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Why I Love L.A.
One Saturday afternoon, I strolled down Robertson Avenue, a coffee cream pastry from Maison in hand, my eyes ogling a gown with satin waterfalls of scarlet. I was lost in daydreams when suddenly, I saw a star.
All heads swiveled as a young woman strutted down the street, her electric blue eyes sparking, her midnight black waves streaming. She glanced at me, and I forgot to breathe.
Megan Fox. My hand awkwardly fumbled for my camera, but by the time I reached it, it was too late. I guess I’ll just have to remember the time I almost got a photo with her, I thought glumly.
No! I tripped after her. I needed to capture this moment…
She whipped her glamorous head around, icy blue eyes piercing mine.
“Yes?” she smiled. Yes, she smiled.
“Uh…er…Miss Fox, may I please get a photo with you?”
She plucked the camera from my hand.
“Of course,” she said, wrapping her arm around my shoulder and snapping a shot. The camera flashed and my stomach leapt into my throat. I couldn’t believe I was actually taking a picture with Megan Fox. She held the camera down to our eye level to look at the picture.
“Ew, I don’t like how my hair looks,” she moaned, pointing at the photo of my messy blonde hair.
“Huh? That’s my hair,” I said.
She looked up at me like I’d told a bad joke.
“Haha. Don’t be silly—that’s my hair. Your hair looks absolutely gorgeous.”
I ran my hand through my hair. It felt sort of…different. When I twirled it with my fingertips, I noticed something very odd. It was BLACK! I turned around and stared at my reflection in the store window. I was Megan Fox, and standing next to me was…me.
“What the heck!?” I cried. I looked over at “myself” in sloppy t-shirt and torn jeans, then back at my reflection. For the first time in my life, I was poured into dark blue skinny designer jeans, Louboutin heels, and a glamorous white-leather jacket. Dior sunglasses were perched chicly in my luxuriously rippling black hair. I could get used to this.
When I looked back over at “me,” she just winked and walked back over to my mom.
“Hi mom, can we go get some food now?” I heard her say as I was swept away in a sudden crowd of paparazzi.
Phony! I thought to myself as I saw them striding into Ben and Jerry’s. I hardly had time to comprehend what was going on when I was suddenly jerked into a black limousine by a huge, fierce looking man whose shirt said “Brutus.”
“Hey!” I protested.
“Sorry Megs, but we have to get you to hair and makeup before you make your appearance at 18.”
18, I thought in awe. I had read about that new club in a magazine while I was getting my hair trimmed at Supercuts last week. Puff Daddy had apparently poured two million into the trendiest new club in LA. The sneak peak photos in Vogue had looked amazing.
Maybe I’ll see what I can do about switching back to the real me after I go to this club, I thought.
As my bodyguard struggled to shut the door, my ears were blasted by the sound of everyone yelling.
“Megan! Megan! Is it true that you’ll be appearing in a new movie this December? Are you dating Michael Phelps? We heard you’ll be cutting your hair this November!”
I could get used to this much attention. As the youngest of five, no one usually paid any attention to me, even when I was bleeding out of both ears.
“Wait! Don’t shut the door! I don’t want to be rude to my fans,” I told Brutus, busting open the door before he could stop me.
I emerged into the strobe lights of a thousand cameras. And then they descended upon me, gnawing at my clothing and hair, attempting to pull off anything they could before my bodyguard yanked me back into the car. I screamed as my hair got caught on someone’s ring. A small chunk of my hair got ripped out as I slipped back into the seat, trembling as we sped away. When I looked back at Brutus, his face was reprimanding and stern.
“Don’t you ever do that again! I thought we’d been over this before. You can get seriously hurt if you try and step into the paparazzi, Megan. I won’t always be able to save you.”
I nodded and looked down at my hands. I felt stupid and insecure for trying to dive into the attention. Now I could understand why the stars avoid the paparazzi at all costs.
I looked in the mirror at my stunning reflection.
“Isn’t my hair and makeup already done?” I asked Brutus.
He gave me an odd look.
“Are you feeling okay?” he asked. “You don’t have your party makeup on. Duh.”
I smiled to myself.
Five hours later, after sitting in hair and makeup for way too long, my stylist handed me a hot pink dress and some gold heels. I grinned. This was like a dream come true. I slipped the pink dress on in the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. I didn’t need to fix a hair on my head. I was gorgeous.
As I slid into the black interior of my “party” Mercedes, Brutus whipped out his clipboard and pen.
“So we’re picking up Lindsay, Britney, and the Olsen twins. Would you like to listen to your “pumped for party” play list while we’re driving? Should we turn on the black-lights? Do you want a puppy?” asked Brutus anxiously.
I just stared at him. What in the world did I do to deserve all this?
“Um…I’ll take the puppy and the music please,” I smiled.
The limousine screeched to a stop outside Paws 'n' Claws.
“What kind?” he asked.
“Pomeranian,” I said, leaning back in the seat and grinning. “White with a pink streak please.”
In a matter of ten minutes, Brutus was running back to the car. In between his index finger and his thumb, he held a tiny pink leash. A furry little ball of fluff was scuttling along beside him. In his other hand, he was brandishing a black Amex. I had heard about those cards. They’re made out of titanium, and you can kill people with them. The creature hopped in beside me and lay down on my lap.
“Sorry it took so long. It took awhile to find the organic pink dye.”
I cupped the puppy in my hands, and I squealed with delight. Then it peed on me.
Let’s just say that within 20 minutes, I was immaculate again. There was a whole closet of Versace in my trunk because Brutus had packed them “in case something like this happened.”
Thirty minutes later, I was doing the snake with Britney, Lindsay and the twins. I was shocked to learn that they were actually people. They laughed when I tripped over my five-inch stilettos, and gave me Band-aids when I was so blistered I could barely recognize my feet. We even went to In-n-Out to pick up some milkshakes and burgers. Just like my own family, when we tore into them, the whole car got silent as we obsessively munched.
The floor of 18 was translucent, and underneath electric blue water pulsed to the music. Giant silver bird cages were suspended from the ceiling, and in each one danced gorgeous women dressed as tropical birds. The walls moved like a never ending tableau, desperately trying to keep the attention of the jaded crowd. Every time I tried to move, I was mobbed.
“Megan! How are you, girl? Britney, come here I have something to tell you. Mary Kate! I love you,” they cried in voices like bombs.
It was too much for one girl. People were pulling me in every direction, and all I wanted to do was go out onto the glowing dance floor for just one song. Suddenly, a tan, muscular arm reached out and pulled me into a dark alcove. He smelled delicious…like burnt roses, and when I looked up I saw dark eyes and a strong jaw.
“Megs!” he cried, sweeping me into his arms and planting a kiss on my lips.
I was stunned. The real me would never experience something like this, not to mention with a man who looked like this one did. Even though I was in Megan’s body, my mind was still my own. Before I could even think, white lights flashed in my face.
What was that? Then I remembered. The paparazzi…they were everywhere. What should have been my first kiss was ruined by cameras. Suddenly, the man swept me out the door and into the street.
“Over here,” he said tightly, pointing to a black Mercedes that was parked a little ways down from the club entrance.
Thank God, I thought, laying my head against his chest. He suavely clicked the unlock button on the car keys, and the car beeping sounded like the trumpets of heaven to my ears. I was finally going to get away from all the noise. He held my hand, then kissed it as I slid into the passenger seat, and in a few moments, we were speeding away.
“How about some hot chocolate for the drive home?” he grinned, winking at me.
What a coincidence. Megan Fox likes hot chocolate just as much as I do, I thought.
“Sure!” I cried, pressing down on what I thought was the seat warmer button. “Argh!” I cried as the car seat grabbed my spine and started kneading.
Mystery Guy looked at me funny.
“Babe, usually you like the massage feature…”
The car slid into the Starbucks parking lot, and Mystery Guy hopped out to get our drinks. Hmm…maybe I should figure out his name since I seemed to be going out with him. Frantically, I opened the glove box and started rummaging through his paperwork to see if I could find some hint as to what his name was. There was nothing there but a few pens and some Dove Bar wrappers. I love Dove Bars! My hand nonchalantly perused the cup-holders.
Bingo. His phone. I flipped it open, furiously scrolling through the instant messages to find one that contained his name. I noticed there were several from me, which I immediately felt justified in opening, since after all I had written them:
Foxybaby<3 (megan fox):
where are you? dinner was done a half hour ago…
still at work, sorry pumpkin.
be home in an hour
richard…ive eaten all the lasagna. too bad for you ?
No response. I’d gotten his name, that was good…but I couldn’t resist scrolling down a little further. Wow…what a great guy. It must take strength of character to stay at work when Megan Fox is waiting at home for you, I thought. And then I found a real stunner.
when are you coming over, baby?
on my way. i can only stay for an hour ;)
I couldn’t believe this guy had stood up MEGAN FOX. I mean, what was he thinking? Luckily, just then I looked up to realize that my cheating boyfriend was approaching the car. I threw the phone back into the cup-holder. I wanted to handle this like a woman. So when he got back into the car and tried to hand me the hot chocolate, I threw it in his face.
“Baby! What was that for?” he cried, looking appalled as he wiped chocolate puddles off his Armani suit.
“What was that for?” I mocked angrily. “That was for Tarty&Delicious! And to think…I made you lasagna!”
“Oh God…Megan, are you serious?”
“Yeah, I am,” I said, glaring at him.
“It was nothing…I swear, I was just picking up some paper work! Why are you overreacting?”
“Then why’d she call you ‘baby’? Why’d you tell me you were still at work? And most importantly, WHY DID YOU SEND HER A WINKY FACE?!”
“I just…we just…all it was—”
“Don’t even try,” I said, getting out of the car and slamming the door.
Oops, forgot I was wearing five inch Jimmy Choo heels, I thought as I stalked away with as much dignity as I could muster, given that every step felt like I was shattering.
“Who’s gonna take you home?” Richard exclaimed mockingly.
I stepped out onto the street and raised my hand as seventeen taxis skidded to a stop.
“Don’t worry…I’ll be just fine,” I said, tossing my mane of black hair as I disappeared into the taxi.
Sometimes, it was good to be Megan Fox.