I looked up to see Troy and my parents all staring at me. “What?” I said. “And isn’t it cheating to open your eyes before the ‘amen’?”
“Did you just tell God I’m handsome?” my brother asked.
“Strong and smart, too,” I said.
“And what was the other thing—viral?” my mom said. “You mean like viraling on social media?”
I rolled my eyes. “Mo-o-om! Nobody says viral-ing.”
“Whatevs,” said Mom. “Does this have something to do with that picture of Troy I saw on my screen today? I didn’t click, though. Who has that much time?”
I said, “Only everyone I ever met.” Then I explained about the mustache post. “You saw it, right?” I said to Troy. “Your friends were all over sharing it.”
Troy shrugged. “Were they? Some girls maybe. But you’re up to something, Livia. You would never be so nice if you weren’t.”
I threw my hand to my forehead and collapsed back in my chair. “How can you be so cruel? I am your loving sister!”
“Save the Shakespeare for Acting Studio,” my brother said. “Now, what’s going on? How worried should I be?”
“Not a bit worried.” I straightened up. “But it’s true I have a teeny-tiny request. From now on, could you every morning drink your smoothie like usual, then let me take a picture of you, same as I did today. It would help if you made your smoothies colorful. Otherwise, the mustache won’t show up. What do you say? Deal?”
This whole conversation had happened between bites of Jenny’s very healthy pasta, which had spinach in it along with little round beans and salty cheese. Since Troy and I had done most of the talking, there was a lot on our plates, but my dad’s was almost empty. I noticed now that he was looking intently at what was left—possibly searching for red meat.
My brother shook his head. “I don’t think so, Livia. It would feel creepy to put my face out there for everyone to see and maybe laugh at. Besides, it’s not like I’ve done anything good to deserve attention. I just look goofier than usual when I’m smeared with a pink mustache.”
“Everyone deserves attention!” I said. “And here in the twenty-first century, if you want to claim your fair share, you can’t just sit on your behind. You’ve got to take action.”
“You mean take pictures,” Troy said.
“Or videos,” I said.
“How do you know all this, Livia?” my mother asked.
“Everyone does,” I said, “unless they live in a cave—no offense.”
My mother looked at my father. “Now that I think of it,” she said, “didn’t we just hire a kid to handle social media for Baron Barbecue? Rae-Lyn in marketing thought it would be a good idea. I believe the girl we hired is named Jessica.”
“And she’s a kid?” I pictured a third grader behind a desk. She had red lipstick and a good manicure. Over her shoulder was an ostrich-skin messenger bag. On her feet were stilettos. This person did not actually exist. I had invented her from nothing. Still, I felt very, very jealous.
“Not a kid kid,” my father clarified. “In fact, a young woman with an advanced degree.”
“You can go to college for Facebook?” I said.
“More or less,” my father said. “Maybe you would like a job like that someday.”
“Livia could have that job now,” Troy said.
“Totally!” I said.
“You do spend too much time on your phone, Livia,” my father said.
“How come for me it’s too much time and for Jessica it’s a job?” I asked.
“Got you there, Dad,” said Troy.
My father dabbed the corner of his mouth with his napkin. “As a matter of fact, she does not,” he said, and the way he looked at my brother, I could tell the baseball fight lived on. “Jessica is doing social media on behalf of a company that employs hundreds of people and provides satisfaction to millions. Livia is doing it only for herself.”
“Myself and my brother,” I said, and added very sweetly, “if he’ll let me. Besides, all my friends do it too.”
I knew as soon as I said it that this last argument was bad, and—colossal surprise alert!—my father pounced. “If all your friends jumped off a cliff—,” he began.
“Yes!” I cut him off. “Yes, I would jump too! Because life would not be worth living if none of my friends were left.”
“Don’t exaggerate, Olivia,” said my mother.
“I’m not,” I said.
“Enough,” said my father. “Troy, I am with you a hundred percent on this one. Who would want to look at photos of my son with a dirty face?”
“Thousands of people!” I said. “And that was before dinner. If I were allowed to look at my phone, I could give you the updated figures.”
“The whole thing is nonsense,” said my father—and I bet he expected that to be the end of it, too—but it wasn’t because Troy surprised us both.
“On the other hand, Livvy”—he looked at me—“it’s really no skin off my nose if you want to take a photo of me every morning. I mean, I’m gonna be drinking my smoothie anyway.”
“Seriously?” I was ecstatic beyond measure. I wanted to jump up, run around the table, and throw my arms around my one and only brother, except I knew that this would never fly with the politeness police—aka my parents. So all I did was tell him, “Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you—”
My brother raised both hands. “Okay, okay, Livvy. You’ve made your point. And you’ll have to come downstairs on time in the morning and remember your backpack, too, you know. I can’t be late to school. I have AP history first, and Mr. Nordquist’s tardiness policy is zero-tolerance.”
“I will. I swear,” I said, and crossed my heart. “What kind of smoothie tomorrow, do you think?”
“Hmmm,” said Troy. “I’m thinking mint.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Olivia
During the rest of dinner, my dad was glum and silent. It was the whole baseball thing and besides that—I’m guessing—he really, really, really wanted to make a new rule forbidding our posting smoothie mustaches every day. The trouble was he couldn’t think of a good reason for the rule, and as strict as my dad is, he is rarely unreasonable.
For dessert we ate the last of Hannah’s delicious lemon cookies. You know the miracle of the loaves and fishes in the Bible that multiply to feed thousands? That must be exclusively a Jesus thing because in my own personal experience sharing makes things disappear faster.
I was looking longingly at the last crumbs and sugar sparkles on my plate when my mother asked whether I’d written to Hannah yet to thank her.
“Mom!” I protested. “The cookies only got here a couple of days ago, and you know how busy I am!”
My mother raised her eyebrows. “I didn’t mean to criticize, Olivia. I only meant that if you haven’t, please tell her how much we all enjoyed them.”
“Oh,” I said. “Sorry, Mom. Okay.”
“Are you still thinking you’ll go back to Moonlight Ranch this year?” Mom asked.
“Totally,” I said.
“That’s good to hear,” said my dad, speaking up for the first time in a while. “I can’t call your summer camp inexpensive, Livia, but apart from your own enjoyment, the cookies have made it a good investment.”
* * *
Please do not think that I, Olivia Baron, am some ungrateful, ill-mannered wretch.
But the fact is almost a whole month passed before I got around to writing that thank-you note to Hannah, and I only did it then because I was looking for my homework folder and, as I delved deeply into the pile of papers, pens, lipsticks, snow globes, barrettes, markers, ink pads, origami paper, Legos, beauty products, stickers, books, PEZ dispensers, et cetera, et cetera, on top of my desk, I happened to uncover Hannah’s letter.
Oh my gracious sakes, did I feel terrible!
What must my most favorite and benevolent counselor think of me?
Also, what Hannah, Jack, and Travis episode
had I missed?
To assuage the torments of my conscience, I determined to write back posthaste!
Also, writing to Hannah would be a lot more pleasant than writing my report on the Gateway Arch, Symbol of Westward Expansion.
Since my bed was at that moment an unusable tangle of sheets, covers, and pillows, I made myself a nest in my biggest, most comfortable chair and began.
Sunday, February 12
Dearest, most beautiful, most brilliant, wise and knowledgeable Hannah, far and away and beyond dispute the best counselor at Moonlight Ranch!
Je suis désolé (which means “I’m sorry” in case you took Spanish or Japanese or something) that I have not written till now to thank you for the utterly fantabulous and perfect in every way sparkly lemon cookies, which my entire family loved like crazy and devoured like the locusts in the Old Testament devoured the crops of the Egyptians.
I have been so, so, so very busy. Since you are a fan of smoothie ’stache I will not bother to explain in detail but will only say: It is hard work creating a social media sensation! My brother and I (with help from Jenny) have to plan all recipes, all ingredients, and all the poses for the pictures. I have to (quelle horreur!) get up early. I have to deal with constant requests from friends who either want sneak previews of recipes, or for me to take their own pictures with mustaches made from chocolate pudding, or marker, or school-cafeteria soup.
(I tell them no. I can’t dilute the brand.)
The good part is all the likes. I even made a red and pink graph of them and got extra credit in math class.
The bad part is that some people are really mean and post very personal comments, not only about recipes but also about Troy’s skin color, his hair, and the shape of his nose. Troy says, “Don’t read them, Livvy. Don’t dignify racism and ignorance with your attention.”
But sometimes I can’t help it, Hannah. And I get a queasy stomach when I do.
Change of topic, to quote the esteemed Lucy’s esteemed and beautiful mother—because that one is too sad and depressing.
Not to be nosy, but what happened to Jack? The Cookie Club membership were unanimous in favor!
In other news from here in America’s heartland: Troy quit the baseball team a month ago, and my poor dad is still upset, so now there is basically an acrimonious debate (aka a fight) at dinner every night about who should run things, old people with experience or young people with new ideas. My mother calls this healthy discussion. I call it BORING and AWKWARD.
As for my own romantic life, I was interested in this math genius named Richard but now find myself way, way, WAY too busy for such trifles.
Mrs. W at After-School Acting Studio has picked Little Red Riding Hood for the spring play. We try out for parts in a couple of weeks. I think I will look good in red, don’t you? (LOL!)
Love ya lots and lots and lots and see you in a very, very, VERY few short months!
The one, the only, the incomparable: Olivia!!!
P.S. Do you know if Buck, in his infinite wisdom, is going to make that silly, silly rule about no phones at camp again this summer?
That was a good letter, I decided after I read it over. Jenny was right. It was amazing what a girl could do if she put her mind to it. I folded the stationery neatly in three and laid the letter on top of the pile on my desk. I could dig out Hannah’s address and an envelope later. Right now there were metrics to check.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Olivia
The creative team—Jenny, Troy, Ralph, and I—agreed the Valentine’s Day smoothie should be as red as red could be, and it took several experiments before we got it right. The winning formula used three different berries as well as a soupçon (look it up!) of paprika, to fix the color. Also, according to my brother the mustache model, paprika is good for the pain-free well-being of knees, elbows, ankles, and shoulders, all of which take a beating if you happen to be an athlete.
I don’t know if it was the quality of the red mustache or my brother’s pose in a heart-shaped frame, but our metrics that day were the best yet. Apparently, my one and only brother, Troy Baron, now qualified as a bona fide heartthrob.
Can you say gross?
Can you say it’s your own fault, Olivia?
And maybe that’s the grossest part of all.
On the day after Valentine’s Day—a day that will live in infamy, to borrow a phrase from some president or other—I first saw North Dakota Kitten. It was on Esmee Snyder’s feed, of course.
Of course you saw it too. Everybody did. But in case you’ve forgotten, I’ll remind you that the first one was fluffy and black, looking up from a dish of ice cream, its face half covered in the melted stuff.
Okay, it was cute—but also a total rip-off of smoothie ’stache. I mean, why didn’t the content creator just call it kitten ’stache and be done with it? To add insult to injury, the post included a recipe (Hello? A recipe?!) for the ice cream, which was fish flavor, made for felines.
I think I commented “Cute!” and reposted just to keep Esmee on my good side. We were going to be competing for the part of Little Red at Acting Studio, and I didn’t want her to be too mad when she lost out.
The smoothie ’stache numbers fell a little after that, but I wasn’t worried—not yet—and on St. Patrick’s Day, they bounced back. Troy had refused to go all head-to-toe leprechaun, but he did put on a cheesy cardboard hat with a gold foil buckle and green sequins.
“Hat’s too small, Olivia,” Ralph said that morning in the kitchen, looking him over. “Troy, you look silly.”
Troy said, “Of course I look silly.” He was staring into the blender and making a happy-astonished face, as if he had just found a pot of gold inside.
“Be quiet and hold still.” I snapped a couple of extras for insurance. “There. You’re good. Okay, Ralph. We can go to school. How did that one taste, Troy?”
Troy shrugged. “The wheatgrass is a little bland, but better than your idea, Livia. I’m pretty sure humans can’t digest shamrocks.”
Ironically (upside-down coincidence, remember?), I seemed to have less time to participate in social media now that I was creating social media. Like normally after school, I used to chat here, snap there, watch this video and play that game, but now I always seemed to have work to do. The next day, for example, I was reading up on mulberries for the April Fool’s smoothie when I got a text from Emma. Of the four of us—Grace, Lucy, Emma, and me—she’s the nicest and the bossiest. Could a career as preschool teacher be in her future? Magic 8 Ball says: Yes.
Emma: Hey, beautiful and talented friend O—how doin’? Are you ready for some ?
Olivia: Yes yes yes yes yes yes YES!
Emma: How RU?
Olivia: Busy busy busy.
Emma: I bet! BTW, your brother is handsome. All my friends in . I how his left ear is a tiny bit pointed.
Olivia: That’s gross, Emma, and it’s because he’s half
Emma: Uh-oh. Are you not getting along again?
Olivia: Again—wha’?????
Emma: Like last year, remember? I told you about Nathan?
Olivia: Right! The cookies were chocolate. Big bro and I OK. It’s my dad who is a big —all Mr. Pouty Pants since Troy quit baseball.
Emma: Poor Dad.
Olivia: No!!! Poor Troy. And poor, poor, POOR Olivia!!!! Anyway, now Easter’s coming and we have to go to Pop-Pop and Mama’s, and Dad-Troy will probably fight.
Emma: Cookies to stop a fight?
Olivia: An Easter fight.
Emma: Hey gtta go! Shopping w/ Grandma. Olivia: ????? Who doesn’t like to shop?
Emma: Me! Love ya, O!
Olivia: Love ya, too!
After that I rechecked our metrics, answered a text, deleted some spam, decided against mulberries, and looked at the day’s post from North Dakota Kitten. The kitten was spotted and the recipe was catnip sorbet—like that was so original. All the time something about Emma and Easter was bugging me.
Then I remembered—oy
vey!—and slapped my forehead and dropped back into the chair.
Emma is Jewish!
And Jews don’t even celebrate Easter.
What did she know about Easter cookies? Had I hurt her feelings by bringing it up?
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Olivia
Was it really North Dakota Kitten?
Or did the world have a finite appetite for photos of my brother with a smeared-on mustache?
Either way, the metrics fell off a cliff at the beginning of April. Hoping for a bump, my creative team—Troy, Jenny, and Ralph—tried everything from yoga poses to fright wigs. We even sweetened up the smoothie recipes with caramel syrup and ice cream.
Still the numbers dropped.
Meanwhile, auditions for Little Red Riding Hood were the second week of April. The year before when we did The Princess and the Pea, yours truly starred as Princess Winifred while Esmee Snyder played the evil queen. (I would never stoop to claiming either was typecasting, but there were those who did—just sayin’.)
This year at tryouts, I walked offstage and handed over the red cape totally confident that my reading had nailed the full emotional range of the plucky but vulnerable hero who puts Grandma’s needs first and—prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice—ventures into the woods, a picnic basket on her arm.
The next day Mrs. W posted the cast list—and I didn’t get the part.
Esmee Snyder did.
So now you’re thinking surely Olivia was cast as Grandma, then? Or hey, how about the wolf? That would be creative casting. You go, Mrs. W!
But I didn’t get those parts either.
Instead, I, Olivia Baron, was cast as Second Chipmunk.
And if you’re racking your brain trying to remember Second Chipmunk from the fairy tale, you will fail because there are no chipmunks in the fairy tale. Like the sparrows, mice, and foxes, the chipmunks were added to the script by Mrs. W to ensure that everyone who pays tuition to After-School Acting Studio gets a part, even people so stage-frightened they can barely open their mouths to speak.
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