“Not great,” I admit. “I don’t think I’ve matched with anyone.”
“Me either. I thought being blindfolded would make it easier to connect with people, but it doesn’t. I feel like I’m just making small talk over and over, you know?”
“I know. It’s like having a conversation with someone you don’t know. You don’t really know what to say, so you just start talking about the weather.”
He laughed. “You’re pretty easy to talk to.”
“Tell that to the twenty dates I just had,” I say.
“It just takes one, though. Maybe this is it.”
“Maybe,” I say, smiling.
Ding!
“Okay, people,” says Mr. Opps. “Please write down your potential date’s number and a yes or a no.”
“This was really okay,” he says. “My first not-awful conversation. That’s something.”
I laugh. “For me too.”
Potential Date #16: Yes.
After school the next day, everyone who participated in the speed dating event is invited to pick up their score sheets in Mr. Opps’s office.
Participant #44: Emily Fine.
#44 chose #16 as a Potential Date she would like to know more about.
#16 chose #44 as a Potential Date he would like to know more about.
Participant #16: Ray Roarke.
So, my this-didn’t-suck conversation was with Ray Roarke. I smile at my sheet and tuck it in my pocket.
Theodora nudges me, and I glance up to see Samantha Paris get her score sheet. She glances at it and turns red.
“Who’s your date?” Theodora calls out.
Samantha tears her sheet in pieces, throws them in the air, and huffs out. Theodora picks up some of the pieces. “I see the name Todd!” she says. “And here’s a Tut. Her perfect match is Todd Tuttle! It’s karmic justice.”
“Who’s your match?” I ask her.
She opens up her paper. “Don’t recognize his name. Ben Oliver?”
I beam.
“Karmic justice for bitchy me or am I going to be happy?”
“Both,” she says.
Blair comes rushing into the gym with Vic and Nicole. “Am I late? Did you already get your score sheets?”
We nod.
“Foo,” she says. “Can you hand them back in and pretend you’re getting them for the first time?” she asks. “I want to capture your expressions.”
Emily
“Where is Stew?” my mom says for the fifth time, staring at her watch, then out the living room window. “He was supposed to be here a half hour ago to watch Sophie.”
He’s keeping us all waiting. Blair’s here again as well, to direct the dress shopping episode at Dress Me Up.
“Okay, everyone,” my mom says suddenly. “Pile in. We’re dropping Sophie at Stew’s office. He’ll just have to deal.”
I smile at Theodora. Three weeks of cameras in my mother’s face, documenting her relationship with Stew, has definitely had an effect. She doesn’t like what the cameras have caught.
We stop at Stew’s office. He sees us through the window. I see him put the phone down and come out.
“What’s this?” he says, smiling at the camera. “Come to visit Daddy?” he says, taking Sophie out of her car seat. “Hi, baby girl!”
“Actually,” my mom says, “you’re going to watch Sophie while I take Em and Theodora shopping for prom dresses.”
“Steph, I’ve got another half hour of paperwork, at least,” Stew says. “I think work takes precedence over prom dresses.”
“Actually, it doesn’t,” she says, glancing at me. She turns back to him. “You can do it tonight instead of watching the Yankees.”
Stew is about to say something, then glances at the camera. “Right,” he says. “Of course.”
“We’ll talk later,” my mom says. “A long talk.”
He gnaws his lip and nods. “Come with Daddy!” Stew says to Sophie, who immediately spits up on his tie.
“The burp cloth’s in the diaper bag,” my mom tells him. “Have fun!”
“Oh, we will,” Stew says, nuzzling Sophie. “We’re gonna have a lot of fun today, aren’t we, precious girl. How about we go to the park and feed the ducks?”
It’s so hard to tell what’s for the camera and what’s not. I know he loves Sophie. Sometimes I think he loves me too.
With the exchange of diaper bag and stroller, we’re off again. My mom’s driving. Her cameraman, Tom, is in the passenger seat. Vic and Nicole are filming behind us in the second row of seats next to Blair.
“Okay,” Blair says with a clap. “Let’s get some fun discussion of your prom dates going.”
Theodora and I glance at each other. We actually don’t know if we have prom dates. Neither of our matches has said one word to us about the score sheets, let alone the prom. Neither of our prom dates has said one word to us, period.
“I don’t even know who my prom date is,” Theodora says. “What did you say his name was?”
“Ben,” I tell her. “I’ll point him out to you tomorrow.”
“Will she be happy?” Blair asks, eyes wide. “Or disappointed?”
Like I would answer that with a camera in my face?
“You can find out for yourself tomorrow when you see the dailies,” I tell Blair. “That is, if Vic’s around when I point out Theodora’s match.”
“Oh, he’ll be around all day,” Blair says. She turns to Vic. “Make sure you get her reaction on film. And do a candid interview immediately after on her thoughts.”
“Great,” Theodora mutters. “Good job on that one, Emily.”
“Sorry,” I whisper.
When we arrive at the mall, Theodora keeps her baseball cap on until we’re inside Dress Me Up. The moment I walk into the store, I see the dress of my dreams—the very one I bought when I thought I was going to the prom with Zach. But the other store didn’t have it in my size in the color I wanted—off-white—so I got the pale pink instead. Here, it’s in my size—and off-white.
“Hey, that’s a copy of my dress from the Golden Globes,” Theodora says, laughing. “I could just give you mine.”
The owner of Dress Me Up coughs discreetly.
“I hope we can return the other one,” I tell my mom, “but even if we can’t, it’s not like a total waste of money because this one is free.”
“Even if we can’t return it,” she says, “it’s not a waste. Not at all. You’re worth every penny and then some.”
We hug. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Theodora watching us, her expression . . . curious.
I hear her throwing up again even though she ate very little at dinner. Salmon, cooked dry. Asparagus. And one forkful of chocolate cake to celebrate that Sophie took her first step tonight.
“Are you barfing up one bite of cake?” I ask through the bathroom door.
“One bite is all it takes to mess with my glycemic index,” she says. “Besides, I have VegeFood.”
Yeah, right. Some days she doesn’t even unzip her cooler.
When she opens the door, I’m still standing there. “If I hear you throwing up one more time, I’m telling my mom.”
“I don’t do it every day, okay?” she says. “Drop it.”
“No, I won’t drop it.”
She rolls her eyes. “Could you be more annoying?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I could.”
LOUDSPEAKER ANNOUNCEMENT
“Attention, Oak City High students: It has come to the attention of the principal’s office that many students are on the Theodora Twist Diet. It is the position of this school that the diet does meet the recommended daily allowance of calories and fat grams for young adults. For those interested in additional information, literature on healthy eating plans is available in the nurse’s office. For more information, please see Nurse Caufield and/or speak with your parents. Thank you.”
The Theodora Twist Diet, as seen in Hot Stuff! magazine
Breakfast:
&
nbsp; One slice whole-grain bread
Half cup low-fat cottage cheese
Half grapefruit
Snack:
Small box raisins or one ounce cheddar cheese
Lunch:
Turkey sandwich on whole wheat with romaine
lettuce and tomato
Apple
Low-fat milk
Snack:
Handful of nuts or one orange
Dinner:
Lean meat or fish
Sautéed spinach
Zucchini
Dessert:
One cup air-popped popcorn
And a decadent gooey treat on occasion!
Theodora
“So I guess you and your boyfriends broke up,” Samantha Paris announces during lunch the next day. She’s standing in front of our table, her copycats surrounding her, holding up a tabloid. There’s a photo of Bo and Brandon making out with Double Summer—a new girl band of identical teen twin sisters named Ariel and Annabelle Summer—in front of the Trevi Fountain.
What the hell? Are Bo and Brandon dating those fake twits? Ariel and Annabelle can’t even sing. It’s probably just staged. For publicity. The Bellini brothers wouldn’t just start seeing someone else—two someone elses— without telling me. Talking to me. Not that we’ve talked since our quickie in Paris.
“That’s so staged,” I tell them, eyeing the photograph again. Vic and Nicole are ten feet away, filming from different angles. I pop a grape into my mouth. “Total publicity stunt.”
“So you and Bo and Brandon are still a couple? Oh, wait—a threesome?”
I barely glance at her. “Bo and Brandon and I are buddies. Good friends. That’s all.”
“So ask them to perform at our prom,” Samantha Ulrich says.
“They’re in Europe,” I remind the Samanthas. “They’re not going to fly in to perform at a dance.”
“They would if you were really such good friends,” Samantha Paris says. “Or maybe that’s spin too.”
“Honey, rock stars can’t just drop everything and come to high school.”
“You did,” Samantha says. “Movie star, rock star, same difference.”
I smile. “Was there anything else?”
The Samanthas leave. I feel Emily watching me. I hate when she does that.
“You okay?” she whispers.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” I say. “Gotta hit the bathroom. See you in math. I’m cutting out.”
I look very regular today—jeans, blue top, sandals, hair in a loose braid. The paparazzi aren’t expecting me outside now, so the coast is clear. I grab my backpack from my locker and leave school, heading for the park. I just sit there, on a bench I sat on with my dad a thousand Saturdays or Sundays, feeding the ducks, taking a break from learning to in-line skate.
I punch in Bo’s cell phone. He answers.
Ah. Duh. Now I get it. Now that I’ve been dumped in public, in the tabloids, Bo and Brandon’s dirty work has been done for them. They don’t have to screen me anymore.
“You saw the pictures, right?” he says.
“The whole world saw the pictures,” I say. “What’s going on?”
“We just totally connected,” he says. “Brandon and I wanted to tell you first, but you know how the paparazzi work. We’re still good friends, though, right?”
“Yeah. Good friends.” I squeeze my eyes shut for a second. “Okay, well, bye.”
“Bye.”
And with one click, the Bellini brothers are no longer my good friends.
I call Ashley. “I need to be fixed up with three hot guys right away,” I tell her voice mail. “Actors. No musicians. TV’s okay as long as the show is as hot as they are. E-mail headshots to my cell ASAP.”
My eyes sting with tears, and I hurl my cell into the duck pond.
Emily
“Where’s Theodora?” my mom asks, placing two delicious-smelling boxes of pizza on the dining room table. “I got her a whole wheat crust with part-skim mozzarella and fresh veggies. Very L.A.”
“Um, I’m not sure,” I say, helping myself to a slice topped with pepperoni.
“I told her we were eating at seven,” my mom says, glancing at her watch. “Oh well. Dig in.”
I do, but by seven-thirty, I’m kind of worried. Theodora always comes home for dinner, even though she barely eats anything. She likes the whole “eating as a family” thing. By eight, I know something’s wrong. My mom wants to call Ashley, but Stew reminds her that Theodora is emancipated and free to come and go as she pleases.
Eight-thirty. Which means she’s missing one of her favorite TV shows. Something must have happened. But whenever something is bothering her, she tends to stick close to home to hide out. Maybe she took the train into the city for a shopping fix? Maybe she—
I know where she is.
When I look up in the tiny tree house Theodora’s father built in our backyard, I can just make out one T Squared sneaker (which will make its debut in late January, when Theodora Twist: Just a Regular Teen! premieres). I climb up. Theodora’s sitting against the wall, holding a photo of her father in a heart-shaped frame.
Vic has followed me up the tree and won’t leave. Once Blair found out Theodora was “missing” (via my mom, who called Ashley and Blair), she ordered one cameraperson to stick around until she returned. Vic won the coin toss.
“Can you give us some privacy?” I ask him.
“What’s the difference?” Theodora says. “Nothing about my life is private.”
“A lot is private,” I tell her as I sit down across from her against the wall. “There’s so much people don’t know about you, Theodora.”
“Like what?” she challenges, her tone totally bored.
Like how much you like Bo and Brandon. Like that your heart is broken. But I can’t say that with the camera rolling. So I say what I can. “Like how much you miss your father,” I tell her. “Like how you’re not going to get a minute’s peace until you realize that.”
A tear falls down her cheek, the photograph of her father in her limp hands on her lap.
“Please leave, Vic,” I tell the cameraman. “Give her some privacy, okay?”
His blond head finally appears from behind the camera. He nods and climbs down. I watch him until I see him enter the house.
Theodora leans her head back against the wall and takes a deep breath. “I really loved Bo and Brandon. I don’t care how weird it sounds or what anyone thinks of it. I was madly in love with both of them, and they dumped me. Like I meant absolutely nothing to them. Assholes.” She glances at the photo of her dad. “It makes me feel totally alone. How weird is that? I’m surrounded day and night.”
“I’m really sorry, Theodora. I know it sucks. I got my heart broken too. In the same ways.”
She stares at me for a moment, then twists her hair up into a bun before letting the silky blond strands fall over her face. “It’s crazy how much we actually have in common.”
“I know.”
“Is there any pizza left?” she asks.
I swing my legs over the edge. “I’ll be right back with two slices. We can hang out up here and hide from the cameras as long as you want.”
She smiles.
That night, while Theodora is on the phone with Ashley, Stew knocks on the bedroom door. “Can we talk?”
I put down my pencil. “Uh . . . okay.”
“I want to make sure you know something, Emily.” He glances at the camera (Vic has been ordered not to leave until lights out), then glances down, around, everywhere but at me. He’s uncomfortable. Which means that whatever he’s going to say is very likely the truth. “There’s no difference to me between you and Sophie. I love you the same.”
I’m not really sure I believe that, but it’s nice of him to say so.
“Your mom and I had a big talk tonight. About all of us. About how I ignore the fact that you had a father. That your mother was once married to someone else. I don’t like to think about it—that she l
oved someone else. That’s pretty immature, but it’s the truth.”
I take a deep breath and will him away. Cry, Sophie. Mom, call Stew. Now. I don’t want to have this conversation.
“Em,” he says, sitting down on the edge of my bed. “Do you know that your mom is embarrassed about how the two of us are going to look on the show when it airs? She thinks we’re going to come off looking like we need to go on one of those TV talk shows about couples in crisis. Dads who won’t help around the house. Moms who are at their wits’ end. Stepdaughters whose feelings get ignored because no one wants to deal with it. It’s wrong, Emily, and I’m sorry. Really sorry. I want you to know I’d like to make a fresh start. I know I don’t have to try to replace your father. And I don’t have to try to act like he never existed. We have to make our own relationship, something entirely our own.”
“Okay,” I say. We can do that. We can try, anyway.
“So we’re good?” he asks. “For a start, I mean.”
I smile. “We’re good.” Wow.
Theodora comes in a few minutes later. “I’m leaving the day after the prom,” she tells me. “Ashley says Blair has all the footage she needs, and if she needs some reshoots, she’ll call me back for a few days’ work. Blair wants us to do the prom-date pointing out thing tomorrow morning.”
“Okay,” I say, wishing she could stay a little longer.
“So . . . I’m thinking of calling my mom.” She holds up her new cell phone. “Bad idea, probably.”
I shake my head. “Nope. Good idea, Theodora. If you would have told me a half hour ago that I’d have a real conversation with Stew, I wouldn’t have believed you. But we just talked about some major stuff and I feel a lot better about everything. I don’t know if things will change, but at least we’re trying.”
She nods. “So what do I say?”
“Say the first thing you think, Theodora.”
She bites her lip, then goes into the bathroom with her cell.
“Mom?” I hear her say. “I really miss Dad.” She’s crying and there’s silence. And then, “Me too.” For a moment there’s more silence. Then a shaky “Okay.” Then more silence. And I realize that for once, Theodora Twist is listening.
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