dolphin talk all the way back to my closet. Malou keeps ringing. Ding-dong. Ding-dong. “Tadpole? Are you in there?” I hear her calling. I open the door.
“Tadpole!”
Humph! Malou hugs me and squeezes all the air out of my lungs. She always hugs me and kisses me and tells me I’m the only person she likes in this family. “I’ve missed you so much. Let me see you.” She holds me at arm’s length. “You’ve gotten so cute. Give you another three or four years, and you’ll be, like, totally hot!”
Malou’s very pretty, too, for someone so destructive. Long, jay-black hair, olive skin. As usual, she’s dressed in a dozen layers of designer clothes. “Layering is very practical for shoplifting,” she always explains. The result is a sort of gypsy bohemian chic look, like Esmeralda on a catwalk.
“I don’t know why you haven’t escaped yet,” she says, zooming into the apartment.
“Because I’m fourteen.”
She frowns. “So? I know people younger than you living on the streets.”
Like that’s supposed to inspire me.
She walks into the living room and sneers at the perfect order of things. Even the fresh layer of morning dust looks white and still.
“So cold in here. Like a tomb for the rich.” She turns to me and sighs. “Poor Frog. I wish I could afford you. I’d take you with me.”
And without further ado, she moves directly into Mom’s room to see what couture she can snatch.
“No no no no no! You can’t go in there.”
“Chill out, Frog. I’m just checking what’s new in the queen’s closet.”
She crosses Mom’s room with the grace and velocity of a fashionable missile and enters the walk-in closet. She ignores the regular designer items and goes straight for the extraexpensive stuff. “Is that Saint Laurent?”
She zeroes in on the YSL piece and holds it against her. “Oh ho. We likey!”
“Just put the dress back, please. Look, I need something from you for a change.”
“Something from me? Do you need drugs? I can hook you up with some really good people.”
“No. No drugs.”
“I get it.” She gives me this sidelong look. “Froooog!”
“What?”
“Do you really think you’re ready?”
“Ready for what?”
“Losing your virginity, silly.”
Oh boy!
“It’s a bit yakky, since we’re practically brother and sister, but I’m honored you thought of me.”
I sit down on the bed and hide my face in my hands. I don’t know how she does it. She always drains the energy right out of me. “Will you just listen? It’s not drugs. It’s not that. And it’s not money.”
“Good. About the money. Because I was about to ask if you can lend me some. I’m totally broke!” She laughs.
“Do you know Johnny Depp?”
“Johnny?”
I nod. She drops the Saint Laurent dress on the floor and goes back to browsing through Mom’s collection.
“Of course. Johnny and I are, like, totally b
est pals!”
She removes five or six layers of her clothes to try on one of Mom’s tops.
“Do you know where I can find him? Like, where he lives?”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“You tell me why, I tell you where.”
“Because…I’m a big fan.”
She puts on the top and pauses in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror. “What do you think?”
“Take it off. Put it back on the rack. Tell me where to find him.”
“I can get you his autograph if that’s what you want. But it’ll cost you.”
“I need to see him in person.”
She takes off her boots to try Mom’s new stilettos. “Why do you need to see him?”
“I told you, I’m a big fan.”
“I don’t believe you. You blush when you lie.”
“Please! Just tell me.”
“Why?”
“Tell him immediately, Earthling! Or be ready to suffer at my hands.”
Oh God! We both turn to Zelda—she’s standing right there behind us in the corridor. A strong draft comes from nowhere and blows back her coat and hair. Her fists are firmly locked on her hips, and her black leather knee-high boots shine in the sunlight. She looks exactly like a Supergirl about to kick some ass.
“Man! Is that your mom’s Paco Rabanne swimsuit this girl’s wearing?”
9
EXPIRATION: 35 HOURS
“Where did you find her, Frog?” Malou comes out of the kitchen with a can of Mom’s beluga caviar and a spoon. So much excitement has sparked her appetite.
“She’s Dad’s patient. Was.” The way I mumble, I wonder if any-one can hear me.
“No way!” Malou’s laughing. She finds us very amusing—Zelda, in her Paco Rabanne swimsuit, standing in the middle of the living room, and me beside her, blushing with all my might. “Your face was all over TV this morning,” she tells Zelda. “Everyone’s looking for you. And here you are with Frog, playing Spacegirl and the Little Boy.” She puts a large spoonful of caviar in her mouth and frowns. “Why the Spacegirl act? Is it like a political thing? Or is it just to become famous? It’s sort of brilliant, in a very dumb way.”
She laughs again and sits down on the sofa. “Do you do any special tricks? Like some cool space kung fu?”
Malou demonstrates what she means by thrashing her arms around and splattering caviar all over the perfectly white sofa. I run to the kitchen to get a dishcloth. When I’m back, ready to save the sofa, Zelda isn’t demonstrating any space kung fu. She’s standing over Malou, staring into her eyes, her hand pressing hard on Malou’s shoulder. “I will hurt you. Talk!”
“Why do you want to meet him?”
“He’s my chosen one. He belongs with me.”
I wish Zelda would make up something else.
“Johnny Depp and you, huh?” Malou drops the spoon in the caviar and the caviar pot on the coffee table. She looks up at Zelda and pushes her hand off her shoulder. “I’m sorry, darling, I don’t think you’re his type.”
“GET HER OFF ME!”
It’s that Vahalalian short temper again. Zelda’s sitting on top of Malou on the floor, but instead of singing her a cute intergalactic lullaby, she’s holding her down by the throat.
I don’t blame her. Malou can really get on your nerves.
“Tell. Me. Where. To. Find. Him!” Zelda says, banging Malou’s head on the carpet: Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
“Da. Vid. Help. Me!”
Forget about Zelda forbidding me to ever touch her again. I grab her by the shoulders and pull as hard as I can. “Zelda! Stop! She’s practically my sister!”
She stops strangling Malou to push me away. “Don’t interfere, Pudin. This is standard Vahalalian interrogation protocol.”
“THIS GIRL IS NUTS!” Malou screams, once she can breathe again. “Tell her to get off me!”
Malou searches for something in the pocket of the top layer of her many skirts. A knife? A gun? A picture of an ex-boyfriend?
Pepper spray! She points it at Zelda’s face. “Slap me one more time, and I’ll—”
Zelda slaps her hard across the face. Which is another lesson learned: Never challenge a Vahalalian.
Malou closes her eyes and triggers the spray. Nothing happens. It’s empty.
“Shit! Asshole!” Malou shakes it, trying to squeeze out a last drop. “The guy I stole it from said it was full. You can’t trust anyone!”
Zelda snatches the spray and throws it to me. She grabs Malou’s hands. “I will crush every single bone in these hands unless you tell me where to find my chosen one.”
“You can torture me all you want, bikini girl. I will never give the address, phone number, or any embarrassing physical details of any of my celebrity friends. Not for all the money in the world.”
“What about nine hundred fifty-two euros?” I ask, squatting beside her.
She turns to me. “What did you just say, Tadpole?”
“It’s all my savings—nine hundred fifty-two euros. All yours if you tell us where to find him.”
“Deal!”
“What am I buying exactly?” I ask.
We’re sitting in my bedroom, negotiating around bottles of diet ginger ale.
“For this kind of money, I’ll deliver him to you. Packed, cleaned, and ready to go. You can do whatever you want with him.” She’s about to drink some ginger ale. She stops, looking at me sideways again, like she’s having second thoughts. “By the way, what are you going to do with him? You’re not going to harm him, are you?”
“No, nobody’s going to get hurt. Right?”
Zelda shrugs, like, I don’t know yet. “I don’t trust her, dwarf.”
“Dwarf?” Malou laughs her head off. “And you give me shit for calling you Frog.”
Sigh.
“Do we have a deal, then?” I ask.
“Nope. No money, no deal.”
“It’s in the bank, in my 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.”
“So Monday is the day you get to meet Johnny.”
“I cannot wait that long,” Zelda says, pushing her ginger ale bottle out of the way. “I will torture her instead.”
“All 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.
“My 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.
“Hop 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.
“You’re smoking now?”
She used to say, “If smoking is so cool, how come Dad’s doing it?”
“My 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.
“I 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.”
“Imagine 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.”
“Don’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.
“He’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.
“Do you have parents, Spacegirl?”
“They have been destroyed.”
No wonder she comes across as a bit cold.
“I don’t mean in your space fantasy life. I mean in real life.”
“Her parents are dead, okay?” I say so Malou will stop asking questions, but that’s not knowing Malou.
“Yeah? How did they die?”
“My 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.
“I 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.
“Zelda?” I pick up the bag of chips Malou was munching on.
“Yes?” She turns to me, and I offer her the chips. Another Earthling invention worth discovering.
“You know, it might not be a good idea to tell everyone who you are and where you come from.”
She takes a potato chip and smells it suspiciously. “They ask. I answer.”
“But if you tell people something else, they might just let you be and not try to lock you up in a nuthouse.”
“Something else?” She bites off a small corner of the chip and chews it slowly, like she’s conducting one of her experiments in gustative biochemistry. She seems satisfied with the results and throws the rest of it into her mouth.