by Lele Pons
“Lele is a rock star!” Yvette shouts into the microphone. Steve pops a bottle of champagne and shakes it over the front row. Alexei and Darcy drink from the champagne geyser; everyone has lost their goddamn minds.
Backstage, I get lost among a frenzy of Steve Tao’s friends, fans, and a fair amount of guys and girls who don’t totally seem to understand where they are. A few people I’ve never seen before approach to tell me they loved seeing me up there and they think my Vines are hilarious. Everyone says this as if they’re reading a script, as if they’re in a daze, only half present.
Is this what being popular is like? Being surrounded by people without having anyone to really talk to? Everyone knows your name but no one cares to know any more than that? And why? Just because I got in shape, lost my braces, and posted some wacky videos on the internet?
I’ve always been this person, so it feels strange that all of a sudden people approve of who I am. It’s all very Emperor’s New Clothes; someone said they thought I was cool and it started a domino effect until suddenly everyone felt they had to like me or else it meant something was wrong with them. But I’m just the same person I’ve always been. It’s so disingenuous! It’s so fake! I want real connections; I want to believe that people can like even the nerdy, loner version of me. I wish people could appreciate me as Lele 1.0.
So far, all being “famous” has done is teach me just how shallow most people really are.
But I could get used to the glow sticks. Definitely not complaining about the glow sticks.
22
How to Stop a Party from Getting Shut Down
(2,700,200 Followers)
Remember when I used to go to parties and get mercilessly ignored? Well, now I get invited to parties hosted by celebrities like Kendall Jenner, and sometimes I even get invited to parties being thrown in my honor. Either way, whatever party I attend, I’m never ignored. Mom and Dad keep reminding me that fame can be a double-edged sword—which I think means it can be awesome but can also hurt you if you’re not careful?—and to always stay grounded.
“You’re still a normal high school girl, Lele, don’t let your head get too big.”
“Please,” I say. “When have I ever been a normal high school girl? And besides, I got this.”
Although I have to admit, sometimes the attention is a bit too much to handle and I want to scream out: “Hey! Shine the spotlight over there! Nothing to see over here, folks!” and then run home into the comforting, humbling arms of my mom and dad. You know, like when I’m about to sneeze and know I’m going to make the most ridiculous face, or when I lose my hand-eye coordination and spill my drink everywhere, or when the police show up—I miss the days when I was invisible.
“Say what?” you might say. “The police showed up? Man, Lele is hard core.” And you’d be right to say this, because it’s true, I am hard core, but that’s not the point of this story. Let me tell you how it went down.
Have you ever been to a warehouse party? Well, now I have, and I’m here to tell you that they are insane. People pay money to dance for hours on end pressed up against sweaty strangers while getting their eardrums blown out by blasting techno music. It sounds horrible, and it kind of is horrible, but also pretty fun in a YOLO sort of way.
Yvette’s cousin Danny is a club promoter who hosts this event (a.k.a warehouse party) downtown called Cacophony (which is a fancy word for an unpleasant mixture of sounds), and Yvette says he’d love to have me there as a celebrity guest. Me? A celebrity guest? Obviously I can’t say no. So we put on the shiniest, most neon clothes we can find and take an Uber to a dark corner of downtown where everybody mulls around stealthily like vampires and meet up with Danny, who takes us to the front of the line and stamps our hands with a red smiley face.
Yvette starts to let loose right away, bouncing and jerking her body around to the ntz ntz ntz of the music. I’m taking a good look around at the spacious room cast in dark red light when a flock of girls in pseudo-hippie festival attire descends upon me with wide eyes and big smiles.
“You’re Lele Pons,” one screams over the music, stroking my hair, clearly high out of her mind.
“I am! Hi!” I consider moving her hand off my hair but she seems like she’s on a roll, and I might as well just let her do her thing. Plus, it never hurts to make a new friend.
“Come dance with us!” another says. “We think you’re amazing.”
“Oh, ha.” I’m glad it’s dark enough that no one can see me blush. “Thank you. That’s sweet.”
“You have to dance with us. Oh my God, this night is incredible. Lele, you’re a goddess. You guys, isn’t she a goddess?”
The rest agree in unison and pull me by my arms into the center of the room, where bodies writhe around like a snake pit. Despite the intensity of the scene it actually feels amazing to move with the music and let my troubles melt away. Yvette finds us and pours a water bottle over my head to cool me down and we just keep moving for what feels like hours, probably burning thousands of calories. I’ve just lost track of all concept of time and space when a concerned murmur starts moving through the crowd and quickly becomes an eruption of frantically scattering bodies shouting some variation of “The cops are here! Come on, let’s go!”
“The cops?” I turn to one of the girls. “Why would they be here? This isn’t illegal is it?” My stomach turns—I’m too pretty for prison!
“Not if you’re twenty-one,” she says, dipping away into the crowd.
“Oh, shit! Yvette, I can’t go to jail.”
“Oh my God, Lele, calm down. Follow me.” She grabs my hand and pushes through the dispersing crowd as the sirens approach and the music comes to an abrupt stop. I follow her up to the bar, where we duck under a curtain and are suddenly in a very narrow hallway.
“Police!” I hear a booming voice just on the other side of the curtain. “Nobody move!”
“Come on!” Yvette tugs my hand and we run down the hall to a clanky metal staircase that leads us to a door that opens up into an alleyway. The secretive back exit, nice. I can see the red-and-white swirl of siren light at one end of the alley, so we know to keep running in the opposite direction. When we make it to the cross street, we’re panting and laughing, finally in the clear.
“Jesus Christ, Yvette! What the hell just happened?”
“The cops show up to this sort of thing all the time. We’re going to need to get you a fake ID.”
“Hate to be such a wet blanket, but maybe in the future we could just go to legal parties.”
• • •
What an adventure! I witnessed my first warehouse party and almost had my first run-in with the cops! At home I collapse onto my bed and scribble a newly inspired thought onto a notepad:
• • •
How to stop a party from being shut down: If you go to a party, always keep a police uniform in your purse. That way, if the police show up, you can pretend that you’re one of them and say, “Hey, I got this one under control, you guys can just move along.” Then sit back and watch the magic continue.
23
Partied Out
(3,145,000 Followers)
One party, two party, red party, blue party. I’ve been going to so many parties and no two are alike! Some parties are big and some parties are small, some parties are fun and some just aren’t at all. Some parties have alcohol and some have balloons, some parties have piñatas shaped like Looney Toons. Some parties are—okay, you know what, you get the point: I’m a very talented poet. Who has been going to parties and letting schoolwork slide like a kid at a water park (oops!). But, as it turns out, not all parties are worth the effort. Some parties you’d be better off not going to. These parties are called thirteen-year-old birthday parties.
I’ve never understood kids’ birthday parties. The kids are happy just to roll around in the mud, while the parents use the opportunity to socialize. Apparently this phenomenon lasts all the way into the early teenage years. It’s Saturday night and I
’m dressed in pastels with my hair in a side braid hovering awkwardly in the far corner of the room where Josie King’s son is celebrating his thirteenth birthday. Along with two hundred of his closest friends. I don’t know anyone here and I’ve been alone with the chocolate fondue fountain for basically an eternity while stampedes of newly hormonal thirteen-year-olds swarm the dance floor—I’m bored and scared and seconds away from drinking chocolate straight out of the fountain.
Maybe I should back up for a second. Last week I got a call from Josie King herself (who is an A-list movie star, obviously. What, do you live under a rock?) saying that her son, Ryan, just loves my Vines and would like to invite me to his thirteenth birthday party. At first I was like ummmmmm, but then she hurried it along and I realized that this was not an invitation, but a proposal: I would show up to her son’s bar mitzvah, sign some autographs for the kids, and go home with ten thousand dollars. Yes, please! How did it feel to be hired by Hollywood royalty? Amazing. Unreal. Preternatural. But once I got there the magic faded. A celebrity’s child’s thirteenth-birthday party is still a birthday party, which means the majority of the guests are going through puberty literally as the party is happening.
Which means they have no chill. Which means CALM THE F DOWN, YOU MONSTERS!
“You’re not Miley Cyrus,” the birthday boy observes rather astutely when I meet him.
“No, honey,” his mom says somewhat nervously, like she’s trying to placate a wild animal. “Miley Cyrus would have cost Mommy a couple million dollars. And that’s just ridiculous. You said you love Lele—you watch her videos all the time.”
“I do! I just wanted Miley. But this is okay—hi, Lele! Thanks for coming to my party.” His cheeks are chubby and freckled. A couple million dollars? Maybe I shouldn’t have gotten so excited about ten thousand. I sigh deeply; this is going to be a long night.
So, I drink cranberry juice at table eleven with Ryan and his best friends while the guests mingle with their toothpick-impaled crudité and “I Gotta Feeling” by the Black Eyed Peas rages on high.
Things could be worse.
There are worse ways to make ten thousand dollars. Right? That is, until Ryan’s BFF Carl starts asking me what kind of “sex stuff” I’ve done and then I know I have to get outta there.
I excuse myself from the table of child perverts and head to the chocolate fountain, which is now where I’ve been for the past twenty minutes, just eyeing the clock and avoiding conversations with grandparents and family friends who want to know how I know Ryan. Oh boy.
I’m chewing one fingernail and basking in the joy of knowing I get to leave in three minutes when a boy in a turquoise blazer throws a football to his buddy and it knocks into the chocolate fondue fountain, spraying liquid chocolate all over me like I’m in the splash zone at one of those sad Sea World shows. At first I gasp, horrified, then I just shrug; who am I kidding? Being covered in chocolate is the highlight of my night.
I think from now on I’ll stick to parties for free hosted by my own age group.
24
Old Friends Are Best Friends
(3,200,000 followers)
“Remember when if you wanted to watch a TV show you had to know what time it was going to be on and then make sure you were there to watch it?” Lucy asks us, plucking out the red M&M’s from a pack and setting them aside. We’re in Arianna’s room—Lucy, Mara, Arianna, and me (the old school gang back together again)—lounging casually after a long Wednesday as if nothing has changed. As if I wasn’t ripped from the comforts and safety of my lovely circle of friends, as if I’m not becoming an accidental internet sensation. (I know it sounds exciting, but just the thought of it makes me feel like there’s an elephant sitting on my chest or like I’m falling through thin air. It’s like I’m falling through thin air while an elephant sits on my chest.)
“Sure, I remember,” I say, my head resting in Mara’s lap. “I used to rush through dinner so I could be sitting in front of the television as soon as One Tree Hill came on.”
“TBT One Tree Hill!” Arianna says from her bed, where she’s completely horizontal, draped across it from left to right instead of head to foot.
“And then after that it was like, if you wanted to watch something you had to make sure you remembered to DVR it,” Lucy continues, “but now all you have to do is look it up on Hulu or, like . . . buy it the next day on iTunes.”
“Great story, bb,” says Mara. “Can we talk about something interesting now?” The love we all have for each other is epic and undying, so it’s okay to talk like this from time to time.
“I got paid to go to a thirteen-year-old’s birthday party this weekend,” I say.
“What? Like as a babysitter?” Mara asks.
“Um, no, like as an internet celebrity, right, Lele?” Lucy is impressed.
“Yeah, I guess so,” I say. “You guys, life is getting weird. The weekend before that I went to a warehouse party and we ended up running from the cops. I don’t want to ever run from the cops again—it was exhausting. Actually, all of life feels exhausting these days.”
“Whoa,” says Arianna. “And you’re literally never tired. This must be serious. We need to do something to relax Lele ASAP.”
“Actually just hanging around here watching Lucy with her weird aversion to red M&M’s is quite soothing.”
“It’s not a weird aversion.” Lucy pouts. “I’m allergic to them.” Then she throws one at my head. I eat it.
“Well, we’re glad you still want to hang with your boring nonfamous friends,” Mara says.
“Oh my God, Mara, you are not my boring friends. I’m the boring one. Did you not hear me? I went to a kid’s birthday.”
“And ran from the cops at a rave.”
“Oh, hush. Enough about me. What have you guys been up to?”
“Like, studying for the SATs and stuff. I’m trying to get my score up to the two thousands,” Mara laments. “Ms. Smarty-Pants over here already has a 2250. Bitch.”
“Arianna?! You do? I mean, I’m not surprised, but wow, congratulations.”
“If ya wanna go to an Ivy League that’s how it’s gotta be. Actually, it should be higher. I’ll take it one more time.”
“Jeez, how many times are you supposed to take this dumb thing!?” I ask, getting nervous. Am I falling behind? Do I even want to go to college? No, I don’t. School makes me anxious and the performing arts make me feel at ease—so why not just follow my passion? Why not just skip college and go straight to performing for the world? Have I ever really stopped to ask myself what will make me the happiest? Well, I’m asking myself that now, and the answer is not college.
“However many you want,” Arianna says. “One is totally fine though.”
“Yeah, I only took it once,” says Lucy. “No way I’m doing that again. Don’t worry, you’re good with one. What did you get?”
“Errmmmm. I uhhhhh . . .”
“Have you not taken it?!”
“Umm, well, not myself, no. But I uh . . . know people who have?”
“Lele, please don’t freak out.” Arianna puts her hand on my knee; she always senses when I’m going into panic mode. “You don’t need to take the SATs, just keep being yourself and it’s going to be great. College isn’t for everyone.”
Gulp. I know Arianna meant that to be helpful, but do I really not want to go to college? I haven’t had time to really think about it—am I running out of time? Is my college hourglass draining sand as we speak? I’ve successfully blocked the SATs from my mind, probably due to my test-taking anxiety and denial issues, but that doesn’t mean I’ve made any major decisions about my future yet! Did the elephant on my chest just gain fifty pounds? What a jerk.
It’s time for a shopping spree
Every now and then the world is too much pressure and you need to let loose. And, now that I have some of my own cash to spare for the first time in my life, I’m letting loose at the mall, in the first-ever Lele Pons shopping spree! Now, I gotta
be honest, this spree lasted hours and would take forever to recap, so I’ve condensed it into a mega-convenient, ultra-cinematic montage for your reading pleasure:
12:30 p.m.: Arianna, Lucy, Mara, and I storm into the Westfield mall with hungry eyes and fierce determination to tear the place apart.
12:35 p.m.: Straight to Bebe! We try on leather jackets and over-the-top stilettos and (ironically, duh) a bunch of those tight-fitting shirts that actually have Bebe spelled out in rhinestones. Selfies off the hook!
1:20 p.m.: Tiffany’s! Sure, we’re not getting married anytime soon, but what’s the harm in trying on a couple dozen diamond rings? Answer: no harm! Thank you, lovely salespeople at Tiffany’s!
3:00 p.m.: Time for practical purchases (feather boas are practical, right?) We head to Top Shop for purses and dresses, scooping things off the shelves left and right like big spenders, throwing hats and scarves in the air for that special montage essence. We leave the store with at least three bags each, stuffed full with jeans and sequined tops and Fendi knockoffs, all of it paid for by yours truly. A girl’s gotta show gratitude for her ride-or-dies!
5:00 p.m.: Here’s where things get crazy. As you know, I only own two pairs of shoes. As we pass through the first floor of Nordstrom, slow-mo, my eyes rove over clusters of red-soled Louboutins and Jeffrey Campbells and Jimmy Choos, boots and flats and sandals and heels—I have to have them all. This is what a life of severely depriving oneself of shoes will do. In the span of an hour I go from owning two pairs of shoes to owning thirteen. Oops. Needless to say, my girl squad is very impressed.
6:15 p.m.: After six hours of shopping we literally cannot keep going, and collapse outside Wetzel’s Pretzels. We have shopped until we dropped, and it feels good. I almost don’t remember why I was so stressed in the first place—oh right, college. No, Lele, refocus: your shoe life has begun and that is something to celebrate! Something to celebrate with cinnamon Wetzel’s! Nom nom nom nom. Sigh, life is good.
