The Paparazzi Project
By Kristina Springer
Copyright 2012 by Kristina Springer
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
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Also by Kristina Springer
The Espressologist
My Fake Boyfriend is Better Than Yours
Just Your Average Princess
www.KristinaSpringer.com
Chapter 1
It’s passing period between first and second hour, and the halls are jam packed. Students are checking their hair in locker mirrors, swapping out books, and texting on their phones, which technically aren’t allowed in school but no one pays attention to that rule. I look around for an escape to whisk my best friend Tessa through, but there are swarms of kids everywhere.
“It’s not him!” Tessa over-enunciates into a freshman girl’s face. Tessa throws me a panicked look over her shoulder. “I’ve gotta get out of here, Livvie. Right. Now.”
“Follow me,” I say. I know Tessa can be a drama queen, but I still hate to see her being scrutinized by the entire high school.
“Hey, Tessa,” Bella Clark yells in our direction, “is that…”
“No!” Tessa screams before Bella gets another word out. “Now, Livvie. I want to go now.” She draws out the last “now” in a long painful whine, kinda like a cat that just got its tail stepped on.
I almost smile but quickly stop myself, knowing it would only make the situation worse. Tessa freaking out is not a new thing. Last week it was that her foundation was labeled wrong and was more orange than the natural ivory it had promised. She e-mailed the company three angry letters within twenty minutes of her first application. And her going off on the lunch lady for mislabeling the regular ranch with the fat-free label will go down in history at Thompson High. She about blew poor Doreen’s hairnet off with all her yelling. It’s like, if there isn’t constant drama in Tessa’s life, she’s out of whack. Whereas I’m mildly allergic to drama. I’m feeling itchy now just witnessing her meltdown. But this time is totally different. She has every right to flip out. Mike is such a jerk! I can’t believe he did this to her.
“Okay, bathroom,” I say, grabbing her elbow and pulling her through students, down the hall, and around the corner to the nearest girl’s restroom.
Once inside, Tessa punches both hand dryers on and then slowly slumps down to the ground between them, placing her head in her hands. I’ve never seen her like this. I mean, those floors look like they haven’t been washed since 2008.
“It’s not that bad, Tess,” I say over the noise of the dryers, trying to calm her and ignore the clump of sticky hairs on the floor just to the right of her thigh. They’re different colors too, like they’ve been collecting for a while. Ew.
Her head jolts up and she glares at me. “Not that bad? Are you kidding me? It isn’t a picture of your boyfriend messing around with a big-haired skank getting forwarded from phone to phone, now is it?” she snaps.
Okay. She’s stressing right now. She doesn’t mean to lash out at me. And fine, it’s true. I don’t know how it feels to have everyone in school have visual proof on their cellphones that my boyfriend is cheating on me. I don’t even have a boyfriend. I’m sure she’s feeling super sucktacular.
“Well,” I begin, choosing my words carefully so as not to get screamed at again, “you know, it could be anyone, really. I mean, it might not even be Mike.” It very well could be a long-lost twin he never knew he had. That kind of stuff happens to people all of the time. On soaps, anyway.
She gives me a pissed-off look. “Are you freaking kidding me? It’s Mike, all right. That two-timing jerk. What’s that frizzy-headed water buffalo got that I don’t? Certainly not six months invested in a relationship with him like I do.”
Hoo-kay. So she’s just going to keep right on yelling at me. She’s lucky we’ve been best friends for sixteen years, or I wouldn’t stand here taking the abuse. But she knows where I live, being that we’re next-door neighbors, so it’s not like I can cut her off forever or anything. Not that I’d even want to. She’s actually really fun and personable when she’s not screaming in my face.
“Oh, Livvie,” she wails.
Uh-oh. We’ve got tears. Poor Tess.
“Why did he do this?” She slaps the ground right where that gathering of old hair is. So gross. I am literally dying for some paper towels and antibacterial Windex right now. “Why? Why did the big jerk do this to me?”
“I don’t know, Tess,” I say, a little too loud. The dryers suddenly turn off and the bathroom echoes. “I don’t know,” I repeat, quieter.
I tentatively put a hand on her shoulder, kinda like when you’re going to check if the iron is hot yet. I want to comfort her and at the same time not get decked. She’s got a quick right punch from all of those kick boxing classes she takes at the Y. “I’m so sorry though. If there was anything that I could do, you know I’d do it.” I chance her lightning reflexes and lean down to give her a hug anyway.
Tessa sniffles and rubs at her face with the back of her hands. There are mascara streaks going up her cheeks to her ears. I dodge into a stall and grab a handful of toilet paper, bringing it to her. She nods her thanks and slowly gets up on her feet. She wipes her eyes while looking in the mirror over one of the sinks. You gotta love Tessa. Even in her time of great misery, I notice her check a new pimple near her hairline.
“I hate him, Livvie. I do,” she declares. “How can he humiliate me like this?”
I look at her reflection in the mirror. “Because he’s an evil robot clone from the future sent back in time to torture teenage girls and collect data to bring back to his home planet for analysis.”
She looks at me like I’m speaking Swahili. “What? What the heck are you talking about?”
I guess we’re not ready for humor yet.
Her face turns sad again and she drops the crumpled-up toilet paper on the ground. Whoa. Litter much? I pick it up and toss it in the trash can.
“How can I face anyone again?” she asks, her shoulders slumped. “Everyone knows. The whole school is talking about me.”
I think about this. “It’s a small picture, you know. And you can’t really make out his face. Mostly you see the back of the girl’s head. All that blond, poofy hair. Could be just about anybody behind that. Maybe you don’t have to say anything.”
Tessa sighs loudly and places her fingers on her temples. “I’m getting a stress headache. I think I’m going to go lay down in the nurse’s office.”
I nod. “Want me to walk you there?”
“Nah, don’t miss your class. I’ll be fine,” she says, heading for the bathroom door.
I follow her out. “It’ll blow over, Tess, don’t worry.”
She gasps. “Uh! Livvie!”
I try to hide my smile. Still too soon for jokes? “Sorry, bad word choice. I mean, things will look better later. Like, tomorrow. Or, you know, the next day. You’ll have to deal with Mike at some point, but I wouldn’t worry about everyone else. People have short-term memories. No one will remember the picture tomorrow.”
“Yeah, ma
ybe,” she says in a small voice. I can tell she doesn’t believe me quite yet. But there’s not much I can say that will make her feel better at this point.
The bell rings, indicating I’m now late for my Interpersonal Communications class. Tessa and I walk into the hallway.
“Sure you’re okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, yeah. Go on to class. I just need to lie down for a while.”
“Okay, I’ll check on you later.” I head down the hall, happy for the break from Tessa’s current crisis. I know it’s awful to feel this way and I should stay with her and comfort her until she feels better, but I’m no good in these situations.
Ugh, I hate drama. I don’t do well when people are hysterical and there’s yelling and emotions all over the place. It’s so not my thing and I avoid it at all costs. Ever since the awful fight with Becca Stevens in 8th grade.
Becca and I were friends, or I should say we were friendly in that we shared the same circle of friends, but Becca was always a bit of a big mouth and she often commanded the bulk of the attention from the group. Maybe I’m an easy target, but Becca liked to pick on me to entertain herself. I hated it. But I never really stopped it either. One afternoon, we were sitting around the Pizza Palace having a slice when Becca decided to rip on me again. She said, “Hey guys, do you know why Livvie didn’t swim with us yesterday? It’s because she has her period and didn’t know how to use a tampon.”
To say that I was completely mortified is an understatement. I just didn’t understand how they worked. I’d tried to ask my mom but she launched into some lecture about young girls and toxic shock syndrome, and that was the end of that. Becca was laughing like she made the greatest joke ever, but I wasn’t.
I felt hot all over, like I might pass out or throw up. I wanted to escape under the table or get swallowed into the ground. Everyone was giggling. Becca looked at me like she expected me to join in and laugh at her joke too. Only I couldn’t. The impulse to attack back welled up inside me and before I knew it I’d blurted out, “So sorry, I’m not as mature as you. I guess that happens when you have sex with a junior behind the shed in your backyard.”
The color drained from Becca’s face, and the other girls gasped. No one was laughing now. As soon as the words left my mouth I wished I could grab them up and shove them back in. Becca had told me that in confidence one night at a sleepover and made me swear to never tell. And here I’d just blurted it out for all to hear at the Pizza Palace. Becca jumped up from the table and ran out of the restaurant. Two of her friends went after her. And I just sat there, my face stinging like I’d been hit though no one had touched me.
I’d felt Tessa staring at me, probably wondering why I’d never shared that particular piece of info with her. But she recovered quickly and went into action defending me. “Becca’s always running her mouth,” Tessa said. “She should expect to get it back if she wants to give it like that. Livvie didn’t do anything wrong.”
But I did. I knew I shouldn’t have said that. Even though she taunted me, I shouldn’t have said that because it was a secret. Becca didn’t want to be labeled and now all the girls knew what she’d done. Even if they told her it was no big deal they would still see her in a different light now.
Becca and I were never friends again and that was okay. It wasn’t like we were close anyway. But I swore I’d avoid drama from then on. Just let people say what they want and laugh it off. Even if it was hard to swallow. I don’t like to be the center of attention, having everyone in a room focused on me. I like to hang in the shadowy edges, where no one is looking.
I walk in the classroom, and Mrs. B., my Interpersonal Communications teacher, bellows out, “Tardy for the Party,” that really horrible song one of those reality star housewives made famous.
The class groans. She sings this whenever one of us is late to class. I personally don’t mind. It’s better than getting detention.
I slip into my desk in the back and pull out my favorite purple pen and a notebook. Mrs. B. is a really laid-back teacher. She’s always wearing those long, flowing hippie skirts, even before they came back in style. And her hair is a mass of salt and pepper curls. She told us once that she doesn’t believe in hair color and thinks we’re a nation of women bleaching away a few IQ points at a time with each dye job. In class, she generally never says anything that requires note-taking, but you never know. There’s always a first. And I’m sorta the conscientious type, so I like to be prepared just in case. No one else around me is rushing to get out something to write with. Everyone knows there are no tests in this class. Only feelings and sharing and talking about our feelings and sharing. Blah, blah, blah, touchy feely stuff. We’re supposed to have some projects too, but we haven’t received them yet. Or, I should say, we haven’t created them yet. Mrs. B. says we’re in charge of designing our own projects this semester. She says by letting us plan our own projects we’re going to become more responsible and independent and learn leadership skills and stuff. And interpersonally communicate with each other, I suppose. This class is an easy A. It’s an enjoyable break from my otherwise heavy schedule.
Mrs. B. starts to talk about relationships and asks two girls near the front to stand up and role-play a scenario. This is why I sit in the back.
While Mrs. B. is chatting away, my gaze drifts around the room and something catches my attention. Someone, to be specific. The girl in the second row two seats from the wall. The back of her head looks familiar. She’s got big frizzy blonde hair like the girl with Tessa’s boyfriend in the picture being forwarded around. Oh, wow! I’ve never really noticed her before. The junior class is kind of big, over 500 students, and we’ve only been in school for a few weeks, so I still don’t know everyone. And IPC is a mix of juniors and seniors. So she could very well be a senior. I’ve got to find out her name. Just in case Tessa ever needs to hunt her down and have a chat. Or something.
“Livvie Peterson?” Mrs. B. tilts her head to the left to look at me at the end of my row.
“What?” I sit up straight in my chair.
“I asked if you’d come up here and play the sister.”
“Oh. Sure. Yeah, okay.” I stand up and take the long way around the back of the room so I can walk by the frizzy-haired girl’s desk. As I near it, I look down, hoping to see a name on her paper. I don’t see a name but I do spot initials written on the cover of her notebook, over and over again with blue ink. D.B.
D.B. glares up at me and covers her notebook with her hand. Please. There’s a picture of her doing some nasty things with someone else’s boyfriend circulating the school and she glares at me?
I join the other two girls at the front of the room, and Mrs. B. hands me a post card with the emotions I’m to display in our little scene scrawled across it. Like I said, easy A, even when I get called on.
I love Interpersonal Communications.
Chapter 2
I arrive to IPC on time the next day, since Tessa’s home with the 24-hour, ahem, yeah right, flu. Mrs. B. is waiting just outside of the classroom with a stack of magazines cradled in her arms.
“Here you go, Livvie,” she says, handing me this week’s Star. On the cover is the dimply, bikini-covered rear ends of three A-list stars, party girl Holly Lopez entering rehab for the fifth time, and the new hot young fashion model whom Harlin Adams, Hollywood’s highest paid leading man, is traipsing around New York with while his nine-months-pregnant wife sits home alone in their Malibu mansion. Scandalous.
While I don’t like personally experiencing drama in real life, I love reading about the dramatic lives of the fake and the fabulous. “Mrs. B.,” I say in my most serious voice, “I want you to know, and I’m not just saying this, that you are hands down the best teacher I’ve ever had.”
“Ha!” She laughs and shakes her head. “Take your seat and start reading.”
“I love you!” I say and dodge to my seat, flipping to the story on page thirty before I’ve even set down my books. I’ve been dying to see the jus
t-released pics of the Dance America Dance winner making out with the fifty-years-older judge. Dying in the freakishly curious sense. I mean, seriously, he could be her grandpa. Maybe even her great grandpa. Holy Ickiness.
I find the page and oh, man, it’s true! It’s totally Shaz A.M.! Nasty, nasty, nasty! She had to be scraping his denture cream off the back of her tonsils after this make-out session. I flip the page for more pics. “Okay, for real,” I say to the cute guy in the desk next to me, “you’ve gotta see this.” I hold up the magazine for him to see. “She’s going to make the ol’ dude break a hip in that position, right?”
The cute guy laughs and his hair shakes out of his eyes. “That’s just wrong.”
I take a longer look at him. Wow. Why haven’t I noticed him before? Serious hotness. He’s got these crazy dark eyes and even darker hair. If he wasn’t dressed so preppy he’d almost look kind of Goth. Not that I’m into Goth. I myself don’t have any super interesting style. I’m your average whatever-looks-cute-yet-is-still-comfy kind of girl. Hence the worn-out jeans, tee, and Chucks I’m sporting today. I really want to talk to this big cup of cuteness some more though. “What are you reading?”
He holds up a National Enquirer. “Botched plastic surgery. See, this one’s bottom lip looks like it ate her top lip.” He points to a picture of a woman who looks more feline than female.
I lean over for a closer look. “Whoa! You’re right! I bet she wishes she could hit ‘undo’ on that.”
He smiles. “My name’s Chas Montgomery.”
“Cool name, Chas,” I say, sitting back in my seat. I bet on the weekends he likes to kick back with a nice cigar after a rousing polo match with his buddies, Thurston and Chadwick.
“And you are?” he asks, holding a hand out like he just pointed to a letter on Wheel of Fortune.
“Livvie Peterson,” I reply. “Livvie’s short for Olivia. But I’m sure you already guessed that. Not much else it could be short for, right? Maybe Olive. But who would name their kid Olive? Outside of Popeye’s girlfriend’s mom. About a million and a half years ago. ‘I yam what I yam’, right? But, I babble. Yeah, anyway, it’s Livvie.” Wow. I am all kinds of smoothness here. I don’t know how he’s keeping his hands off of me right now.
The Paparazzi Project Page 1
