There are posters for the prom all over the place. Time is a-wasting. I avoid looking at Zach’s locker and head over to Todd, thinking positive.
“Hi, Todd.”
He turns around fast, as though he can’t believe a girl is speaking to him. He really does have gorgeous eyes. How have I not noticed Todd’s eyes were so blue?
“Could Mathers have given us more homework?” I say, sighing for dramatic effect.
As Todd puts his books in his locker, his pouf shakes. “I know. I’ll be solving proofs all weekend.”
Ah—he’s given me a good in. “Or . . . you could go out with me instead,” I say, feeling my cheeks burn. “To the movies, maybe.”
He stares at me. “You’re asking me out?”
He looks so incredulous that I relax and smile. “Yes, I am.”
He eyes me. Up, then down. He’s losing points on the nice meter fast.
“Sure,” he says. “That would be great. Cool.” He gestures at his Theodora montage. “Her new movie is opening Friday night. Wanna go?”
Deep sigh. “Sounds great.”
“Bye, Mom, I’m leaving,” I call out with a hand on the front door.
It’s Friday night and I’m meeting Todd at the theater in fifteen minutes. My mother is nowhere to be found. Earlier she was on the phone for at least an hour while Stew watched Sophie (very unusual). Then she and Stew disappeared behind closed doors for another hour. I have a feeling the call was my mom’s former boss and the “behind closed doors” was “Should I or shouldn’t I go back to work?” Whatever she decides, I just hope she’ll be happy. And go back to being herself.
“Mom, I’m leaving.”
“Okay, sweetie, have fun at Belle’s!” she calls down from upstairs, probably from Sophie’s nursery. I know from personal experience that when you’re changing a baby’s diaper, especially a gross one, you can’t drop what you’re doing and have a ten-minute conversation.
Still, two days ago I told my mom I had a date. How can she not remember?
She appears at the top of the landing, rocking Sophie in her arms. “Honey, can you pick up a new pacifier at Rite Aid on your way home?” she whisper-calls to me. “Oh, don’t you look nice,” she adds, eyeing my low-slung denim skirt and baby blue T-shirt with tiny rhinestones dotting the V-neck. “You and Belle and Jen going to a party?”
“I’m going out with Todd,” I say. “Remember?”
She knocks her forehead with her spare hand. “I’m sorry, sweetie. Between Sophie keeping me up all night with her teething and these new thoughts of maybe going back to work part-time, I can’t remember if I’m coming or going. Have a great time.” And she disappears, softly singing a lullaby to my baby sister.
Insane. I used to want my mother to butt out. Now I want her to butt in?
“God, she’s hot.”
Todd is practically foaming at the mouth. He’s staring up at the screen, so oblivious to everyone and everything except Theodora Twist that he just shoved a popcorn kernel up his nose instead of in his mouth. Finally the credits roll—on the movie and on my date.
“That was great,” Todd says, turning to me. His smile fades, those gorgeous blue eyes registering . . . disappointment?
“Something wrong, Todd?” I ask.
He collects his empty popcorn container and water bottle. “It’s just that it’s hard to look at Theodora Twist for two hours and then come back to reality, you know?”
Okay, so Todd Tuttle is not such a nice guy, after all.
“Can I admit something to you?” he asks as we head out.
You’ve secretly had a crush on me for years. You’re so happy I asked you out. You think I’m way prettier than Theodora Twist.
“I don’t even know your name,” he says with a snort. “But I know you’re in two of my classes. Math and history?”
Math and English. I sure can pick ’em.
Another huge difference between me and Theodora Twist: I am the opposite of famous.
EmilyIsFine: U should have seen the look on Todd’s face when the lights came up & he had 2 look at me instead of Theodora. Got the blahs. ☹
BelleSays: He looks like a Q-tip anyway. & there’s way more fish in the sea! LYLAS. xoxo
JenGirl: Chin up, my girl. The chess club president probably has no idea who TT is. Ray Roarke moves from #3 to #2 immediately.
Theodora
“No. No. And no,” I say to Ashley, who’s sitting across from me in her office on the gazillionth floor of an L.A skyscraper. She just finished pitching me her concept for a ridiculous TV show that I wouldn’t do for five million, let alone for free (Ashley’s other brilliant idea: my salary would go to various girls charities, like Girls Club of America and Big Sisters). “Hey, how’s that for repeating an answer if pressed—and by the way, stop pressing me. Because the answer is no. I’m not doing it.”
My publicist and my entertainment lawyer—who wears a stupid Yankees cap 24/7 because he’s bald—stare from me to Ashley as though we’re at Wimbledon.
Ashley glares at me with those shrewd dark eyes of hers. “Want to know about the offer I got for you this morning? Your own soft porn show on a major cable station. Wanna take it? Your career will be over by the time you’re eighteen. Oh, and you can forget about getting paid a fortune to eat M&Ms in commercials. The Mars company just dropped out of negotiations.”
Oh. “Good. I don’t need the extra calories. And the answer is still no.”
Ashley looks through a stack of phone messages on her desk. “Find yourself a new agent. I don’t work with losers who derail their careers. You don’t make money, I don’t make money.”
I hate you, I want to scream.
“Would you like to change your answer?” she asks, scrolling through her e-mail. “I’m busy.”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
She stands up. “The door is that way. See my assistant for the necessary paperwork to terminate our contract—”
“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” I say, hating myself. “Fine. I’ll do it. It’ll be a total nightmare, but I’ll do it.”
Ashley smiles. She’s won. “With our salary going to charity.”
“Yep. Every friggin’ penny.”
Ashley is, annoyingly, always right. If I want to do a movie and she says no way, that movie ends up bombing. Endorsements, charity stuff—whatever she okays always ends up being good for me.
My publicist and my lawyer are beaming and nodding and already have their CrackBerries out.
Ashley smiles wider. “You’re a smart girl, Theodora.”
“I wish I were an idiot. Life would be a lot simpler.”
She shakes her head. “Trust me. It wouldn’t.”
Emily
Ray Roarke is walking down the hall, about to pass me. I tell myself to call out his name. But I can’t.
“You’re shallow!” Belle accuses me as he walks by.
I open my locker and put away my math and science textbooks and stuff Romeo and Juliet and Human Psychology into my backpack. “There’s a difference between being shallow and not being attracted to someone,” I say in my own defense. “There’s no way I can even imagine kissing Ray Roarke.”
“He could be the love of your life,” Belle says. She sighs dramatically. “Passed up because of his slightly large nose and his love of chess. Such a shame.”
“It’s not his nose,” I insist, watching him stop to drink from the water fountain. I actually like his nose. And unlike Todd, he has great hair. “It’s that—” I can’t say it.
“That he’s not Zach?” Jen says.
I nod. “And that he might be another Todd Tuttle. I can’t do this, okay?”
Belle squeezes my hand. “You can. Forget Todd. And try to forget Zach.”
I shrug. “I can’t.”
“So your gorgeous prom dress is going to hang in your closet till next year?” Jen asks.
Sigh. I don’t know. I just know that Ray Roarke can’t be the answer to the meaning of lif
e.
After school I spend a little too much time lying flat on my bed, staring at the one photo of me and Zach Archer that I have. It’s my only proof that we were ever a couple—that it wasn’t all just a dream. It’s been over two weeks since we broke up, two weeks since he’s even acknowledged me in the hallways at school, so every now and then (okay, every day) I look at the picture to remind myself I’m not nuts. I didn’t imagine it.
Jen was the photographer. Zach and I were walking his beagle, Lucy, when we ran into Jen, who’s taking a photography class in the city on Saturdays with her mom.
Zach put his hand over his face. “I hate having my picture taken.”
“C’mon. Just one,” Jen said.
The hand came down. I smiled. He didn’t. But it was a great shot. We’re not holding hands or kissing or doing anything remotely adorable. But we’re in the same frame. We’re together.
Bzzz! Doorbell.
“Em, could you get that?” my mom calls from down the hall. “I’m in the middle of changing Sophie!”
Better her than me. I head downstairs and look through the peephole, and there stand three of the best-looking people I’ve ever seen in my life. People who look like they just stepped out of a TV screen. I open the door. They—two women and one man—are wearing sunglasses, which they all whip off at the same time. They smile bright white smiles at me.
“We’re Theodora’s People!” says one of the women. She’s wearing a tiny black jacket, a white micro-miniskirt, and high-heeled black shoes with glen plaid feathers poking out of the toe. I stare at the feathers for too long. The woman smiles and whispers, “Manolos.”
I know what Manolos are (seriously expensive hot shoes). I don’t know what Theodora’s People are. Theodora as in Theodora Twist? I’m trying to figure out why they could possibly be standing on our doorstep on an ordinary Monday at five o’clock when my stepfather comes up behind me and welcomes them in. Apparently, he’s been expecting them.
There’s nice-talk of how the flight was (Theodora’s People flew in from “the coast,” which I soon learn means Los Angeles), whether there was congestion on the New Jersey Turnpike (which is how you get to our house from the airport), a few exit jokes, and more nice-talk about how lovely the house is, and “would you like some coffee or a nice glass of fresh-brewed iced tea?” There’s also a brief debate on whether scones or bagels have more carbs; Theodora’s People are all on no-carb “eating regimens.”
My mother comes downstairs holding Sophie, which elicits more nice-talk of how cute she is and how old she is and “do any of you have kids?” None of Theodora’s People has children, so baby convo is thankfully cut short. My mom puts Sophie in her playpen with a giant Big Bird toy and a teething ring, which means that whoever these people are, they’re important.
“And I’ll bet this lovely young lady is our regular teen!” says the redhead in the white pantsuit. She’s wearing a ton of silver jewelry.
The man flashes his super white teeth at me. He’s wearing a backwards baseball cap, despite his business suit and shiny black shoes. He also has a tiny silver hoop earring, even though he has to be around Stew’s age.
“You’re right,” Stew says, slinging an arm around my shoulder. “This is Emily.”
Theodora’s People stand around the living room and eyeball me approvingly. Apparently, I’ve passed some sort of big test. All of them whisper back and forth in short exclamations: “She couldn’t be more of a regular teen! Love the no-makeup look! A mall-store Prada rip-off shirt, no-brand jeans with a cute belt, sparkly purple toe-nail polish, and her hair in trendy pigtails—just perfect!”
They smile and nod and stare. The redhead is taking notes. The woman in the feather shoes circles me like a fly. “Uncanny,” she says, looking me up and down, down and up. Her almost-black, bobbed-with-bangs hair flops around her cat’s-eye glasses, which are also glen plaid. She stops in front of me and smiles. “Emily, my name is Ashley Bean, and I’m Theodora Twist’s agent and manager. These are my colleagues, Blair Babcock, a television producer, and Michael Simms, Theodora’s attorney.”
Theodora Twist is everywhere. She’s in lockers. She’s on movie screens. And now her “People,” for reasons I can’t fathom, are in my house.
“Okay, Emily,” Ashley says with a clap of her hands. “Pop quiz time!”
Is this one of those “If you can name Theodora Twist’s movies and the character she played, you will win a trip to the Bahamas or tickets to the movie”? I hope it’s for the trip and not free passes to Family. Seen it.
Ashley is beaming at me. “What do you get if you take away Theodora Twist’s glossy blond hair, her huge blue eyes, her exquisite beauty, her adorable name, her multimillion-dollar bank account, her cozy mansion in the Hollywood Hills, her rock star boyfriends, her successful acting career, and her jet-setting, glamorous life at age sixteen?”
You get Dora Twistler. But that’s too easy. It must be a trick question. But there’s no other possible answer. “Dora Twistler?” I finally say in the form of a question, despite the fact that I’m not a contestant on Jeopardy!
“You are absolutely right,” Ashley says. “You get just a regular, everyday teenager. And that’s who Theodora Twist is at heart.”
I expect them all to start laughing, but they don’t. The People look very serious. They sit and open briefcases.
Blair, the television producer, opens a folder in her lap and turns to my mom and Stew. “Would you like to fill Emily in on our prior discussion or shall I share the great news?”
Prior discussion? Great news? Ah—the mysterious hour-long phone call. The closed doors. Now it all makes sense. My mom’s not in talks with her former boss to go back to work. She’s been in talks with the People. Why?
“Emily, come sit down,” Stew says, patting the butter-scotch leather love seat. “Your mother and I have a big surprise for you!”
Maybe I’m being offered a part as an extra in an upcoming Theodora Twist movie? My birthday came and went three months ago with very little Sweet Sixteen–ishness. Perhaps my parents arranged something with Theodora’s People in lieu of throwing me a huge, expensive Sweet Sixteen that all of two people would attend.
“Theodora is famous for her acting talent and her beauty,” Ashley tells me. “But she’s becoming even more known for her off-screen behavior. Of course, it’s all just rumors and one hundred percent lies, lies, lies. But before it becomes so bad that she loses the tween crowd— the ten- to thirteen-year-olds that are a huge share of her audience—we need to show America that Theodora Twist is really just a clean-cut American teenager misrepresented by the media.”
So that wasn’t Theodora Twist skinny dipping with the Bellini Brothers on the front cover of every magazine last week? One Bellini was holding her bikini top and swimming toward her, licking his lips, while the other wrapped his arms around her.
“How are you going to do that?” I ask.
Ashley leans forward, clasping her hands on her knee. “Emily, I’ve made a deal with a major television network for Theodora to star in her very own reality TV show: Theodora Twist: Just a Regular Teen!”
“And it’s going to be filmed right here in Oak City!” Stew adds. “Right here in our house—if we agree to do the show.”
Do the show? “What do you mean?” I ask. Are they going to film Theodora Twist paying a visit to her old house? Saying things like We had the sofa on the other wall and My bedroom was painted orange. How interesting is that?
“Emily, we spoke with your parents a few days ago to discuss this,” Ashley says, “and they’re up for it, but they said that you’re the one who has to give the green light since you’re the one who’ll be most affected. So we’re here today to explain the show and how it will work, and to answer any questions. And hopefully you’ll say yes to participating.”
“In what, exactly?” I ask, my stomach flip-flopping.
“In having Theodora Twist as your roommate—and shadow—for a month!” A
shley says.
For the next hour, Ashley, Blair, and the entertainment attorney, who doesn’t do a lot of talking but does do a lot of jotting down on a BlackBerry, explain in detail. The gist of the show? Teen queen Theodora Twist returns to her hometown for one month to live in the house she grew up in with the family that lives there now. Theodora will live like a regular teenager and do everything her host family’s teenage daughter does—go to high school every day, do homework, hit the mall after earning some babysitting money, worry about a prom date, use zit cream, get briefly grounded for staying out a half hour past curfew.
This is insane. “You want to use my life as the basis for a reality TV show?” I ask, fighting the urge to laugh and cry. “It’ll be the most boring show imaginable!”
“Nothing about a teenager’s life is boring,” Ashley assures me. “The prom’s coming up in what—five weeks? Do you have a date?”
I blush. “No. I mean, not yet.”
She smiles. “Angsting about a date is hardly boring. Everyone can relate to that, no matter their age.” They all smile and nod and jot down who-knows-what on their BlackBerries.
“How will it work?” I ask. “I mean, I’ve watched reality TV. Will it be like The Real World?”
She smiles. “It’ll be its own unique show, but the concept of filming you as you are is the same, yes. Our plan is to shoot unscripted and undirected, then see what we get and edit the heck out of it. Emily, you and Theodora will each have your own cameraperson assigned to you; Stew and Stephie, you’ll share one. The cameras will shadow you, but most of the time you won’t even notice they’re there.”
“In school too?” I ask.
Blair nods. “The principal of your school”—she flips open her notebook and scans some pages —“Mr. Opps,” she adds, closing the notebook, “has given his approval to shoot for a certain number of hours per day for four weeks starting in mid-April and ending in mid-May. A focal point of the six episodes—a half hour each—will be the Oak City High junior prom—the date, the dress, the preparation, the pictures. In fact, we’ve already lined up a number of sponsors, like the Dress Me Up chain in the Oak City Mall, to provide free dresses to you and Theodora in exchange for featuring the shop. We’re thinking the last episode will feature the prom—getting ready, the prom itself—and then goodbyes the next morning as Theodora leaves Oak City.”
Theodora Twist Page 4
