Wishes Washed Away

"Look, Michael Phelps, I hate swimming. Just leave me on the benches, and you can go swim laps." I sit down at the bench area and cross my legs in my navy blue one-piece. Edward walks towards me, but I turn slightly to my left. The body language means to back off.

"Dawn, you have to. This is part of your therapy. You aren't paying me 200 dollars per session for nothing." He sits down next to me, and I snarl. "C'mon, let's just do one lap, and I promise we'll be out of here."

I glare at him. "I'm not going into the pool."

"Why not?"

I wrap the white towel he had placed on my shoulders around my torso. "...Because I can't swim."

"CUT!" shouts Anthony. "Hey, Maggie, hon. We need a little chat." He motions with his fingers to follow him, and I wrap the towel around my waist. Anthony walks really fast, so I'm practically running in pursuit of him. Give me "Baywatch."

Flash.

Give me Pamela Anderson.

Flash.

Give me "where the fuck are you, you stupid director."

Flash.

"Now, I've noticed you've been stressing out." I watch the men in blue jumpsuits wipe the water from the tiling near the swimming pools, and Edward is talking to Dan, who's attempting to find the vision within this massive recreation center. Being here in Maryland makes me sick. I feel as though I'm caged in with all these annoying paparazzi and talk show hosts. "Are you okay, Maggie?"

I smile. "I'm just fine."

His look turns grim. "I'm asking for the truth, Miss Cartwright. I am entitled to that, at the very least, aren't I?"

I nod. "I just need a breath of fresh air, that's all." He sighs and mutters something to Peter, a body guard and hands him a set of keys. He starts to walk towards the door, and already I see the flashes from cameras. I steps out, Peter trying his best to shield me with his 6'5" wingspan. Questions are flying everywhere.

"Miss Cartwright, what's the new movie about?"

"Are you and Edward Norton engaged?"

"I've heard rumors of you dating Michael Phelps. Is this true?"

"Miss Cartwright isn't feeling well. She's in need of some space." Peter's pushing past these idiots, dragging me to the black car with tinted windows awaiting me. Peter opens the door as the flashes go off. Give me annoyed.

Flash.

Give me pissed off.

Flash.

Give me "where are you taking me?".

Flash.

All ready, the car is racing off onto incoming traffic. Off to the BMI airport. Peter sits there sitting up straight with that ridiculous blue tooth earpiece attached to his ear. It's now a piece of him. Peter is never without his blue tooth, and if he is, it means someone's sliced his ear off. "Miss Cartwright, are you feeling all right?" he asks, his voice very mechanical. It sounds like an automated answering machine. I just nod, not really knowing what else to say. "We have arranged for you to board a plane to Nevada. Unfortunately the booking was last minute, so you will be riding in third-class." Or, in other words, the less luxurious compartment, otherwise known as coach. "I hope you don't mind."

This insane man is weaving in and out of traffic like crazy. I may be riding in a Buick, but this man is going well over the speed limit. Where are the cops when you need them? Out at Dunkin' Donuts. Give me scared.

Flash.

Give me fear.

Flash.

Give me "I'm going to die in the next five minutes."

Flash.

I'm out of the car with my sunglasses on. I have no bags, and apparently, they already have all of my things on the plane. I'm so glad I'm rich. I'm stomping into the airport, and I stand in a short line, smiling as they hand me my ticket. The man handing it to me asks for a quick signature, which I write on a luggage tag. He squeals as I'm running past the terminals, in search of number twenty four.

I pick a seat, and I sit down, whipping out my new sidekick, which was given for me to advertise this "new and improved" item. I have three messages: One from Edward, one from Anthony, and another from my "best friend", Raquel.

Where are you? I'm going to wear your blue dress to a party tonight. Hope you don't mind.

-R

A muscle in my cheek twitches. She'll wrinkle it. I just bought that one yesterday.

Wear the green one. It looks better on you.

-M

I hit send, but it doesn't work. No service. I grumble under my breath, realizing I can't type anything on my phone for this entire flight. Poor Maggie will be bored to tears. But why Nevada? There's nothing there but casinos, alcohol, and strip clubs.

Magnolia Cartwright will not strip for money.