No answer. Then a faint and garbled “Fine.” Then more sounds of vomiting. Then, “Did the camerapeople leave for their dinner break?”
“Yes,” I tell her.
More vomiting.
“Theodora, I’m gonna go get my mom, okay? I’ll be right back.”
The door opens. “No. I’m fine.” Her eyes are glazed and she looks green. She’s clutching her stomach.
I take her arm and lead her to her bed. She flops down and makes a strange sound. “I’m getting my mom. Maybe you have food poisoning.”
She shoots up. “Emily, chill out. I don’t have food poisoning. I hurled, that’s all.”
“That’s what you do when you have food poisoning,” I say. “I know—I got really sick one day last summer when I ate bad—”
“Emily, I barfed on purpose. Can you just be quiet for a second so I can catch my breath?”
“You threw up on purpose? You’re bulimic?”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m not bulimic. I just can’t go around eating red meat and baked potatoes and corn. My glycemic index is probably shot to shit.”
I shove my hands in my pockets. “What’s a glycemic index?”
“Do you have any idea what eating sugar and processed white flour does to your body and sugar levels? I’m not a macrobiotic freak or anything, but I don’t eat crap.”
Hey, my mother spent hours making that crap! “Since when is roast beef and a baked potato and corn crap?” I ask. “That’s a healthy meal.”
She shakes her head. “Not in my world. I couldn’t look like this if I ate like that every day—or even once in a while.”
“I’m thin and I eat like that every day,” I say.
She raises an eyebrow. “Are you saying your body is as good as mine?”
I eye her body. Yeah right. “I’m saying that minus the chest, we probably weigh the same.”
She laughs. “I don’t think your flat chest is the only difference between us, hon. Anyway, you can’t eat hormones and sugar and fat and look like me.”
“So how do you plan on surviving here for a month?” I ask her, feeling smug. “Your manager is the one who sent my mom an e-mail telling her to cook hot dogs and green bean casseroles. And apple pie,” I add, irritated.
Theodora smiles sweetly back. “And Ashley is also the one who has arranged with VegeFood, a healthy gourmet food company, to deliver three meals and two snacks to me here at your house every day.”
“But—” I start to say, confused.
“Here. Let me spell it out for you. On camera, you’ll see me digging in to pepperoni pizza and cheeseburgers and Sloppy Joes—whatever yummy all-American meals your mom comes up with. Then, off camera, I’ll come to our room and barf it up. And then I’ll sit down at my desk to my healthy, nutritionally balanced VegeFood meal.” She points to a blue vinyl cooler that’s sitting on the dresser. “See? It’s here already.”
I watch, speechless, as she walks over and unzips the cooler. She holds up individually wrapped food items that would fit on a small salad plate. “Salmon with peach salsa, a lentil salad, and lemon carrot cake bars.” She pats her stomach. “Dee-lish.”
Fuming, I go into the bathroom and grab the scale and step on. “Okay, I weigh one twelve. I’m five six. How tall are you, five nine, right?”
She nods and steps on. The red glowing light says 115.
“So we’re practically the same weight,” I say. “And I don’t barf up my guts after eating an all-American dinner.” I can’t believe I’m saying all this to Theodora Twist, but I’m furious! She makes herself barf!
She stares at me. “Emily, let me say this right now. If we’re going to survive this month, you’d better not bug me. I’m not here to be judged. Got it?”
“I have homework to do,” I tell her, and sit down at my desk. Jen started making herself throw up last summer in camp when a few girls in her bunk became obsessed with losing weight. She swore she only did it a few times, then stopped. But one of the girls, Jen said, became a total bulimic and can’t stop. And obviously she didn’t have VegeFood delivering backup.
There’s a knock at the door. Our camerapeople—Vic and Nicole—are back. They come in and take their seats on either side of the room.
“So can you show me last year’s yearbook?” Theodora asks, flopping on her bed. “I’m dying to check out the guys before I go to school tomorrow. I’ll bet there are so many cuties. There were so many in middle school—and they weren’t even really guys then!”
I stare at her for a second. Now she’s my best buddy? Suddenly we’re talking cute guys? My camerawoman, Nicole, moves from one corner to another. Ah. Duh. Theodora is acting for the cameras. Mental eyeroll. I hand her the yearbook and she flips to the first page.
“Why does Zach Archer’s photo have horns on his head?” she asks, shooting me an “oooh, what’s up between you two” evil grin. “And why are three of his teeth colored in?”
Nooooo! I grab the yearbook and run into the bathroom and shut the door. I hear Theodora laugh.
“Sweetie,” she calls out. “FYI, that’s the kind of thing the producers will use.” She laughs again. “Are you ever coming out?”
No.
“Emily,” she singsongs. I hear her coming to the door. “I’ll drop it, okay? If something supposedly juicy goes nowhere, they won’t even include it, okay?”
I open the door. “I would be so mortified.”
“Stop giving them stuff,” she whispers, nodding at Vic and Nicole. She takes the yearbook and sticks it under her mattress, then pats her bed. “Sit. Tell me about school. What’s your favorite subject. No—let me guess. Lunch.”
I laugh and sit down. “Actually, yeah. Well, English, really. I think I want to major in English in college.”
“English?” she asks, leaning back against her pillow, her arms crossed under her head. “Four years of reading Moby Dick and Great Expectations and writing essays. Are you kidding?”
I smile. “I like to read.”
“I don’t,” she says. “The last book I read was . . . I can’t even remember. I think it was an unauthorized biography about me.”
I smile. “Was it accurate?”
She rolls her eyes. “The only accurate part was that I grew up in Oak City. They even got the year I was discovered wrong. I was thirteen. Not twelve.”
“Is everything written about you wrong?” I ask. “I mean, is it really all just rumors and lies? You’re not seeing the Bellini Brothers?”
She glances at me. “Nope.”
“You’re really just good friends?”
“Have you guys got enough?” she asks Nicole and Vic. “I’m wiped. And tomorrow’s a big day, okay?”
“Gotcha,” Vic says. “Blair told us to be back at six tomorrow morning to film breakfast and leaving for school, and then arrival. We have permission to shoot the special meet-and-greet assembly and then ten minutes each of two different classes.”
“Fine,” she says. When they leave, she pulls her blanket over her head. I wait a few minutes, but she’s either sleeping or pretending.
“Theodora? You okay?”
“Those assholes aren’t answering their phone,” she says. “Why aren’t they answering?”
“What assholes?”
She yanks the blanket off her head. “Bo and Brandon. I haven’t heard from them in two weeks.” Her expression changes from angry to hurt to just plain sad. “Are they dumping me? They can’t be dumping me. They love me.”
Did Theodora Twist just confide in me? “So it is true,” I say like an idiot.
“Was true,” she corrects. “Two weeks is a long time to go without getting back to your girlfriend who you’re supposed to miss.”
I immediately think of the picture of Zach in my desk drawer. “Two weeks was my longest relationship. My friend Belle drew the horns, by the way.”
She glances at me. “Ah. So you and—what was his name?”
“Zach.”
“Zach,” s
he repeats. “Were you serious?”
“It was only two weeks. Not even—thirteen days. I don’t know.”
“Why’d you break up?” she asks. “And I assume from the horns that he dumped you?”
I nod. “I . . . wouldn’t sleep with him.” Am I really telling Theodora Twist the most personal details of my life? Crazy.
“No one’s ever broken up with me for that reason,” she says, laughing. “I mean because I’ve never not slept with someone.”
I stare at her for a moment. “How’d you know you were ready?”
“I wasn’t. I just did it.”
“But if you weren’t ready, why did you?” I ask.
She shrugs. “To get what I wanted at the time. Like, if you wanted to keep Zach, you would have slept with him.”
“I did want to keep him, though,” I point out.
“Not bad enough,” she says.
“Not bad enough to have sex when I’m not ready.”
“Then either you didn’t really like him that much or you’re just a prude.”
“Then I guess I’m just a prude,” I mutter, getting up and flopping onto my own bed.
“You were madly in love, huh?” she asks.
My eyes are filled with tears and I can’t even speak. I hear her come off the bed and around the side of mine.
She sits down on the floor and leans against the wall, facing me. “Sorry, okay? Do you want to give each other pedicures? Do regular teens do that?”
I laugh. “Yeah.”
We spend the next half hour painting each other’s toes ridiculous colors. My big toes are both sparkly green. Hers are blue with yellow dots.
“Well, we can’t go to sleep with wet nails,” she says. “So you’re gonna have to tell me all about Zach until they dry.”
“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 a
ttitude.”
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.
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