A box popped up on her computer screen. It was a video-chat request from Molly. Max clicked Accept, and Brooke, wearing an orange bathing suit with a cardigan pulled over it, appeared on-screen.
“Gotcha,” Brooke said, grinning.
Dammit. Will I ever learn?
“Oh, my God. Your room is a mess,” Brooke added, trying to peer around Max’s body as if video chat allowed for a fully three-dimensional perspective. Without makeup and with her hair pulled back into a ponytail, she actually looked like a regular, wholesome sixteen-year-old who could as easily have come from basketball practice as from a movie set.
“Hello to you, too, Brooke,” Max said, reaching up to adjust her webcam so that Brooke couldn’t see the pile of dirty laundry on top of Max’s bed. “What do you want? And why are we video-chatting now?”
“Does Brady like red? Or is that too obvious?”
“How should I know?” Max felt prickly.
“Well, you two are all chatty all the time,” Brooke said. “I just assumed you’d found out the basics—favorite color, favorite sushi roll, favorite cut of jeans. Brick is really excited that Brady and I are going out, and I think he might be tipping off a reporter from In Touch. So this has to look good.”
“Lucky Brady,” Max said before she could stop herself.
Brooke rolled her eyes. “Maybe you should switch to herbal teas to cure your mood problems,” she said. “Is Molly there?”
“No, I thought she was at your place.”
“She was, but she said she was heading over to your house for moral support,” Brooke said. “I assumed she meant for you, like maybe you were going to color your hair or something…” Her voice took on a hopeful note.
“No such luck, Brooke,” Max said. “Try her cell?”
“That’s so 2009.” Brooke peered through the screen at something on Max’s desk. “Please at least throw out that apple. It’s practically a fossil.” She punched her mouse pertly and Skype made its signature sign-off blurping noise.
“Yes, boss,” Max sang to the blank screen. Glaring at the shriveled, slightly imploded apple, she contemplated hurling it at the ceiling to make Teddy stop his infernal twanging, but the backsplash would make her the actual victim. So she carefully carried it to her wastebasket and shoved it inside an empty Kleenex box for protection, then grabbed a shoe and threw it at the spot on the ceiling where Teddy’s music seemed the loudest.
“Some of us are trying to use our delete key down here,” she shouted.
A knock came at the door. Max jumped. That was fast. “Go away,” she yelled.
The door opened and Molly stuck in her head. “Really?”
“Oh, it’s you. No, you can stay,” Max said, flopping down on the bed and staring at the ceiling again. There was now a dirty spot on it in the shape of her sneaker. “But I’m warning you, Teddy has been playing the same half of a song for two hours and it might make you stabby.”
“I was just up there,” Molly said. “I guess he’s getting press attention because of what you wrote about him in Brooke’s blog, so now the band has decided to play one of his songs and one of Bone’s. He’s stressing. I decided to leave him alone.”
“Great. So we both have writer’s block.” Max rubbed her temple. “Sorry,” she yelled up at the ceiling. There was a pause, and then they heard a short acoustic version of the chorus to Cee Lo Green’s “Forget You.”
Max laughed. “Well played,” she shouted.
Molly curled up in Max’s desk chair and peered at the screen. “Why is Francesca writing Brooke’s blog now?” she asked.
“Crap, I thought I deleted that,” Max said. “I keep getting halfway through the opening of a story and then I get so mad at how bad it is that I start typing nonsense. It’s seriously bumming me out.”
“Well, at least you have one thing to look forward to,” Molly said.
Max snorted. “I’ve seen Mental Hygienist play before.”
“No, not the contest. Your date. With Jake. Saturday.”
Max sat up abruptly. “Oh, right.”
Molly looked shocked. “You forgot? You were so in love with him six months ago that you let him call you Mary, and you forgot that he asked you out?”
“No, it’s just… well, okay, maybe a bit,” Max said sheepishly. “I just lost track of what day it is.”
“Are you not into him anymore?” Molly asked, furrowing her brow.
“I’m just… I don’t know.” Max rolled onto her side and picked at a stray thread on her quilt. “My foot won’t stay still. It keeps twitching. I can’t concentrate. I feel really weird.”
“That happened to me once when I drank an entire two-liter of Diet Coke in one sitting,” Molly said. “Except I know that’s not what you did, so what’s the deal?”
“I don’t know,” Max moaned melodramatically.
“Okay, Brooke.”
Max shot Molly a halfhearted dirty look. “Fine. Let’s take stock,” she said, holding up her fingers to tick off the points on the list. “I write a popular blog. I’m paid pretty well to do it, and so if I get into the NYU thing I can actually go, and still pay for food. And the quarterback I’ve been in love with for years finally broke up with his girlfriend and asked me out because he ‘misses me.’ ” When she finished the air quotes, she spread her hands wide. “That’s everything I’ve always wanted, right? So what’s my deal? Shouldn’t I be totally stoked?” She swallowed hard. “Do you think I’m cold and dead inside?”
“Isn’t that pretty much the first line on your résumé?”
Max frowned. “I prefer sarcasm when it’s not directed at me,” she said. Then she sighed. “All the false pretenses are just kind of starting to bug me. And I feel so lame that it bugs me. I knew what I was signing up for, and now I feel like a whiny little kid asking to be noticed, which is so dumb because I never care if anyone notices me.”
“Uh-huh,” Molly said, a note of skepticism in her voice. Max chose to ignore it.
“The thing is, I don’t usually let people get to know me,” she barreled on. “And you know that. But now I’m meeting all these people, but of course they think all these little parts of me that I’m putting out there for the world to read on the blog are really Brooke, so they still don’t really see me. And maybe it offends me a little that they believe it all so easily.” She shook her head. “Has nobody noticed that those glasses came out of nowhere?”
“Wow,” Molly said, uncurling her legs and propping them up on the bed. “That was a lot to keep bottled up. But I get it.” She tucked her bangs behind her ear. “You know, when I first moved here, the hardest thing was feeling like I had to become someone else, either to survive Hurricane Brooke or to get Brick to like me, or both.”
“But you were always normal around me and Teddy.”
“Yeah, and I still almost got swallowed up by all the me-versus-Brooke stuff,” Molly said. “I’m doing so much better now, and it’s because I’m just being me, and not whatever version of me was trying to please Brick or beat Brooke at her own game. That got so exhausting.”
“I don’t even know what version of me to be anymore,” Max moped. “And now I’ve let her drag Brady into this mess. He doesn’t deserve that. He’s so into her writing and—”
“Your writing.”
“My writing, and her everything else,” Max said. “And she wants him, so she’ll get him. But that’s not the point.”
“Are you sure about that?” Molly asked.
The way Molly was looking at her, Max knew she couldn’t get away with a half-truth. She took a deep breath.
“Even if I did think he was kind of cool, he’s obviously crazy about Brooke,” she said. “She’s Barbie and I’m a troll.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You are not.”
“You know what I mean,” Max insisted. “I can’t compete with that. Besides, I’ve been obsessed with Jake since junior high, and he’s here now. So maybe he doesn’t read much. And his grammar is awful.
And he dated that crazy bitch for the last few years. But he’s nice, and he’s really hot, and I make him laugh. I do that. Me.”
“As opposed to Brady, who thinks it’s Brooke making him laugh.”
“If you bring up Brady again I am going to throw my other shoe at you,” Max warned. Molly grabbed a Kleenex off Max’s desk and waved it in faux-surrender as Max added, “Jake was always what I wanted, and now he wants to go out, and that’s great. I’m just a little wonky right now, is all.”
Molly nodded sympathetically. “It must be hard living a lie.”
“Lust for Life makes it look easy.”
“Yes, and Lust for Life is noted for its documentary approach to social situations.”
The girls swapped smiles, but Max couldn’t contain a deep groan. “I miss old Max. I miss not caring.”
“Oh, come on, you cared,” Molly said. “Nobody who genuinely doesn’t care fights that hard to look like they don’t care. And now you just happen to care about something that’s all jacked up with little white lies, so you don’t know how to feel.”
“Thanks, doc,” Max said. “Do you charge by the hour?”
“I wish I knew what else to tell you,” Molly said. “Psychic identity theft is complicated.”
Abruptly Max sat up. “I am doing the right thing, though,” she insisted. “Right? Not quitting the blog? I mean, I am getting published. If NYU isn’t meant to be, then at least I have that.”
“I trust your judgment,” Molly said sincerely.
“So I will just chill out and keep rolling with it. Whatever it is,” Max stated, almost like a resolution.
Her phone rang. JAKE DONOVAN, it read. Max picked it up and waved it at Molly. “See? The universe agrees with me.”
Max accepted the call. “Hey, Jake!” she said. “Awesome to hear from you!” Then she recoiled a little inside—it sounded too hearty, too false.
“Hey! So we’re still on for Saturday, right?” he asked.
“Yep,” she said, trying to sound supremely relaxed and confident.
sixteen
“… AND SO THEN ANNA FURY was, like, ‘I hold you in contempt,’ and I had to be, like, ‘Honey, you are not your mother, and these people are not here because one of them is suing a roommate for puking in the dishwasher,’ and Justine was all, ‘Oh, snap,’ and then I adjourned the meeting and came here. And that’s all you missed.”
“Interesting,” Brooke said, eyeing her apprentice. “Did you change your hair, Brie?”
Brie touched her head gingerly. Her light brown locks, once straight, had been jazzed up with golden highlights, curls, and what looked like extensions. “Do you like it?” she asked. “I just felt like I needed something more… authoritative.”
“Everyone listens more to blondes,” Brooke averred.
Brie crossed her arms proudly. “I even got a near-unanimous majority when we voted on the theme.”
Brooke covered her eyes. “Please tell me they didn’t pick the one where Mavis Moore wanted every ride to be named after an internal organ. That girl is so weird.”
“As if,” Brie said. “We actually went with my idea for a regular carnival. I won everyone over by saying we could have a Hollywood bit at the entrance—like, a patch of red carpet so people can get fake-papped on their way in, and then a booth where you can put on loaner gowns and get your picture taken to see if they’re see-through. That sort of stuff.”
“We should invite some real celebrities to that,” Brooke said. “Did you see what that chick who used to be on Greek wore to The Ivy last weekend?”
“Right? I saw more nipple than her gynecologist does,” Brie said, sitting down on Brooke’s chaise longue and crossing her legs.
Brooke snorted. “You sound like me.”
Brie gave her a hopeful smile. “That’s the idea!”
Brooke stood up and stretched. “Well, that should do it,” she said. “Thanks for the update. Now I need complete solitude to prepare for my date tonight. It’s very important.”
Brie stood back up, gathered her stuff, and headed for Brooke’s door. “It’ll be great, no matter what you wear,” she said loyally. “That boy doesn’t stand a chance.”
“Obviously,” Brooke said, with a tinkling laugh.
But as soon as the bedroom door closed, Brooke headed straight to her picture window for some therapeutic pacing (well, as therapeutic as it could be in four-inch Brian Atwoods; Brooke never went long without wearing stilettos, in case her arches got complacent). She was nervous. And tired. It was her first day off after a triumphant week of shooting, and instead of going with Arugula to Burke Williams for a massage and a mud bath, she was gearing up for more acting—this time, on her big date with Brady.
She had total confidence that she’d nail the visuals. Wearing a wig every day, rather than styling her own hair, left her blonde tresses less overworked and a bit shinier than usual. She’d double-dipped on the Crest Whitestrips that morning and had one more set ready to go, to negate any negative effects from her 4 PM Diet Coke. She’d squeezed in a quick leg wax on the way home from the studio yesterday, and she’d picked out the perfect dress: a gray ombre Elizabeth and James silk-satin shift that made her blue eyes pop, and which looked relaxed but chic when she added a wide belt and booties. Those Olsen twins might look like pint-sized Wiccan hobos in person, but they definitely knew how to design a dress.
The other part of the date, the actual out loud part, was causing Brooke more stress. All week she’d seen Brady having animated chats with Brick—who had brought Brady a custom Green Tea Power Bar to try, which was basically the equivalent of adopting him—and laughing in corners with Max about whatever Syfy movie about mutant eels had just aired. But she herself had only grabbed Brady for very brief exchanges so far. In part, that was because every day had been just busy enough that they kept getting interrupted—either she was on set, or he was, or both of them were—but mostly, to be honest, Brooke deliberately kept things light and short. She secretly liked how it felt when Brady asked her intelligent questions and expected her to know the answers. Unfortunately, she sometimes didn’t. He hadn’t tripped her up yet, but what if she burned through all her good luck? She wanted to save up all her universe-allotted high-IQ moments for when they were out alone, so that she didn’t find herself sitting at Craft staring stupidly at one of Tom Colicchio’s steaks. Because she wasn’t stupid. She just wasn’t Max.
Brooke rested her head on the sliding door out to the balcony and heard a stream of chatter through the glass.
Max.
Brooke pasted on her most accessible, innocent smile and flounced onto the patio. Max and Molly were sitting on Molly’s end, sorting through an enormous pile of clothes.
“Making a Goodwill run?” Brooke asked sunnily. “I’m pretty sure I have some Marc Jacobs stuff that needs to be evicted.”
Max glowered at her. “These are my actual clothes. We’re… going through them.” She shivered. “I had to get out of my house. Teddy is driving me insane. He’s so nervous about the band competition tonight that he drank four Red Bulls in a row.”
“Shouldn’t you be over there with him, soothing his troubled brow or whatever it is that devoted girlfriends are supposed to do?” Brooke asked Molly.
Molly shook her head. “He said he wants to focus. So I’m meeting up with Max and Jake at the House of Blues for the show, and I’ll see him then.”
Max looked horrified. “I told you not to say anything about Jake in front of her.”
“Relax,” Brooke said. “You’re forgetting that I’m friends with Jake’s ex-girlfriend. Jennifer screamed at me about your date for an hour last night. Something about him not valuing her enough to wait a month before his rebound girl.”
“Brooke,” Molly warned, as Max’s expression turned slightly queasy.
“Not that I think you are a rebound,” Brooke amended sweetly, sitting down on one of the patio chairs. “She said that. She’s a little insane right now. I wouldn’t
be surprised if she stalks you around town the whole night.”
Max looked stricken. “Maybe this is a bad idea.”
“Oh, please,” Brooke said. “Twitter was invented to find out what celebrities eat for lunch, not for yelling at your boyfriend. I love Jennifer, but she deserved to get dumped. Now, what do we have here?”
She reached into the pile, then thought better of it and grabbed a pair of tweezers she’d left sitting on the table. “What is this?” she asked, using them to lift up something stripey.
“Tights,” Max said.
“No,” Brooke said, throwing them off to the side. “You are not in a Tim Burton movie. Next?”
Max dug around and pulled out a T-shirt whose sleeves were covered in grommets, as Brooke’s tweezers hooked one that said GOOD GRAMMAR COSTS NOTHING.
“No, and no,” Brooke said again. “You are not a walking PSA, and you are also not looking for a curtain rod to hang from.” She sighed. “This is a mess. You need help. You need…” Her face darkened, then lit up so brightly the sun would’ve felt irrelevant. She had her plan. “You need me.”
“Oh, God, here we go,” Molly muttered.
“No way,” Max said. “No makeovers, remember?”
“Come on, just this one time?” Brooke wheedled. “You want to knock Jake off his feet, right? You want this to be memorable, right?” Max appeared to be listening. “And you want to know he’s not going to look at you all night and think, Man, Jennifer’s hair was such a nice, normal color, right?” she pressed.
“Seriously, Brooke, lay off,” Molly said.
“I’m just saying, this is big. And so I think she should bring in the big guns.” Brooke looked triumphant. “And I am heavy artillery. I am, like, the bazooka of makeovers.”
“She kind of has a point,” Max said, turning to Molly. “I mean, I brought half my closet over here in a duffel bag because I couldn’t deal with this on my own.”
“Then you definitely need my help,” Brooke said. “And you’d only need to do, like, one tiny thing for me in return.”
“I knew it,” Molly said.
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