Theodora rolls her eyes.
“Why doesn’t Theodora write them?” I ask. There’s no way I could mimic Theodora’s voice. I wouldn’t even know how to sound like her—or what she would think. She’s a superhip, glamorous It girl. I’m . . . not.
“Writing’s not her strong suit,” Ashley says. “I want an authentic teen voice. We’ll pay five thousand per essay. Five hundred words. You’ll send the essays to me for approval and I’ll send them on to the GirlBuzz editor. Think diary entry voice—not school voice. And think virginal. The first one should be about sex and why Theodora wants to wait until she’s older. I’ll e-mail you about topics for the others.”
Five thousand dollars? What? My mom and I exchange amazed glances. A thousand dollars for every hundred words? That’s only two typed pages—double spaced. And I don’t even have to think for myself. I’m getting nothing for writing a five-page essay about insects. Maybe I could mimic her voice after all.
“And I came up with a great event for the Win a Date to the Prom with Theodora Twist contest,” Ashley says. “The school board says it’s a go.”
“What is it?” Theodora and I ask in unison.
“You’ll find out tomorrow with everyone else. But I’ll give you a hint: blind speed-dating.”
“Blind speed-dating?” I repeat. “What’s that?”
“You’ll see.”
Later, in our room, I ask Theodora what she wants me to say in the GirlBuzz essay.
“Pretend I’m you,” she says. “That’s what Ashley wants. Just write your own diary entry but as though it’s me. She’ll probably send you a friggin’ Prada wardrobe too.”
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Essay for Theodora
Hi, Ashley.
Since this is my first shot at the essay for Theodora, would you mind giving me your feedback on the opening? If you’re too busy, I totally understand. Thanks! Emily
GIRLBUZZ.COM ESSAY: FIRST DRAFT
The other day, I went grocery shopping with Emily and Emily’s mom and when we checked out, there was a headline: Theodora Skips Spanish Class to Do Much More Than Just French-Kiss Lacrosse Team!
I was SO embarrassed!!!!!! First of all, it’s not true. Second of all, I don’t even take Spanish! I don’t know why these tabloids lie. What’s most confusing is that I don’t even know how I feel about sex yet. And here’s a tabloid not only saying I’m having sex—but that I’m having it with half the lacrosse team. It’s so mean!!!!!!
I once had a boyfriend I really, really liked. I’m talking a lot. And he wanted to have sex. He pressured me to have sex. And even though I wanted to keep him more than anything else in the world, I just wasn’t ready. A friend said, “That means you don’t want to keep him more than anything else in the world. That means you’re not ready more than you want him.”
I never really thought about it that way. But she was right. It helped me get over the jerk too. So thanks, friend.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: RE: Essay for Theodora Great job, Emily! Perfect! Just expand.
Oak City High Junior Class Speed-Dating Event!
Date: APRIL 29
Time: 4–6 p.m.
Location: Gymnasium
It’s often said that love is blind. Here’s your chance to find out for yourselves—just in time to score a great date to the prom! If you’d like to participate, please fill out the entry form, have it signed by your parents, and return it no later than April 25.
Participants will have the opportunity to “meet” several members of the opposite sex. Instead of blindfolds, participants will wear a brown paper bag over their heads, with precut holes for eyes and mouth. (You will pick up your bag at the event.) Girls will sit in chairs at a reasonable distance from each other. Across from each girl will be a chair. Every five minutes, a boy will sit across from a girl. They will have five minutes to chat. When the bell rings, each participant will check off yes or no next to their partner’s number. Yes means you’d like to know more about this person. No means you wouldn’t. Because participants won’t have any idea who they’re meeting (unless, of course, you recognize a voice), judgments will be based solely on conversation—not on looks, popularity, or anything but a short conversation. If you have any questions, please see Fun Committee chairperson Dana Duvork or Mr. Opps.
OFFICIAL RULES
Participants must wear a plain white T-shirt and jeans.
Paper bags, with small holes cut out for eyes and mouth, will be provided. Students may not bring their own paper bags.
Paper bags may not be adorned in any way.
Participants are not to disclose their names, first or last. Any student heard disclosing his or her name will be unable to continue in the speed-dating event.
Participants are not to move their chairs in any way.
Enjoy the event in the spirit in which it is intended.
NOTE: The event will be filmed and may be shown on Theodora Twist: Just a Regular Teen! All participants must submit release forms, signed by both the student and his or her parents. Any student without a release form will not be permitted to participate in the event.
Theodora
No. No. No. No. No. Maybe.
While the math teacher (I forget his name) drones on about proofs, I’m looking around this room at my potential prom dates. One of these guys—or a guy like one of these guys—is going to get to escort me to the Oak City High junior prom.
I glance at the Maybe. He’s doodling in his notebook. I look closer. He’s not doodling; he’s drawing noses. Just noses. The same nose, from what I can tell, over and over again.
“Nose fetish?” I whisper to Maybe when the teacher turns to the blackboard.
He glances up at me for just a second with his intense pale brown eyes, then turns the page in his notebook. What is with these serious types? I hate guys who lack a sense of humor. All those articles about me in magazines that say the most important thing to me in a guy is a sense of humor isn’t a total lie. Looks are first, of course. Then a sense of humor. But if the guy is gorgeous and has no sense of humor, he’s history.
“Let’s take the train into Manhattan,” I tell Emily after school. “Or better yet, a car service.” We’re heading to her locker, where she puts only one book away. The girl does way too much homework. Tonight I’ll have Vic film me doing homework at my desk, tapping a pencil against my head. “We can go shopping. Or go see a movie in the Village.”
“That would be so cool. But I’ve got a Lost and Found meeting.”
“Lost and Found?” I ask, imagining Emily sorting through boxes of unwanted jackets and sports equipment. “What’s that?”
“Come and you’ll see,” she says, closing her locker.
“Theodora!” We both turn around. Samantha Paris and her clones are surrounding us. “We just wanted to say hi and tell you how incredibly cool it is that you’re at our school. We’re huge fans of yours. We went to see Family last night and you were so amazing in it.” Samantha is talking directly into the camera and barely blinking. “Omigod,” she says to Vic. “I said last night but I meant two nights ago. Can I say that part over?”
Vic doesn’t respond. None of the camerapeople ever do. It unnerves people, including me. It gets people to do what they do naturally, which is act like idiots. Which is good for reality TV. I don’t even want to know what Vic’s got inside that camera.
Samantha’s unnerved by Vic’s lack of speech. “Anyway, Theodora,” she says, turning to me, “I wanted to personally invite you to tomorrow night’s party. We throw the best parties every Friday night. Hope you’ll come.” She doesn’t even glance at Emily, who’s standing pink-faced right next to me, glancing at her sneakers.
“And Emily and her friends too, of course,” I say.
She puts her hand on my shoulder and escorts me out of the camera’s view—or what sh
e thinks is out of the camera’s view. “Theodora, it’s really going to be crowded enough as it is, so . . . I wanted this to be a surprise, but I’ll just tell you,” she adds. “The party is in your honor. As, like, a welcome-home thing.”
“Ah,” I say. “Well, thanks, Samantha. I’m not sure I can make it. But I’ll try.”
She smiles a dead smile at me.
“Are you going?” Emily asks as we head down the hall.
“Can’t,” I say. “I’m going to your party tomorrow night.” I see Belle—or rather, Belle’s bouncing auburn ringlets—coming toward us. “Hey, Belle, spread the word—Emily’s having a party tomorrow night to welcome me to Oak City. Invite whoever you want.”
Belle shrieks and goes running. Emily’s grin is priceless.
I follow Emily to a classroom on the first floor. There’s a hand-lettered sign on the door: LOST & FOUND CLUB.
There are four people sitting at individual desks in a circle. One girl looks like she’s about to cry. The others don’t look much happier.
“Sorry I’m late,” Emily says, sitting down. She gestures for me to sit too. “You guys all know Theodora Twist, right?”
The four sad sacks sit up straight and beam at me. There’s the usual chorus: “Omigod!” “I love your movies!” “You are so pretty!” “Are you really dating the Bellini brothers?”
The door opens and Maybe pokes his head in, looks at Emily, smiles, then comes in and sits down.
“Hi, Ben,” she says. He nods at her and sits down next to the girl who’s about to burst into tears.
“Is everyone okay with the cameras?” Emily asks, pointing to Vic and Nicole, who are stationed at opposite corners.
Five heads turn and look. They glance at each other, then shrug and nod.
The blonde bursts. Emily grabs her hand and squeezes. “I can’t . . . concentrate,” the girl says between sobs. “I can’t stop thinking about her.”
“Who?” I ask.
“Pineapple,” the girl whispers and breaks down again.
“Pineapple was Laura’s cocker spaniel,” Emily tells me. “She had cancer and was put to sleep last week.”
“Sorry,” I say. I’ve never had a pet. My mom is allergic. And even though I’d love to get a dog, I’m never home enough to take care of anything.
I don’t get what the other four people are doing here. Or why Emily and I are here.
“I took my sister to the playground after school yesterday,” the redhead says to Emily. “It was a really good suggestion. She didn’t want to go at first, but she finally said okay. She wouldn’t go on the slide or the swing; she only wanted to sit on a bench. But she went. That was a really big step.”
“I’m so glad,” Emily says. “That’s great, Hayley.”
“My sister’s six,” Hayley says to me. “Our mom took her to the playground every single day except when it was really freezing. She died almost a month ago. Car accident.”
My lunch flops in my stomach. “I’m really sorry.”
“The Lost and Found club is about loss and finding your way after,” Emily tells me. “Parents, beloved pets— any loss gets you membership.”
I glance at Maybe. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t say anything. He’s back to drawing noses in his notebook.
“Em,” I say, “can I talk to you privately for a sec?”
She follows me outside. Nicole starts to follow. I hold up a hand and she sits back down. When the door closes behind me and Emily, I get right in Emily’s face. “I don’t like being set up, okay? You should have reminded me.”
“What are you talking about?” she asks.
“The Depressed People Club,” I snap. “Just like four years ago, I have better things to do than sit around while people cry over their dead dog and dead mother.”
She stares at me. “Yeah, like what, Theodora? Shopping? Sex? Getting your hair highlighted?”
“Exactly. And don’t forget Pilates.”
“You still can’t deal with it after four years, can you?”
“Buh-bye,” I say, and take off down the hall before Vic can figure out that I’m gone.
No one is home at 455 Raspberry Road. There’s a note on the kitchen table. E & T: Took Sophie to Mommy & Me yoga class. Back at 5. Snack in fridge. Love, Mom.
I open the fridge. Cheesecake. My dad loved cheesecake.
I grab a fork and savor one perfect bite. I can feel my dad all around me. How’s my princess? . . . Don’t give your mom such a hard time, she’s trying. . . . The best thing that ever happened to me was you. . . .
I miss you, Dad, I say to the ceiling. So, so much. Suddenly, the kitchen is full of flowery wallpaper and my mother’s ridiculous salt and pepper shaker collection. My dad’s suit jacket is draped over a chair at the round table. I’m in my house. I’m back home. Any minute my dad will come walking through the front door, huge smile on his face, ask me to guess how many cars he sold today, then twirl me around in a dance when I guess too high.
Crash. I whirl around. Vic, a skinny elephant, was clearly trying so hard to capture this Hallmark moment with me unaware that he bumped into a shelf on the wall and knocked down a vase. When I turn back around, my dad is gone. The walls are yellow again. And they’re closing in on me. I need to forget. And since Bo and Brandon are thousands of miles away—literally and figuratively— I need to call a car service to get me into the city fast for an hour-long hot stone massage at the Bliss spa.
Emily
How amazing is this? Two days off school for a photo shoot in New York City! And Belle and Jen get to come for two hours this afternoon. I can’t believe it. They can’t believe it.
“Believe this,” Theodora says, flipping through Teen Vogue while our car stops in front of an industrial-looking building somewhere in lower Manhattan. “It’s not as fun as it sounds.”
“Maybe for you because you’re used to it,” I tell her. “Being in a magazine? That is fun. That is once-in-a-lifetime stuff. The reason I’m absent is all over school. The Samanthas must be seething! We’re the fabulous ones! We should be at the photo shoot!”
I’m so relieved that Theodora’s speaking to me again. When I got home last night from the Lost and Found meeting, she was in our room, listening to her iPod. She said maybe five words during dinner, then excused herself to take the world’s longest bath. And then she went to bed. Even Nicole and Vic were so bored they left early. I tried to get Theodora to talk a couple of times after she turned out her bedside lamp, but she ignored me.
Just like four years ago. Only this time, she’s stuck with me.
We head inside and take a freight elevator up to the sixteenth floor. A frazzled-looking young woman greets us and hands us bottles of organic iced tea.
I peer through a doorway into a huge room with lights, white backdrops, and cool-looking people everywhere.
Theodora told me what to expect on the way over, but she made it sound so easy. You wear what the stylist puts on your body, even if you hate it. You listen to the art director and the photographer scream at each other. Then you do what the photographer says until the photo editor screams at both of them. Then you’re sitting around for an hour or so while they figure it out, which they probably did in a five-hour meeting beforehand. Your makeup gets old and your hair droops, so it’s another hour in an uncomfortable chair while some gay guy with bad breath does your face and someone else does your hair. And even if you hate how you look, you’re stuck looking like that for all eternity in the pages of a national magazine. The end.
I love it. It all sounds so TV!
At first the photo editor is sweet. Full of compliments. “You’re so darling,” she says. I see Theodora roll her eyes, which means “darling” is not a compliment in the photo shoot world.
“It’s condescending,” Theodora whispers to me.
We’re now sitting “in makeup.” A guy wearing all white, with white-blond hair like Theodora’s, is my “face stylist.” Apparently, Theodora tried to arrange to ha
ve her personal makeup artist work the shoot, but the magazine wanted their own people.
“I’m not even guaranteed the cover,” Theodora says, grimacing at the photo editor, who is yelling at the art director. Twenty somethings in freaky clothes scatter like flies every time the photo editor or the art director snap their fingers or scream. “That sucks. We’ll have an editorial spread, a bunch of pages of us looking like normal teenagers.” She smiles. “Supposedly looking like you, but we’ll look like the photo editor’s vision of normal, which is totally abnormal. You’ll probably end up looking like a prep school kid.”
My hair stylist is doing very strange things to my hair. Sort of tight waves.
Theodora points to a rack of clothes with my name on it. “See—pink and green.” She laughs. “And a blazer.”
I don’t care what I wear. It’ll be better than anything I have in my closet. I wish Belle and Jen were here already. We’ll only be in one photo together. Theodora will have most of the ten-page spread.
“The spread isn’t as important as the cover,” Theodora says, her gorgeous hair pulled into weird, Goth-looking pigtails. She shakes her head in the mirror, flipping a pigtail in disgust. “Told you.”
“The talent is touching her hair,” the hairstylist yells in the direction of a crowd of people huddled around what looks like a photograph.
“They’re checking Polaroids of us for lighting and features,” Theodora explains.
“Please don’t touch your hair!” the photo editor yells back at Theodora.
Theodora’s makeup artist has given her black lipstick.
“Eww. No way am I looking like this in one of the biggest teen fashion magazines in the world.” Theodora jumps off the chair, grabs her bag, and pulls out her cell phone. “Ashley, I’m wearing black lipstick. I look gross. I thought the whole point was that I’m supposed to look like a normal teen.” She smiles, then hangs up and returns to her chair, ignoring the makeup artist, who’s scowling at her. “The photo editor’s cell will ring in two seconds and I’ll be in my best colors,” Theodora says to me.
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