Theodora Twist

by Melissa Senate

  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?”

  She shrugs. “A year and a half ago.”

  “Slut!” I say, then slap my hand over my mouth. “Sorry.”

  “You add pretty fast,” Emily says, smiling. “My mom found out she was pregnant and they got married a couple of months later in our living room.”

  “Do you hate his guts?”

  “I don’t hate him,” she says. “My mom was always so sad before Stew, so I don’t know—I don’t want her to be sad and lonely, but now it’s just weird. It’s sort of like my dad never even existed, you know?”

  “I totally know. My mom has a serious boyfriend. Fitz the Ditz. He’s actually smart and a gazillionaire, but it’s a good rhyme. Anyway, I don’t want her to marry him.”

  “She will anyway, though, right?” she asks.

  “Probably. But it’s like my dad never existed and she’s not even remarried. So she has no excuse.” I feel her eyes on me. I try to remember the joke one of the grips on Family told me. But my mind is blank. Actually, that’s a lie.

  I don’t have to worry about changing the subject. I’m five paces ahead of Emily before I realize she stopped in the middle of the block. She’s green again. And frozen.

  I glance up ahead. I can see Oak City High School and another mob of people, news vans, and camera lights. “I’ll cut if you will,” I tell her.

  That gets a laugh out of her, but I’m not kidding.

  Emily

  “There she is!” I hear a girl scream. And then a crowd of people comes running toward us. I am going to be trampled. At least a hundred kids surround us. But then I’m elbowed and shoved and pushed until I’m in the middle of the crowd myself. I look around for Belle and Jen. I see Belle’s auburn ringlets glinting in the sun and try to head over, but there are too many people. And when I call her name, she can’t hear me with the deafening cheers and claps and wolf whistles and questions.

  After Theodora signs a few hundred autographs, Mr. Opps elbows his way through the crowd to personally escort Theodora inside the school.

  “Emily Fine,” Opps booms with his nasal voice. “Please come with us.”

  I snake my way through the crowd and can finally breathe. There are reporters and cameras everywhere. Students I know and some I don’t know are being interviewed. I hear my name over and over.

  Opps ushers us into the auditorium. The j
unior class is having a special “Welcome, Theodora” assembly, where they get to ask her questions. “You too, Emily,” Opps says, pointing at the stage. There are two chairs. “I’m sure our students will have many questions for you.” The last time I was on this stage was when I lost the spelling bee my freshman year in the ninth round. I sit next to Theodora, who’s looking at the crowd filing in, not a nervous twitch in sight.

  The bell rings, Opps introduces us, and Theodora receives thunderous applause as she walk to the microphone.

  “Hi, everyone!” she says, flashing a big smile. “I just want to say that I’m so happy to be back in Oak City! This month, I’m here as a student—not as a movie star. So treat me the way you treat anyone else. Shoot spitballs in my hair, pass me notes, make fun of my dorky socks, say hi in the halls—whatever. I’m just a regular junior, just like you. Okay, so if anyone has any questions for me or Emily about the show or the cameras or anything, ask away.”

  One hand shoots up right away. Michael Street— gorgeous, popular, and looks like he belongs on a California beach—asks, “Will you go to the prom with me?”

  There’s a chorus of cheers, catcalls, whistles, “Dawg’s!” and “Awww’s.”

  Theodora grins. “I’m glad you brought that up. Actually, my agent is working on putting together a really fun class event that will choose a prom date for me.”

  A class event? Maybe Ashley’s planning on selling raffle tickets for charity or something like that. Maybe all the guys will shell out money for a chance to take a movie star to the prom instead of for a half hour alone with her in her bedroom.

  Twenty more hands wave. A teacher monitors and calls on students.

  “Are you really dating the Bellini brothers?”

  Answer: “That is a total rumor! Bo and Brandon and I are just good friends.”

  “Can you ask them to play at our prom?”

  Answer: “Will do!” Resulting in cheers.

  “Do you have to take tests?”

  Answer: “Yes. I don’t have to worry about my grades, but yeah, I have to take tests. And I’d better study so I don’t look like an idiot on national TV.”

  “How did Emily Fine get picked for this? I heard her family paid big bucks to be your host family, hoping she’d be more popular.”

  That’s Samantha Paris standing up, smiling sweetly. Theodora glances back at me and says, “Actually, I picked her personally. Emily and I are old friends. And since she lives in the house I used to live in, the producers thought that added a really cool sense of nostalgia.”

  Ha! Squashed like a bug, I think, glancing at Samantha, who looks very disappointed.

  “Should we call you Dora or Theodora? Is your real name Theodora?”

  Answer: “I prefer Theodora, since everyone calls me that, except my mom. Theodora actually isn’t my real name—it’s just Dora. But you want to know something? My dad’s name was Theodore. And I was named after him. So in a way, I’m both Theodora and Dora.”

  I didn’t know that.

  Twenty more hands shoot up. Theodora answers ten more questions, and then Mr. Opps comes back to the stage and dismisses assembly. Theodora’s mobbed the moment she steps down.

  “Emily!” Belle and Jen are trying to get to me. They finally squeeze past a group of guys. “Why didn’t you IM back last night?” Belle asks. “I IMed you, like, twenty-five times.”

  “And you were supposed to call with the scoop,” Jen says.

  “I’m sorry—between the cameras and Theodora and how weird it all was, everything went out of my head.”

  “Are we still hanging out after school?” Belle asks, twisting her hair into a bun on top of her head with two pencils.

  “Sure,” I tell them. “Just come over, okay? That’ll be easier. Just in case it’s like this all day,” I add, pointing to the crowd.

  “Emily!” Michael Street grabs my hand and pulls me away from Belle and Jen. He has some serious entitlement-complex issues. “I’m sure you already have a date, but if you don’t, I’d love to take you to the junior prom.”

  Michael Street just asked me to the junior prom. Michael Street only dates hotties. Even Samantha Paris isn’t hot enough for him. She’s had a huge crush on him for years, which everyone knows about. “Why?” I ask. “And didn’t you just ask Theodora the same thing?”

  He’s not expecting this. He tilts his head like Zach. “Well, you seem like a really cool person, that’s why.”

  Let me decode that for you, Michael: You have no problem using me to get to Theodora Twist, who just shot you down, so you’ll just keep trying till you win her over with how hot you are.

  For a second, I stand there and bask in his attention. Girls I’ve known my entire life are passing by staring at me, at us, with that “I wish” look.

  “My prom date is going to be chosen for me too,” I tell him. “At the fun event Theodora’s agent is planning. Otherwise, I’d love to go with you. I’m so flatt—”

  His smile fades and he’s halfway down the hall already. What an idiot. He should have started slow, with a date. That I might have considered, just to know what it feels like to go out with Michael Street. Although I don’t know how I’d know, since the only thing I’d really know is that he asked me out to get to Theodora.

  On the way to first period, I’m asked out three times. Theodora is five paces behind me, in the middle of a circle of guys. Girls are hovering, pissed off.

  “Hey,” says my former favorite voice as I near my English classroom.

  I turn around. “Hi, Zach.”

  “So I’ve been thinking a lot about what happened between us,” he says, taking my hand and squeezing it. “I really acted like a jerk. It’s just that you’re so hot, I had trouble thinking of anything else, you know what I mean?”

  I burst out laughing. I don’t know why, because nothing he said is remotely funny.

  “I really want us to get back together,” he adds, tilting his head in that puppy-dog way. “I’ve really missed you, Em.”

  He’s so cute, so deliciously cute, that for a moment I want to just pretend I don’t have a single brain cell and fling myself into his arms.

  “You told me you asked me out because you thought if I liked you that much, I’d sleep with you,” I remind him. “That’s pretty to the point.”

  “I acted like a jerk,” he says, running his hands through his hair. “Give me another chance. C’mon, Em,” he adds, flashing his killer smile at me. The smile fades. I glance over my shoulder to find Nicole filming. “Wait—am I going to be on TV?” he asks. “Are you shooting everything I’m saying?” He turns a bit red. “Wait a minute.”

  “The camerapeople don’t speak,” I tell Zach. “They just watch and wait to get good stuff for the show.”

  “Okay, I just made a fool of myself on national TV,” Zach says. “Doesn’t that tell you how badly I want us to get back together?”

  “Not really,” I say.

  “Can I come over after school?” he asks. “I really want to continue this conversation.”

  “Why don’t I come by your house,” I say, testing him.

  He hesitates—as expected. “We’re having our house painted,” he says. “So how about if I come over around four. Do you think Theodora will be there?”

  “She will. You won’t.”

  His smile fades. Mine does too, but just a little.

  Theodora

  It’s crazy how I used to want to be some of these people. Like Jodie I-Can’t-Remember-Her-or-Anyone’s-Last-Name, who always had so many friends. Or Maddie—Mary? Mindy?—who got As in math, when I could barely figure out what a common denominator was. I was discovered the summer before eighth grade, so I haven’t seen any of these people in years. One girl who I remember because of her gorgeous blond hair gained at least fifty pounds. A once-cute guy stayed five foot three. Another hot guy who was hot then is hot now. Fred Something was dorky then, and he’s dorky now.

  Fred had a huge crush on me during all o
f seventh grade. In the halls he would stare at me with big moon eyes and walk into walls and bash his body into water fountains. I didn’t give him the time of day, but he was so ridiculously in love with me that I had to like him a tiny bit as a human being. He seemed to like me for me. Everything I said in class was brilliant or funny. He didn’t stare at my chest like every other guy did. And he actually had the guts to ask me out a few times over the year. I laughed in his face—nicely, but every few months he asked again.

  Thank God I never fooled around with any of the guys from seventh grade, or I would be mortified. A lot of guys liked me back then, but they were all dorks to me. The few who I might have said yes to always had girl-friends. And then I left.

  “Dora?”

  It’s Fred, dorkier-looking than ever. His head is just too small for his body. And his body is sort of lumbering.

  “Do you remember me?” he asks. “Fred Wubble? We were sort of friends.”

  “I remember,” I say, surprised that I do remember. “How are ya?”

  He turns and stares at the camera, then back at me. “I really have to tell you something privately. Is that okay? It’s really important.”

  I hold up a hand to Vic, and he backs off and goes to film a couple making out in front of a locker.

  “I think you should know something,” he whispers. “Some girls are selling raffle tickets for a half hour alone with you in your bedroom.”

  “Smart girls,” I say. “Too bad the winner won’t get a half minute alone with me anywhere. How much are the tickets going for?”

  “Ten bucks.”

  “Ten? That’s all a half hour alone with me is worth?”

  “I’d pay a hundred,” he says. “If I had a hundred dollars.”

  “A hundred,” I say, shooting him a smile. “I’m worth at least a million. Who’s selling the tickets?”

  “Samantha Paris and her nasty friends.”

  “Thanks for telling me, Fred. I owe you one, okay? Don’t tell them you told me.”

  He grins and floats away.