Theodora Twist (11 page)

“I’d rather hear about Bo and Brandon. I mean—about how you’re doing.”

She blows at her toes. “Maybe they
are
just really busy. It’s not their fault I don’t have a life all of a sudden.”

Uh, thanks.
“You
are
busy filming a reality TV show,” I point out.

“I’m sitting in your bedroom polishing your nails,” she says. “That’s what I’m doing. They’re flying all over Europe, having groupies fling themselves at them.”

“You’re worried?” I ask. It’s hard to imagine she could be. Hard to imagine any guy, let alone two, dumping Theodora Twist.

“A little,” she says, eyeing her toes. “I think they’re dry. So what should we do tonight? Movies? Club in the city?”

“It’s almost ten o’clock,” I point out.

“The clubs don’t really get going till eleven,” she says, “so if we leave now, we’ll get there just in time.”

“But we have school tomorrow,” I remind her.

“So?”

“So . . . I can’t. My mom won’t let me, anyway. I have to be home by nine on school nights.”

She stares at me. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope,” I say, my cheeks burning. At least I can blame it on my mom.

Theodora

TO: [email protected]

FROM: [email protected]

SUBJECT:
Changes to be made Can you talk to someone about building an extra room for me at the Stewarts? There’s no spare bedroom for me.

tx . . . TT

TO: [email protected]

FROM: [email protected]

SUBJECT:
RE: Changes to be made As discussed ad nauseam, you’re sharing Emily’s bedroom. Point of the show, Theodora.

xoAB

TO: [email protected]

FROM: [email protected]

SUBJECT:
RE: RE: Changes to be made I’m supposed to sleep in her room every night? Are you kidding me? WTF? Can’t they just film me getting into bed or getting up in the morning, etc.? I’m not sharing a room with someone for a month.

tx . . . TT

TO: [email protected]

FROM: [email protected]

SUBJECT:
RE: RE: RE: Changes to be made Yeah, you are. Be a good girl. Or find yourself a new agent (you’ll need one for your career in soaps). Or there’s always soft porn.

xoxo AB

“What is all that noise?” I mutter at six a.m., removing my pink satin eye mask. “Don’t tell me the paparazzi are out there already.”

Emily jumps out of bed and heads to the window. “Nope. There’s a line of twelve-year-olds in front of the house across the street. The little twerp who lives there is probably selling peeks into our room through his telescope. I used to babysit him—total nightmare.” She pulls the curtains tight and picks up the telephone on her desk. “Mrs. Harvil, this is Emily Fine from across the street. I think you should know that Lenny is inviting a group of boys into his room to try to see Theodora through his telescope. And she’s practically naked at the moment.” She peers out the window and laughs. “I can hear his mom yelling her head off. They’re all scattering like flies now.”

“Can I have the first shower?” I ask her. “I need to look camera ready when Vic and Nicole get here. They’ll want to shoot us waking up for my first day of school.”

“Sure,” she says.

As I stand under the delicious hot spray, I wonder why I told Emily so much about myself last night. I need to shut up. I have no idea whether I can trust her.

A half hour later, primped and ready and changed into cute new pj’s—a pink tank top with GIRL spelled out in glittering white letters, and white yoga pants—I head back into the bedroom. Emily is staring at me. “Looking totally natural takes work,” I tell her. “You’d better hop to it unless you want to be filmed looking that that,” I add, eyeing her hair. She has total bed head.

She glances in the mirror and sighs. “The curse of wavy hair,” she says, disappearing into the bathroom.

Finally, some privacy! I grab my cell and punch in Bo’s number. No answer. Only voice mail. “Hi, Bo, it’s me. I miss you—call me. Then I punch in Brandon’s number. Voice mail. Argh! I am so sick of voice mail! I leave the same message for him, then bash the phone against my pillow.

“Not working?” Emily asks, emerging from the bathroom with a pink towel wrapped around her head. She’s in new pj’s of her own, a baby blue T-shirt and white sweats.

“Not answering. Where the hell are Bo and Brandon?”
Shut up, Theodora. Stop telling her stuff!

“If they’re on tour, they’re probably just really busy,” she says, taking the towel off her head.

“Please. They’re getting massages and blow jobs from groupies is what they’re doing,” I snap. Her face turns such a bright shade of red that I have to laugh. “Ever given one?”

“Can we not talk about this at six-thirty in the morning?” she mutters, heading back into the bathroom.

I try not to laugh out loud and poke my head in the bathroom. She’s staring down at the countertop, looking sort of miserable. “I’ll do your hair and makeup if you want. We have fifteen minutes till the cameras descend.” She glances up at me and nods. Truce accepted. I check out her cosmetics bag and hair care products. “No. No. And more no,” I tell her. “We’ll use my stuff.”

“All my stuff is Girlie Girl cosmetics too,” she says.

“But all the wrong colors,” I tell her. “With your light brown hair, hazel eyes, and fair skin, black mascara is way too dark for you. And pink blush is way too light.” I open my kit. “Besides, Girlie Girl is great, but you can’t stay with only one brand.” Then I examine her. She really is cute. She has a friendly, approachable face. And great skin. I apply, dot, pat, brush. In ten minutes, she looks
very
cute. “I can help you pick out an outfit,” I say. “The paparazzi and news reporters will be out in full force today. You’ll want to look hot.”

“I don’t think I can,” she says. “Cute, maybe. Not hot.”

“I can make you look hot. Makeup, clothes. You have to supply the attitude, though.”

She laughs. “I’m seriously lacking in attitude.”

“Oh, you have attitude.”

She eyes me for a second. “That’s a compliment, isn’t it?”

I smile. “Yes. A big one.” As I use my lip brush to swipe some sheer brick-colored lipstick on her mouth, she stares at me.

“You’re so
pretty,
” she says out of the blue. “What’s that like? To know that no matter where you go, every guy wants you?”

I flash her a grin. “It’s awesome.”

She smiles back. Downstairs, we hear the doorbell, then the clomping up the stairs; then Vic calls out, “Ready or not, here we come!”

We’re in our beds before the door opens. We open our eyes and stretch on cue.

Emily and I are two minutes into breakfast in the dining room when Sophie throws a handful of pureed something—peaches?—at me.

“Holy shit!” I yelp, jumping up.

Emily, her mom and stepfather all whirl and stare at me. How do they expect me to react when gross gloppy goo lands on my shirt? I feel a cold, slimy piece on my neck.

“Will Ashley be pissed that you cursed?” Emily asks, gesturing at the three camerapeople filming two feet away.

“That’s the joy of network television,” I say. “They’ll bleep it. Teens
do
curse, you know.”

“Not in this house,” Stew says jovially, staring awkwardly at the camera.

I share a “give me a break” smirk with Emily, which she truly seems to appreciate, then excuse myself to change. I couldn’t decide between outfits anyway, so at least now I get to wear the other one I thought worthy for my first day of school. Fun ice-pink cropped cargo jeans, a really cute white T-shirt with tiny silver snaps dotting the hem and V-neck, and low-heeled pink suede slides that cost all of $21.99.

“Come have your waffles before they get cold,” Emily’s mom calls as I get back downstairs. I help myself to an apple instead; when I was upstairs I also munched on my VegeFood breakfast: granola with yogurt. Waffles? I don’t think so.

“Emily, your hair looks so nice,” Mrs. Stewarts says, admiring her daughter.

“Thanks. Theodora was my stylist.”

“You learn a lot by sitting in a chair and watching what the hair and makeup people do when you’re on a shoot,” I say, then smell something gross. I wrinkle my nose.

Emily’s mom smiles at me, then kneels down next to Sophie’s high chair. She almost drops the cup of coffee in her hand. “Someone needs her diaper changed,” she coos to Sophie.

We all look at Stew. He’s been sitting at the table since we arrived, scarfing down homemade waffles while flipping through the
New York Times.
He’s on his third cup of coffee. Emily’s mom hasn’t sat down
once.
He finally glances up. “Could you take this one, Steph? I’m right in the middle of an article.”

Mrs. Stewarts looks exasperated. She clearly spent the past hour whipping up this homemade breakfast, from the waffles to the fresh-squeezed orange juice. And it was Mrs. Stewarts’s voice I heard early this morning in the nursery—not Stew’s. “Stew, honey, could you do the honors? I haven’t even had a cup of coffee yet.”

Stew glances at Emily. “Em, would you mind?” He points to the newspaper. “I’m right in the middle of an article about the real estate market. And that’s my biz. Gotta keep up to date if I’m going to make my first billion. Right, honey?” he adds to Mrs. Stewarts, who looks like she’s going to lose it any second.

“Tell you what,” I say. “
I’ll
change Sophie’s diaper. I used to babysit Madison Levy—I can’t believe she’s, like, four years old now—before I moved to L.A. It’s the least I can do for you all hosting me.”

They stare at me as though I just said I like to eat the contents of diapers. “I’m not a prima donna,” I point out, knowing Ashley will like that. Then I scoop up Sophie, who grabs a fistful of my hair. Vic follows me upstairs, followed by Emily, who probably thinks I’m either going to put the diaper on backward or drop Sophie on her head. Nicole follows Emily.

As we head into the nursery, I hear Mrs. Stewarts say, “You should have done it, Stew.” There’s no response, which means Stew is either engrossed in his article or he gestured at the camera to remind her that now is not the time for ragging on him. “She’s our guest, Stew,” Mrs. Stewarts adds. “You should have put the paper down and taken care of your baby.”

“Jesus Christ, I’m trying to eat a decent breakfast before work,” Stew snaps. “And I changed her diaper yesterday, so don’t say I never help, Steph.” We hear a chair scrape and then a door close. Then nothing.

I glance at Emily, who seems to be holding her breath. “All good stuff,” I tell her as I grab a diaper and wipes. All that babysitting I did for the family who used to live across the street has finally amounted to something.

“It’s
good
that my parents just had a huge fight that millions of people will see on national television?” she says.

“I meant it’s good your mom stood up for herself,” I explain, sprinkling baby powder on Sophie’s butt. “Come on, admit it, Em. I’m pretty good with a diaper.”

She smiles. “You’re not bad.”

When we first came down to breakfast, there were just a few assorted members of the paparazzi outside, loitering, reading the paper against cars, waiting. Now, at seven-thirty, they’ve multiplied and are lining the block. TV news vans and reporters are waiting too.

“What the—” I hear Emily’s stepfather say from his den. He comes out, still holding his precious newspaper. “There are photographers in the shrubbery!”

Emily’s mom peers out the living room window. “I don’t know how you two are going to get down the street. Is it even safe? You’ll be mobbed.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I say. “I’ll take care of it.”

“How?” Emily asks, grabbing her backpack.

I open the door. “Bye, Mom, bye, Dad!” I say on a laugh to Mr. and Mrs. Stewarts.

“Theodora! Theodora! Theodora!” I turn in every direction, smiling, posing with my new loose-leaf binder. Emily looks like she’s going to throw up. I whisper in her ear, “You give ’em what they want, they tend to leave you alone when you ask them to.”

Reporters rush up and thrust microphones into our faces. “Ready for the first day of school, Theodora?” one asks.

“I can’t wait!” I chirp. “First period’s English. My favorite subject.” I glance at my watch. It’s a real Cartier, but since rip-offs are so big right now, I figured it was okay to keep it. “Ooh, Emily and I had better get going,” I tell the reporters.

“Emily!” the reporters yell out. “What’s it like having Theodora Twist as a roommate?
Is
she just a regular teen at heart?”

Emily is turning white and whiter. Her mouth is moving slightly but no sound is coming out. I smile at her and sling an arm around her shoulder. “Emily will be giving interviews at a later date,” I announce. “If anyone is interested in talking to Emily, please contact Ashley at Ashley Bean Talent Management.” I turn to Emily. “They’ve got enough pictures. They won’t trail us to school. They’ll drive there and mob us when we get there, to get shots of us in front of the school. And they’ll interview students. Don’t be surprised if you watch the news tonight and some girl you’ve never even met is talking about you like you’re her best friend.”

She turns around. When she seems satisfied that we’re not being followed—even by our camerapeople; they’re driving to school to meet the principal—we head down Oak City Boulevard and she lets out a deep breath. “How do you deal with that all the time?”

“It’s the price of fame, as they say. So what’s up with your stepfather?” I ask her. “ ‘I changed her diaper yesterday’? Does he realize babies poo in their diapers, like, four times a day?”

“He pretty much leaves Sophie to my mom,” Emily says. “He plays with her before and after work and on weekends, but that’s about it. My mom does everything.”

“When did they get married?”