by Alyson Noel
Fancy pen?
The fanciest pen I own is a white plastic one with the green-and-red Dashaway Home and Hardware logo running down the side.
Surely this is the moment when I wake up. As soon as I look for a pen I don’t have, the limo, Ezer, the contracts, the Mojo energy drink endorsement, the supposed fans, even the book deal, will be gone in a flash, and I’ll find myself half-frozen, half-dead, and probably missing half my nose, still waiting for the bus back in Greentree.
“Front pocket of your backpack, Nick. Hurry! We’re two blocks away!”
It’s been fun while it lasted.
Sort of.
I take one last look around the limo, one last look at Ezer’s annoyed face, and reach inside my bag. My fingers root around for the pencil that’s usually there, the one with teeth marks running up and down the sides, when I butt against something smooth and slick. It’s one of those really expensive pens, like the kind you see in movies with big-shot lawyers and Wall Street guys closing billion-dollar deals.
This is the most insane dream I’ve ever had.
“Great,” Ezer snaps, snatching the papers out of my hand and shoving them back inside his briefcase. “We’re home. You need to get into wardrobe and makeup, ASAP. You can sign these tomorrow.”
HOLLY JOLLY
“Nick! Nick—over here! Give us a smile, Nick!”
The second we turn onto the next street, we’re bombarded by paparazzi shouting my name, banging on the limo doors, the windows, the roof, all of them chasing alongside us.
They beg me to stop, pose, answer questions—but when I start to lower the window, Ezer slaps a hand over mine and puts it back up.
“You kidding me? When’s the last time you looked in the mirror?” He shakes his head. “You’re seriously willing to be photographed in that?”
I gaze down at my mom’s Christmas creation, instantly overcome by a flood of shame.
Partly because Ezer’s right, the sweater is hideous.
And partly because my mom made it with good intentions and thinking about how hideous it is makes me feel guilty.
“I don’t know what you’ve been up to, but we’re going to get you cleaned up and pretend this whole thing never happened.” He frowns so deeply you could call it a grimace and not be exaggerating.
We turn into a long, winding drive bordered with palm trees, flowers, and hedges. The big iron gates close behind us, keeping the paparazzi out, but that doesn’t stop them from pushing their telephoto lenses through the bars, snapping pictures nonstop. And the next thing I know, Ezer is dragging me out of the limo and ushering me into an air-conditioned mansion he insists belongs to me, no matter how improbable that seems.
“Why don’t you head up and change, then get yourself over to hair and makeup so we can start shooting? Sound good?” He slips his cell phone from his pocket and starts to move away.
“Head up?” I glance around helplessly, taking in the walls covered with giant paintings of brightly colored blobs and shapes, the ginormous crystal chandelier hanging overhead that’s practically daring you to stand directly beneath its sharp, daggerlike spikes, the round glass table with no other purpose than holding a large vase of flowers—and that’s just the entryway.
“Nick, I’m gonna be honest here.” Ezer’s voice is so irritated I can’t help but flinch. “This little game of yours stopped being funny long before it started. So, please, I’m begging you, get to your room and start the process of reinventing yourself. You got an entire crew waiting on you, and I’m sure they’d all appreciate you getting your act together so they can get home before midnight.” He motions toward a large, wide staircase with metal rods standing in for banisters. “When you’re ready, meet us in the kitchen so we can shoot the cookie scene. Nick? You following?”
“I don’t bake,” I say, cringing when I see the face that he makes.
“No kidding.” He shakes his head and mutters something under his breath, then points toward the staircase. “Today, Nick.”
I take the stairs two at a time, acting on Ezer’s need to see me hurry, even though I have no idea where I’m going. And despite my being a huge celebrity with a global fan base, the people who pass me on their way down are too busy shouting into their headsets to be of any help.
When I reach the landing, I gaze down a long hall with chalky white walls covered with more giant paintings of brightly colored blobs and a bunch of doors that most likely lead to bedrooms, but which one is mine?
In Greentree my parents’ room is at the far end, so I figure I’ll start with the door closest to me, just to my right. This may be nothing at all like the house I grew up in, but there’s usually some sort of pattern all houses follow to keep people from getting lost.
I knock on the door, then instantly feel really stupid. If it’s my door, then clearly there’s no need to knock. Still, there’s no way to be sure it’s my door until I open it, and the last thing I want to do is guess wrong and walk in on something completely embarrassing.
“Nick—hey! There you are. We’ve been looking everywhere for you. We’re all so worried. You okay?”
The voice is familiar, but the words are spoken with such genuine relief at seeing me that I have to turn around to be sure it really is her. And what I see makes my eyes practically pop out of my head.
This is not the Holly I know and loathe.
This Holly is so different, all I can do is stand there and stare.
For starters, the wavy dark hair that’s always hanging in her face has been replaced with fluffy golden waves that sort of bounce and swirl like she’s a walking, talking shampoo commercial.
And instead of ghostly pale skin, this Holly looks healthy, like she actually spends time outdoors.
And don’t even get me started on the pink dress and heels.
It’s like a bizarre, alternate-universe, Barbie doll version of Holly. It’s as though the sarcastic part of her brain has been surgically removed and replaced with the impulse to grin.
Holly’s hand presses between my shoulders and steers me toward a spacious room at the very end of the hallway with solid double doors, miles of carpet, and a giant round bed smack in the center. “Better change quick. You know how Ezer gets.”
She pushes into the room, picks up a pile of clothes from the bed, and places them in my arms. “I’d really appreciate it if we could get started soon. Remember that audition I told you about? It’s today. Wish me luck!”
Audition? Since when does Holly ever audition for anything other than the role of “most annoying sister,” which she nailed long ago?
But when I look at her again, standing before me with a bright and hopeful expression, all I can do is mutter, “Um, okay. Good luck,” then watch as she exits as quickly as she appeared, leaving me to sink onto the soft furry blanket I hope isn’t from a real animal skin as I check out my room.
It’s just as modern up here as it is downstairs. The carpet is white, which seems really impractical, but from the looks of it, someone’s doing a good job with the vacuuming. The shelves along the far wall resemble long metal slats floating in space, and they’re crammed with all kinds of awards and framed photos of me posing with some big-time celebrities and musicians. Including one of me standing next to the president, both of us wearing grins so big it’s like we’re in a smiling contest. The desk facing the window is made from some kind of thick, clear plastic that juts right out of the wall, yet it still manages to support a pile of just about every electronic gadget you could possibly want. There’s a large bathroom off to the right and a huge walk-in closet next to that. And I swear, if you squished those two rooms together, they’d be bigger than all of our bedrooms at home combined.
This dream is so detailed, it’s almost like there’s a set decorator standing by.
And yeah, despite my not waking up during the whole fancy-pen incident, I’m still holding to the dream theory. There’s no other way to explain it.
I dump the contents of my backpack
onto my bed, but instead of the books I usually haul around, it’s filled with all kinds of stuff that’s not mine.
For starters, there’s a bunch of grooming stuff I would never use in real life, like a bottle of oil you’re supposed to put on your face and a jar of something called Dashaway Do that’s supposed to be a kind of hair paste, like I have my own hair product line. There’s even a small tube of lip gloss that definitely, one hundred percent, isn’t mine.
A black leather wallet crammed with fat wads of hundred-dollar bills and loads of black and silver credit cards sits there as well.
The rest is more normal—a comb, a brush, a small mirror. Well, normal for the kind of person who spends most of the time thinking about his appearance.
I change into the clothes Holly gave me and am just about to shove the wallet (since my name is on the cards, and considering this is a dream and all, I might as well put them to use, right?) and my cell phone (in case it starts working) into the back pocket of the designer jeans when Ezer shouts from the other side of the door, “Do not make me come in there, Nick. I’m serious. I—”
But before he can finish, I open the door and push past him. In search of whoever’s in charge of hair and makeup. I mean, if I’m going to dream I’m an International Superstar, I might as well enjoy some of the perks before I wake up.
TWITTER LIPS
I end up in a den that’s not at all like a normal den.
And by not at all normal, I mean it’s not like my Greentree den.
Which means it’s a really, really cool den.
The kind of den you might see on an old episode of MTV Cribs.
There’s a flat-screen TV that practically covers an entire wall; an oversized U-shaped couch that looks really comfortable; a long, skinny, rectangular fireplace set into the middle of the wall with small broken-up pieces of glass instead of the fake wooden logs you usually see; a bar stocked with Mojo, the energy drink Ezer said I’m endorsing; a killer sound system; and a version of Xbox that’s not even out yet.
I barely have a chance to take it all in when some lady with bright-red hair and matching lips waves me over and tells me to take a seat.
“Your skin looks good.” She pinches my chin between her forefinger and thumb, twisting my head back and forth, inspecting me like she’s a doctor or something. “You been using that oil sample I gave you?”
She squints, waits for me to reply, pinching my chin even harder every second I make her wait for the answer.
“Um, yeah. I guess.” I bat her fingers away.
She laughs under her breath and starts messing with a pile of brushes, powders, and other unidentifiable gunk. “Well, whatever you’re doing, it’s working. And I’m glad to see you’re heeding my advice to stay out of the sun. I’m expecting you to send me a thank-you card on your thirtieth birthday.” She laughs even harder. Guess she’s easily amused. “Anyway, you don’t need much. Maybe just a little concealer around the eyes, a dash of powder on the nose and cheeks to keep you from getting too shiny, a little liner to make those hazel eyes pop, then we’ll finish with a dot of gloss right in the center of your bottom lip like we did last time. Sound good?”
She comes at me wielding a small brush dipped in beige glop, but my first and only instinct is to fend her off. “I wear lip gloss?” I hold my hands up in front of me, protecting my face from impending assault.
“Your lips were trending on Twitter. Girls ages ten to fourteen loved them, and I aim to please! Now, hold still—don’t make this take any longer than it needs to.”
This time when she comes at me, I close my eyes and surrender. It’s only a dream. Not like anyone in Greentree will see me wearing makeup, so why not go along and see where it leads? And when she sticks a mirror in my face and tells me to look, I see a shiny-lipped, powdered-down version of me staring back.
“Okay, handsome, let’s get you over to hair.” She spins the barstool until I’m face to face with a heavily tattooed, multipierced guy who’s quite possibly wearing more makeup than Holly and me combined.
“I promise, this won’t hurt a bit!” He laughs, coming at me with a comb in one hand and a can of hairspray in the other. And the only thing I can do under the circumstances is sit back and wait for it to be over.
By the time I’m herded into the kitchen, everyone’s so busy adjusting the cameras and lighting that no one pays me much notice, which is kind of a relief, since it gives me a moment to take in the scene.
If I thought Holly looked like some bizarre Barbie doll version of herself, it’s nothing compared to my mom, who looks like Holly’s bizarre Barbie sister. Older sister, but still, it’s like there’s only a few years between them. Like they might share a closet, makeup tips, maybe even ex-boyfriends.
The only reason I even recognize her as my mom is because that’s what Holly called her—except she didn’t actually call her Mom, she called her Eileen. And since Eileen is my mom’s name back in Greentree, I figure it’s safe to assume it’s my mom’s name here too.
Though I have to admit I like the idea of calling my mom by her first name. It’s something I’d never get away with back home. Besides, it’s impossible for me to refer to her as Mom when she doesn’t look like she could be anyone’s mom.
The Greentree version of my mom is usually so oblivious to her appearance that most of the time it’s all she can do to get out of the house wearing matching shoes.
This version clearly takes the job very seriously.
My mom looks like one of those super-rich ladies who spend most of their time bouncing between hair salons, shopping malls, and gyms.
My mom looks like Mrs. Turtledove if Mrs. Turtledove was blond, tan, and had a body that’s been weirdly compressed in some places and blown up in others.
Back in Greentree Mrs. Turtledove is the only person I know who even tries to resemble a rich Hollywood lady. But now, after seeing the real deal in front of me, Mrs. Turtledove doesn’t even come close.
“Nick—hi, Nick!” My mom, Eileen, calls to me in this unfamiliar, superfriendly way. I mean, don’t get me wrong, my mom is always friendly, but this is a different kind of friendly. She’s acting more like we’re BFFs than mother and son, the way her eyes get all big and excited and her hand windshield-wipes back and forth in the same kind of wave Tinsley Barnes and her popular friends use on each other.
“Nick! Finally!” Ezer snaps, his tone causing Eileen to jump to my defense.
“Don’t talk to Nicky like that,” she scolds.
Nicky?
Since when does my mom call me Nicky?
Nick, pretty much always.
Nicholas when she’s mad.
But never, ever Nicky.
Not even when I was a baby.
“I’m sure he has a very good reason for his tardiness.” She flashes a grin so supportive that, even though I’m surprised to hear her say that, I instinctively grin in return. My Greentree mom doesn’t tolerate tardiness, and I always kind of wish she’d lighten up and stop making such a big thing over little delays.
When I see my dad, Joe, well, compared to Eileen’s and Holly’s, his transformation isn’t nearly as dramatic, but that’s not to say he looks anything even remotely like my Greentree dad.
The forehead creases I’ve grown used to seeing look like they’ve been pressed with an iron. And when he flashes me a nod and a grin from across the room, I can’t help but notice how the gray patches in his hair are now blond, like someone took a paintbrush, dipped it in yellow, and covered those parts.
He looks like the kind of dad who spends a lot of time at board meetings and on swanky golf courses—the sort of person who’s considered far too important to ever set foot inside a place like Dashaway Home and Hardware. He’d send one of his many assistants instead.
Though his eyes are still like mine. Only a lot less stressed, which is really nice to see.
He waves from his mark.
I wave back.
And with the cameras in place, and the
kitchen counters and island overflowing with multiple trays of freshly baked cookies, along with all the necessary decorating tools, the director shouts, “Twelve Days of Dashaway Christmas Countdown. Day one—scene one—take one!” and immediately snaps that black-and-white clapper board thing, which, according to the briefing sheet Ezer handed me when my clothes were being inspected for stray pieces of lint, means it’s my job to move toward my mark and hug Eileen, high-five Joe, and compliment Holly on her necklace so she can balance it on the tip of her index finger, aim it toward the camera, and mention the name of the shop where she bought it. Then I lean down to pet my dog, Sir Dasher Dashaway, who, also according to the notes, will run into the room right on cue, where he will join Holly and me as we decorate cookies like the world’s favorite (and most famous!) brother-and-sister act while our parents look on adoringly.
It all seems simple enough, which is why it goes exactly as planned.
Until Sir Dasher Dashaway runs into the room and my jaw falls to my knees as my eyeballs bug out like they’re loaded on springs.
“What happened?” I groan, so shocked by the sight of him I forgot that the cameras were rolling. But sheesh! While the celebrity makeover looks good on my parents and Holly, when it comes to Sir Dasher Dashaway, it’s completely over the top.
The Greentree version of Sir Dasher Dashaway is what you might call more beautiful inside than out. He’s a one-eyed rescue mutt of indeterminate origins with oversized paws, black-and-white fur with the occasional brown spot, floppy ears, and a stub for a tail.
The celebrity version is a tiny white overgroomed, overpedigreed beast whose natural habitat is the inside pocket of an expensive designer purse.
“Cut!” the director shouts as everything that was once set in motion comes to a screeching halt.
“Is there a problem, Nick?” Ezer shoots me a look not unlike the ones from the limo.
“I—” I look all around. Everyone is staring, waiting for me to explain.
“Nick?” Ezer lifts a brow and flips his palms so they’re sunny-side up. A silent ultimatum if I’ve ever seen one.
