Wishes Washed Away

My sidekick alerts me that Edward's sent me an email:

Hey. When are you coming back to the set? The place is getting boring without you. The paparazzi miss you too. They've been asking me questions I can't answer.

-E

I walked outside in the stifling heat for fifteen minutes. But now I'm sitting in a Starbucks, drinking my tall, "vanilla rooibos" tea latte. I don't really know what that means, but it tastes delicious. I've given up replying to my emails and phone calls, because it just doesn't work. I'm receiving signal, yet I'm not. I'm receiving emails, yet I can't send anything. Not even text messaging works.

Could Vegas be any more of a bust?

"Um...excuse me, ma'am?" I look up from my sidekick to see an eager tween. The braces, the freckles, the electric-shock red hair--you get my point. "You're...you're Magn-Magnolia Cartwright...right?" No pun intended, I'm sure. I nod.

What's it to you?

"Could I...um..." She hands me a magazine clipping. The photo shoot I did for Burberry. I sign it with her black Sharpie, and she silently thanks me, making her way back to her caffeine-high mother.

How wonderful does it feel to be a teen idol? Good question, I don't know. Being famous has its ups and downs.

I smile for the girl and go back to checking my emails. Raquel's newest picture of her and Ignacio has landed her a prime spot on Perez Hilton. What a special spot. I scroll through, and I see more pictures of Raquel and Ignacio, white drawn on her face. I can only imagine what that means. I scroll down some more...

Oh my God. I shut my eyes as my cheeks flare up in defeat. In embarrassment. Pictures of Brendon and me sitting in the Luxor, walking around outside. Me zipping into the Wachovia. The mishap down at the Bellagio.

Pictures everywhere.

I dab my eyes, my perfect make-up officially ruined by my tears. I shove the sidekick into my pocket and make my way into the bathroom, eyeliner and eye shadow pallet ready.

I scurry into the bathroom and smear coral pink lip gloss on, reapply my liquid eyeliner, fix my eyelashes, and rub more lavender eye shadow above my eyes. I blink a couple times, making sure everything's perfect. If they're going to take pictures, I might as well look pretty.

"...didn't you see her?"

"Who?"

"The girl who walked into the bathroom."

"Dude, it's not like I stalk women."

"Well, she's an actress."

"What's your point?"

I strut out, Gucci purse in hand. I twist my chestnut ponytail around my finger, pretending to blindly bite my lip. I waltz out of the Starbucks unscathed, but with all eyes on me. When someone points out you're some sort of celebrity, everyone's curious. Everyone wants to see the new face of Hollywood.

Give me perfection.

Flash.

Give me poise.

Flash.

Give me jealousy.

Flash.

Halfway down the street, the paparazzi greet me with huge smiles and big questions. I'm still waltzing about in my Louis Vuitton stilettos, gazing out at these obnoxious camera men through my Chanel sunglasses. I flick my voluminous hair over my shoulders, and I know someone's got to have a good photo of that one.

"Maggie, look over here, please?"

Flash.

"Maggie, over here!"

Flash.

"Maggie, where'd you get your make-up?"

Flash.

I say, "My stylist gave it to me."

Flash.

"Miss Cartwright, why are you here in Las Vegas?"

Flash.

I say, "I needed a break from the East Coast."

Flash.

"Miss Cartwright, we've seen you with Mr. Brendon Urie of Panic at the Disco. Does this mean your relationship with Mr. Edward Norton is over?"

And to this question, I say:

"Brendon whom?"

Flash.

"Ms. Cartwright, look here!"

Flash.

"Maggie!"

Flash.

I keep strolling around the Strip, visiting designer stores and shoppes within the Venetian. I can't help it--I'm addicted to fine living. It's the sort of thing I need rehab for. Some have drugs. Alcohol. Music. Sex. For me, it's Chanel. Gucci. Giorgio Armani. Louis Vuitton. Christian Dior. Burberry. It's the sort of thing I can't stop.

I try on a pair of Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses while checking out the new Tiffany and Co. jewelry. I try on the earrings as the sales woman flits about, bringing me different rings to try on. The diamond necklaces are absolutely gorgeous. "To die for", as the sales lady puts it.

I try on Prada stilettos, balancing in red stilettos, leopard print, green and pink stripes. I scan the Marc Jacobs hand bags. I search through the Versace and Fendi clothes, the purses, the shoes, the make-up, the accessories...

Only to realize: I can't purchase a thing.