When you shop in sunglasses on Rodeo Drive or Melrose Avenue, no one looks twice at you. It’s assumed (a) you’ve got money, or (b) you’re a celebrity. Either way, you’re given space. At the Grove, this upscale outdoor shopping mall in L.A., it’s a little different. There are lots of tourists. Lots of locals. And some celebrities shop here too—at least, that’s what I’ve read in the gossip rags. Lots of people are wearing sunglasses, which makes sense— this is an outdoor mall, after all. But most people take them off when they go inside a store.
Not me.
I’m inside the Gap, a store I haven’t been in since I was twelve, following around a girl who looks to be about fifteen or sixteen. She’s got a little flair. Low-slung jeans. Cute Skechers. A studded tank top. I grab what she grabs.
She turns around and sticks a finger in my face. “Jesus Christ, stop following me!” she snaps. “I’m not stealing anything, okay? Do you want to see my wad of cash?”
“Whoa,” I say. “Chill out. I’m not security.” I take off my sunglasses and her eyes widen.
“Omigod.” Her mouth opens again, but nothing comes out. She’s just staring at me.
“I’m researching a role,” I explain quietly. “I need to buy clothes that a regular teen would buy.” And since a regular teen wouldn’t have her own clothing line (mine is in development), I can forget about wearing any of the T Squared prototypes in my closet.
She beams. “I’m so regular! You’d actually wear what I would wear?”
“For a month, anyway,” I say, winking at her.
And for the next hour, Hannah leads me around the store, then the mall (my sunglasses and baseball cap firmly back on). Two hours later, we’re standing in front of Forever 21, and I have the wardrobe and cosmetics bag of a regular teen, complete with strawberry-flavored lip gloss. I even bought Hannah a pair of board shorts and a shirt in Pacific Sunwear.
“No one’s gonna believe me when I tell them how I spent my afternoon,” Hannah says, deflating. “Like anyone would believe this.”
I drag her over to a vendor’s cart and buy a disposable camera. Then I look for the oldest senior citizen around— someone who won’t recognize me and start shrieking— and ask her to shoot all the pictures in the vestibule near the parking garage. I take off my sunglasses and shake out my hair and make a regular teenager very happy.
“You are the best!” Hannah gushes, clutching her shopping bag. “Really, I am your biggest fan! I loved you in The Boyfriend Test! And I can’t wait to see Family! This was so much fun!”
Oddly enough, it was sort of fun. If it was fun enough for a few hours, maybe a month of it won’t be as awful as I think.
Nah, it will be.
I hate meetings. I’ve had eight today—not counting the ones with Ashley. Producers. Ashley. Directors. Ashley. Lawyers. Publicist. Ashley. Hair and makeup consult for Theodora Twist: Just a Regular Teen! (a two-hour meeting that resulted in: Okay, so it’s agreed, foundation and blush only, no hairstyling.) Lawyers again. Accountant. Ashley. (Let’s discuss the multimillion-dollar offer to hawk face cream in Japan.) Publicist. And in between it all are meetings with the public—I get out of the car, a fan spots me, screams my name, and I’m mobbed for autographs. I like the fans. Like the screaming. Sometimes I think it’s the sole reason I do what I do.
“Okay, so it’s a yes to the commercial for Japanese television,” Ashley says, pecking away at her CrackBerry. We’re in her office now. She motions to her assistant and the ass-kissing junior agent who works for her to take the paperwork and some DVDs and leave. “You’re going to have to lug these home yourself,” she says, handing me three scripts. “I decided not to hire you a temporary personal assistant since you can’t have one in Oak City anyway. Read these over next week—off camera. We’ll discuss”—she pecks more at the CrackBerry—“the last week of April.” More pecking. “Okay, next up, let’s revisit—”
Interrupted by her constantly-ringing phone. Thank you! I’m dying to get out of her stuffy office so I can go home and call Bo and Brandon in total privacy. I very quietly try to slink out, but Ashley wildly motions for her assistant to lock the door using her remote key. I slump back in a chair. My life is so glamorous sometimes.
Ten o’clock p.m. France time. No answer on either Bo’s or Brandon’s hotel room or cell phone.
Midnight—no answer. Morning in Rome—no answer.
Not one call from Bo or Brandon in over a week! I heard from each of them exactly once, a couple of days after they left. Where are they? I know they’re alive and well because they’re all over MTV, and footage from their concerts is played on TRL a thousand times a day. So why aren’t they calling me back?
Tomorrow night, Ashley and I are taking the red-eye to New York, and then she’s driving me to Oak City, where I don’t have twin boyfriends, where I’m not Theodora Twist, movie star—I’m just Theodora Twist, girl. I punch in the hotel number in Rome. It rings and rings. I don’t seem to have twin boyfriends anymore and I’m still Theodora Twist, movie star.
Emily
The press release is handed out on Friday in homeroom, along with release forms for our class trip, a pamphlet on “How to Talk to Your Teenagers About Drugs,” and a memo about our prom. Suddenly, the loudspeaker crackles and the room is filled with the nasal voice of Mr. Opps.
“Attention, Oak City High students. This is Mr. Opps. I’m thrilled to announce, per the press release handed out this morning, that Theodora Twist, Golden Globe– winning actress and former Oak City resident, will return to Oak City and Oak City High for one month for the filmingof her reality TV show, Theodora Twist: Just a Regular Teen! During her stay, Theodora will live with the family of junior Emily Fine and do everything that Emily does. When Theodora arrives at school on Monday, please join me in welcoming her the Oak City High way—with big-time spirit! Thank you.”
The bell rings one second later. I race out. You can hear the crumpled pieces of paper being uncrumpled. Smoothed out. Students race back into their homerooms and run for the trash can by the front door.
“Omigod!” is the first repeated refrain.
“Who is Emily Fine?” is the second.
The pointing and whispering and “That’s Emily Fine’s” begin and I hold my notebooks and textbooks close to my chest and bite my lower lip the way I always do when I’m a nervous wreck. People are staring.
“It’s official!” Belle screams, running up to me, her auburn ringlets bouncing on her shoulders.
Jen is right behind her. “Everyone’s taking about you!”
I am going to throw up. Do not throw up while everyone is staring at you, I order myself.
“We’re coming over after school!” Belle and Jen say in unison. “Wait for us at our spot.”
I head into room 212, English, but an arm blocks my entry into class. I duck, but the arm, toned, tanned, and laden with silver bangles, lowers.
“Emily Fine?”
I’m suddenly surrounded by the four Samanthas, OCH’s prettiest and meanest juniors. The two leaders are named Samantha. The other two are Carin and April (who insists on being called Avril despite the fact that she isn’t French). The Samanthas are superthin and supertrendy, and they all have highlighted straight long brown hair. From the back, you can’t tell them apart. They always coordinate their outfits.
At my nod, Samantha Paris lowers her arm and sort of smiles at me. “We have a business proposition for you. Our plan is to sell raffle tickets for ten bucks each for a chance to win a half hour alone with Theodora Twist in her bedroom. We’ll make a fortune.”
Before I can process any of this, Samantha Ulrich adds, “You’ve got the house and can easily make this happen. We’ve got the contacts—the potential customers— because of who were are. Since it’s our idea and we’ll be bringing in the business, we think a ninety-ten split on the profits is more than reasonable. Ten percent for you, and ninety for us. That seems more than fair, especially because there are four of us and there’s only
one of you.”
On a strictly intellectual level, I have to admit that the idea is brilliant.
“Do we have a deal?” Samantha Paris asks, those mean green eyes on mine. “All you have to do is provide easy entry for the winner and get Theodora in the bedroom for a while. You can even skimp on the half hour. Any guy would probably settle for fifteen minutes.”
Any guy would probably settle for five minutes. “Sorry,” I say. “I just can’t. It’s a total invasion of her privacy.” And I’d no sooner sell her out than I’d run naked through the cafeteria. Especially for only ten percent of the profits. Okay, for any sum.
There’s a lot of eye rolling. “Privacy? Are you kidding?” Samantha Ulrich says. “She’s a movie star. She gave up all rights to her privacy when she sold her soul to Hollywood. Give me a break.”
I shrug. “I can’t do it. Sorry.”
Samantha Paris stares at me. “Okay, fifteen percent of the profits and an invitation to one of our famous Friday-night parties.”
I’ve never been invited to a Samantha party. Neither has Belle or Jen. Samantha parties are legendary at Oak City High. Secret society. You’re not allowed to talk about what goes on or you’re blacklisted forever. Jen and Belle and I have spent many dull Friday nights wondering what does go on at a Samantha party. Belle thinks they sit around and rank all the people who aren’t cool enough or popular enough to be invited. Jen thinks they have orgies. I think it’s just a regular party with a lot of unwarranted buzz. But I don’t know for sure. I secretly really want to know.
“Look, I agree it’s a great idea as entrepreneurial concepts go,” I say, “but I can’t sell Dora out that way. We used to be good friends.”
“Key words: used to be,” Samantha Paris says. “And stop calling her Dora like you’re still her friend. It’s more than a little reaching and a lot pathetic.”
Samantha Paris is pure evil. I’ve witnessed her and her friends ripping apart girls in the halls, in the locker room, in the cafeteria. How can you eat those French fries when you’re so fat already? she actually said to Leslie Biel a few months ago. I mean, summer is coming. Don’t you care? Look what’s on my tray—and I’m thin. Yogurt. Water. The fry dropped from Leslie’s hand out of pure shock and she turned all kinds of red. She just sat there and stared, not saying a word. No one said a word. Including me, and I was sitting a table away. Finally Samantha just shook her head and she and the Samanthas headed to their table across the room.
“No can do,” I say. “Sorry.”
“Oh, wait a minute,” Samantha continues. “I get it. This Dork Loseretta thinks she’s going to be popular by association. Because she’s going to be on the show. Because Theodora has to pretend to be her friend. Well, news flash: you’ll be hot for a month, and then when Theodora leaves, you’ll go back to being a nobody.”
“Until the show airs,” Avril puts in.
Samantha Ulrich cuts her a look. “Emily will be shown as the dorky loser she is, doing dorky loser things, like not going to our parties. Ooh, how exciting! I wish I were the nerdy teenager leading the regular life that Theodora Twist will supposedly lead,” she adds, laughing.
“You might want to rethink this,” Carin says. I wasn’t sure she was actually allowed to speak.
“Nope,” I say.
Samantha Paris stares at me with disgust in her eyes. “Consider yourself persona no one-a forever. Bye, Loser Dork.”
When I finally walk into English class, Samantha P.U. (as Belle once brilliantly dubbed them) are in conference just outside the door, most likely deciding how best to torture me without being caught when the cameras start rolling on Monday. I feel Zach’s eyes on me.
“Wow,” he says as I sit down in my regular seat, diagonally in front of his. “Theodora Twist is going to live with you for a whole month. Very cool.”
Too bad you’re not, I think. I hate that I still like him so much. Why do I like a jerk? Why do I want to turn around and stare into that gorgeous face, those incredible dark blue eyes?
I force myself not to turn around. Which means I’m eye to eye with two of the Samanthas when they finally decide to grace the classroom with their We Rule presence. Samantha Paris and Avril sashay in, eliciting stares as they always do. They sit behind Zach and immediately start flirting. He turns and smiles but doesn’t flirt back; he doesn’t seem to like them much, which is something I’ve always admired about him. At least he has one redeeming quality.
I open my backpack and pull out my English notebook and my copy of Romeo and Juliet. I pretend deep absorption in act three, scene two, which we’ll be discussing today.
“How pathetic,” Samantha P. says, holding up an issue of Teen People. Theodora graces the cover. The headline is The Twenty Most Powerful People Under Twenty. Theodora is number four. Her boyfriends, the Bellini Brothers, take spots two and three. Number one, a singer-turned-actress, has the number-one single in the country and the number-one romantic comedy. “Theodora’s had so much plastic surgery and she’s only sixteen,” Samantha P. continues, holding up a photo of Theodora on the red carpet at last year’s Academy Awards. (She wasn’t nominated, but she was stopped for interviews.) “And those tits? Please. Totally fake. She was never that big.”
She was thirteen the last time you saw her, I want to say in defense. And she was pretty chesty then.
For the past several weeks, since the meeting with Theodora’s People, I’ve been reading everything I can get my hands on about Theodora. It’s hard to know what’s manufactured and what’s real, from her various body parts to what she’s quoted as saying.
“She is so hot!” says a guy two seats over from Zach. “I’d definitely do her.”
“Like she’d sleep with a high school guy,” Samantha P. shoots back. “I heard she dated Eminem before he found out she was jailbait.”
“Hey, what’s the name of the girl Theodora’s going to live with for the filming of the show?” Avril asks— loudly. “I keep forgetting.”
Samantha P. shrugs and glances at me. “I don’t know her. But I hear she’s a real drippy loser.”
“Her name is Emily and she’s sitting right next to you,” Ray Roarke says in a cut-the-crap voice. “So why don’t you shut up?”
Everyone in hearing distance turns and stares at Ray Roarke, president of everything not cool. I mouth “Thanks” to Ray and he nods. I notice that his nose really isn’t that big.
The Samanthas shoot him a look that says, Are you actuallydaring to speak to us? Then they turn around and start whispering.
Todd slips me a note. Are you free tonight?
Zach slips me a note. Can we talk after class? I really want to talk to you.
The first note makes me angry. The second note makes me sad. Then angry.
“Omigod, Emily Fine is in this class?” someone shrieks.
It’s mid-April. Emily Fine has been in this class since September. Depressing. But, in my defense as a clearly invisible human being, Oak City High is a big school and I’m kind of quiet in classes. Ray Roarke knows who I am. And the Samanthas. And, um, Zach.
Luckily, our teacher, Ms. Mills, chooses that moment to walk in and clap. The entire class is conducting a whisper-fest. A point-fest. “I know you’re all excited about the press release that was handed out this morning,” Ms. Mills says, shooting me a smile, “but we’ve got a ton of work to do today, so let’s settle down and take out Romeo and Juliet and open to act three.”
More like slink down. I can feel everyone’s eyes on me. I slink as low as possible in my seat. I’m suddenly Persona Someone-a, and Theodora isn’t even here yet. I’m not sure I like it any better.
After English, I’m surrounded in my seat. By everyone except Zach, who responded to my Can’t note with “I’ll catch you later.” And, of course, the Samanthas, who narrow their eyes at me as they leave. I notice Ray heading out with his Star Wars backpack over his shoulder. He’s got a great butt. And really broad shoulders. What, I suddenly have a minicrush on him
just because he came to my defense? Crazy.
“What’s Theodora like?” at least four people ask in unison.
I try to get up, but I’m practically pinned in my chair. “I really don’t know. I haven’t spoken to her since seventh grade.”
“I love your shoes,” Bethany Mueller says. “They’re so cute. Let me know if you ever want to go shopping. I love your taste.” This is the same Bethany Mueller who didn’t have a pencil to let me borrow two days ago, then found one to loan the cute guy behind her.
“Theodora Twist is going to be your roommate!” Jake Falone says. “Whoa. That is too hot.”
Jennifer Cusher punches him lightly on the arm. “Shut up!”
“Is she bringing an entourage?” Joely McTeal asks. I don’t know what an entourage is, so I dodge the question by announcing I have to get to history.
“When is she coming?” Tashema White asks, and everyone freezes and stares at me, waiting, waiting, waiting.
The exact date of Theodora’s arrival has been kept top-secret. So top-secret that not even my family and I know when she’s going to show up at 455 Raspberry Road. Blair, the producer, is afraid that Theodora won’t look much like a regular teen if she arrives in Oak City to paparazzi and thousands of screaming fans waving autograph books in her face.
We do know she’s coming this weekend, between the hours of 12:01 a.m. Saturday and midnight on Sunday. She could arrive at our house at the crack of dawn, or dinnertime, or midnight. Blair thinks that’ll help us “keep it real” (one of her favorite expressions).
Keeping it real would mean leaving Sophie’s spit-up stains and half-chewed toys everywhere, but my mom hired a cleaning service and bought new throw pillows and fresh flowers and candles. Our house was already nice, but now it looks “TV ready” (my mom’s new favorite expression).
Very weird: When I come home from school today, my room will be completely changed. There will be another bed and another desk; two drawers of my dresser will be cleaned out, and so will half my closet. I doubt two drawers and half of a small closet will be enough for Theodora Twist’s wardrobe. Jen thinks the change will help me get over Zach, since he dumped me in my bedroom. Then again, my bedroom is the last place we were when he was still my boyfriend. I’m not so sure I want that messed with yet—even if Zach is a jerk.
Theodora Twist Page 6
