I can’t trust them. Any of them.
Any of these media people might be a spin doctor just waiting to pounce on the headline, Olivia Blakely Seen Making Faces at Congressman’s Campaign Interview. Or something worse like, Daughter Hates Father, Her Face Says It All.
Did I mention this kind of stuff shows up in Politico, Buzzfeed and the New York Times all the time? President’s Daughter Gives Dad the Side-Eye During Annual White House Turkey Pardon. Politician’s Daughter Twerks on Stage at Coachella. I think every daughter of every politician in America goes through these feelings.
Maybe some are more confident than others. Maybe some don’t care. But we all think about it. How we’re just there to represent that our parents are just like the people who vote for them. Instead of Stars—Just Like Us! it’s a game of Politicians—Just Like Us! I can imagine the campaign ad now: Dad pointing at me, saying, “Look! I have a daughter and I didn’t screw her up too bad. Vote for me!”
Let’s start with the article on SFGate.com when I went with Dad and Mom to Golden Gate Park for the Bay Area Brain Tumor Walk last week after the campaign announcement. I won’t even get into how boring the article was, or the video, and how the wind was blowing my hair everywhere as I was standing behind Dad giving his speech at the podium.
You can just sit there and watch it from the comfort of your own smartphone and see me constantly wrestle with pushing my hair out of my face while trying to look like I don’t actually care about what my hair is doing. You can even slo-mo it if you want to. Their site has that feature. Stupid, isn’t it? I hope nobody notices it but me.
Anyway, there’s a comment section and people say the most idiotic things about Dad, about politics, about their know-it-all whatever, about space aliens, about how Dad secretly has twice as much campaign funds as he says he does. It goes on.
But what I scroll for are all the words about me. The ones I obsess over because no matter how much I try to ignore them, I can’t. All I can think about lately is how much some creepy trolls—SFWilliam79 and 49erfan4life5000—comment on every article about how they love the way I touch my hair, and how they want to touch my hair, or how other commenters say how I look like a fake girl with no feelings.
Then there’s the GIF someone made of me last week wrestling with my hair like I’m a modern-day Cousin It moshing around at a heavy metal concert.
It went viral.
Sure. It was funny. But it was me.
One showed me trying to deal with the wind flipping my hair around in slow motion, except I’m surrounded by dragons. Then there’s the one with unicorns frolicking around me. It showed up with captions like SLAY and WHEN YOU JUST CAN’T.
And of course all the endless cruel tweets:
What’s wrong with her hair? Bride of FRANKENSTEIN. #livblakelyhair.
Blakelys are all fakes. #livblakelyhair.
She’s the worst. Rich people suck. WHTVR. #livblakelyhair.
100% FREAK. I HATE HER HAIR. RAT’S NEST. #livblakelyhair.
She’s out of control too. #livblakelyhair.
His politics, her hair, one giant mess. #livblakelyhair.
Now I’m basically the poster girl for BHD—Bad Hair Day. So, yeah, I’m done with these interviews. I’m done with Rich. I’m done with this entire campaign.
“I have to go,” I quietly say to Rich. “I need some water.”
“Fine,” he says.
When I’m at an event, I can’t do anything without getting Rich’s permission first. I’ll get an earful otherwise. I walk over to the office kitchen and grab a bottle of water.
I pour the water down my throat and hope the twirling, whirling weirdness in my stomach disappears. I wish I could disappear. I feel like I’m the little wooden manikin I use as a model. Position me any way you like. Then sketch whatever you want on my face. Probably a smile. You know the one. The one that other girls look at and say, Fake.
After a few minutes, Rich pops his head into the kitchen. “Let’s have a talk,” Rich says. He gestures to me to sit down in one of the folding chairs next to us.
Sit. Stay. Roll over.
“I know you’re young and this is probably hard to understand,” he says with a look of mock concern on his face. He pulls up a chair next to me.
I want to smack him for acting like I’m a stupid child, but I fake interest because I’m trying not to be terrible to Dad. Fighting Rich is pointless. Dad will back him up.
“There are repercussions to this campaign. Not just political. They’re personal too. I know this is a sensitive subject, but I’m worried about your appearance.”
“I saw the GIFs,” I say. “Did Mom put you up to this?”
“It’s more than the GIFs, Liv. Frankly, I don’t think you have a strong perception of how you appear to the public.”
“You think I can’t handle it? If you think I can’t handle it, then quit putting me behind Dad during his speeches.”
“Social media is only going to get more cruel,” Rich says. “Even people you know in person will say things. I’m just trying to prepare you—”
“What about my appearance is damaging the campaign now? Am I not wearing the right color lipstick? Will cutting my hair a certain way boost the polls a couple of points?”
Rich sighs. “Your mother doesn’t want me to show you this, but I think you ought to see. You ought to know what’s being said about you. It came out today.”
He pulls out his phone and taps a few times. Then he hands the phone to me. It’s an article on the front page of TMZ that reads, OLIVIA BLAKELY: IS THIS PROOF SHE’S SUFFERING FROM BULIMIA?
This is not happening right now. I scroll down to read the article.
Olivia Blakely is battling a secret eating disorder—as the stick-thin teen compulsively forces herself to throw up after every meal! She is the daughter of Representative Colin Blakely, who’s currently running a tight gubernatorial race against Pete Zhang and Julianne Summerlin. Rumors of Blakely’s possible eating disorder circulated earlier this year from when she was caught binge drinking with friends at Silver Lake Lounge. Though Blakely has kept a low profile since the incident, the public remains fascinated with the House Speaker’s daughter. TMZ has obtained photographs from Eastlake Prep’s yearbook showing Blakely’s startling descent into bulimia.
Then the article shows my yearbook photo from the eighth grade—when I was still chubby—compared to my junior year photo. The captions claim that my current yearbook photo shows telltale signs of bulimia. Puffy cheeks. Red eyes. Yellowing skin.
I shove the phone back at Rich.
“The second one is obviously Photoshopped,” I say. “These tabloids are trash. I’m sure they trolled their commenters’ theories for a completely fake story then bribed some stupid kid who works on the yearbook staff to give them a copy...”
“I agree,” Rich surprisingly says. “These types of publications will do anything to turn you into a story. But they have to start with some semblance of truth.”
“What are you saying?” I snap back.
“Shhhh. You’re getting too loud,” Rich says, watching Mom and Dad gab with the radio host. “I’m in no position to diagnose that sort of thing. That’s a family matter.” He slips his phone back into his pocket. “Remember that image promotion plan we talked about? We need our own story to counter their story.”
There are so many questions swirling in my mind. What are Mom and Dad going to say about this article? They’ve told me they’ve been concerned about my health, but they meant normal things like sleeping or taking lunch to school. Am I being too obvious? Will they take the article seriously? Or dismiss it as tabloid trash?
I’ve been eating in front of them so that they won’t think I’m restricting, and I’m careful to not let them hear me purge. This is the last thing I need to deal with right now.
I’m so upset I
can barely think straight, but I can’t miss the opportunity to run my plan about Zach with Rich. Maybe I can get him to help me.
“What were you thinking?” I ask. “Did you have something in mind?”
“We need to show that you’re a normal teenager. That you go to school, eat lunch with friends, go shopping with your mother. That kind of thing...”
“I thought Dad was all about keeping me out of the spotlight,” I say.
Rich squints his eyes. He knows what I’m doing.
“I stand by our decision to keep a low profile for you after that first catastrophe. But I’ve asked him to reconsider. I think you need to project a healthy image.”
I want to laugh.
Rich doesn’t want me to actually be healthy.
Then I think for a second. Maybe I do want to be healthy.
Maybe I can get better.
“I’ll go with your plan,” I say, lowering my voice. “On one condition.”
Rich leans in to listen.
“Get Dad to let me go out with Zach Park.”
t w e n t y - t h r e e
“The worst thing you can do if you miss or need someone is let them know it.”
—Sarah Dessen
“I feel like there’s this impossible standard I’m never going to live up to,” I complain at Zach. He’s rifling through his backpack, looking for his history textbook. Zach may be able to remember his lines, but he’s super forgetful of everything else.
“I’m taking a ton of APs,” I continue as I watch Zach struggle. “That work never stops. Then I have campaign events during the week and most weekends. Did I tell you about what Rich was saying to me yesterday?”
Zach zips up his backpack. He’s finally found his book.
“He gave me a lecture about how people are cruel on the internet. Okay, Captain Obvious. I’m in high school. Like I don’t know how nasty things can get online. I’ve seen all the comments.” I almost mention the article about the eating disorder, but then I stop short. I don’t want to bring that up with Zach. Now that I finally have a shot at actually physically going out with him, I don’t want to bring up the big stuff.
“What did he want you to do?” Zach asks.
“He told me not to look. At anything. Mom said the same thing. They think it’s too much pressure. I don’t get why they can’t just let me make that decision on my own,” I say. “How could they expect me not to look?”
“That would be ridiculous,” Zach agrees. “It’s a lie if people say they never Google themselves. I used to all the time.”
“But then you stopped?”
“I couldn’t handle it anymore. All of the conflicting opinions. That stuff’s toxic if you read it without being in the proper frame of mind.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“To laugh at everything no matter what. People, even when they’re being mean, are generally trying to be funny. It’s just that most people aren’t funny, you know? And you have to understand that the people making fun of you are only making fun of an image...a character. It’s not really you.”
I take Zach’s arm as both of us walk down the hallway.
“They don’t know the real me,” he explains. “People who get to know the real me aren’t going to just sit around laughing drawing mustaches over my face. People who get to know me actually want to have a conversation of some kind. So, all that stuff on the internet, or even on TV...it’s all a lie. It’s just as unreal as the public image of you they think they’re making fun of.”
“You’re right,” I say. “It’s just the pressure to fit this image of what everyone thinks I should be according to who my parents are.”
Talking with Zach makes me feel a little better but doesn’t take away this whirling ball of anxiety that constantly lives in the pit of my stomach. Even though I’m feeling a little better than I did at Christmas, I can’t seem to make that feeling go away. It’s something I think maybe I’ll have to deal with forever.
Zach and I say goodbye, separating from each other to go to our classes, which are at different sides of the building. I’m walking down the hallway, thinking about Zach’s comments, when Felicity walks up to me. It’s rare for her to be alone.
“Hey, Liv. Love your outfit,” she says.
That’s a huge compliment coming from her, but I’m skeptical. She’s easily the most fashionable girl at Eastlake—even more so than the girls who do work as models. Since I’ve been hanging out with Zach, Felicity has warmed up to me at school. She and I actually talk during English sometimes. She’s still best friends with Cristina though.
“Thanks,” I say, trying not to raise an eyebrow.
Did Zach put her up to this?
“Remember when I told you about that gallery show a while back?”
“Oh yeah.” I try not to act excited, though my heart is already a wild monster in my chest anticipating what she’s about to say.
“Yeah, the one with LeFeber,” she says. “They changed the date. It’s next weekend now. The first Friday of February. Dad put you on the list. We can hang out. Synchronicity, right?”
I give her an awkward hug. “Thank you,” I say and squeal.
I can’t contain my excitement. I’m in. I’m really in.
Felicity pulls away, chomping her gum. “You’re so cute.”
“Should I bring Zach?” I ask.
Honestly, I would go without him just to see LeFeber’s work, let alone actually meet him. But I’m still hoping Rich will talk to Dad today to get me the go-ahead.
“Cristina will probably be there, but I think she’s finally over him. She’s seeing some new guy. I hear he’s foreign.”
As soon as Felicity walks out of earshot, I spot Sam and Antonia walking together, only about twenty feet away from me. I can’t decide whether I want to hide or say something to them. It turns out I don’t have to do either because—rather than avoiding me—Antonia heads straight for me, leaving Sam trailing a few feet behind her.
“Felicity? Really?” Antonia says. “You used to hate girls like her. Now you’re one of them.”
I’m stunned. She’s caught me completely off guard. Sam just stares at me. He doesn’t say anything. He must think I’m totally crazy after I ran out on him and Nina at the library. I wouldn’t blame him. Nothing I’ve done around him makes any sense.
Before I think of something to say, Antonia speaks up again. “I hear that when you cut off one of the Hydra’s heads, another one grows back. I forget. Is that right, Liv?”
My heart breaks. It hurts how much I miss them. I miss our conversations. I miss the way they used to know what I was thinking before I said anything.
I can’t keep this up. It’ll destroy me.
I miss us.
t w e n t y - f o u r
“Here then at long last is my darkness. No cry of light, no glimmer,
not even the faintest shard of hope to break free across the hold.”
—Mark Z. Danielewski
I’m desperately trying to get my head above water with my grades. It’s only about a month into the second semester, but I feel like a permanent fog has settled over my brain.
I’m sitting in the back of pre-calc, trying to work out some complicated trigonometry problem, when my teacher calls me up to the front of the class and hands me a pink slip of paper. I’m being called out to speak to my counselor, Mrs. Cline, about my senior year schedule. At least I get out of class for a few minutes.
“I know you’re busy with your academics,” she says, looking at my schedule on her computer as I sit down. She rattles off my classes. “Almost all AP or Honors. That’s impressive.”
“I guess,” I say. “It’s not like I’m at the top of my classes.”
Doing well in school is just expected in my family no matter how hard you have to work. It’s
status quo. Nothing special.
“Most students tend to expect senior year to be their hardest,” Mrs. Cline says. She’s wearing her bleached blond hair in a stiff hairstyle piled on top of her head. “But after working at this school for twenty years, I can tell you that junior year is certainly the most stressful time for most students. You’ve got your first year of AP classes, SATs to prepare for, researching colleges you may want to attend...”
Just listening to her talk about all the things that I should be thinking about when I spend most of my time focusing on other things is stressing me out.
“And—in your special case—your father running for governor. How are you handling things?” she asks as she pulls up my grades. “I see that you’re doing well in most of your classes. Chemistry is lower than normal, but nothing that can’t be salvaged.”
“I’m working on it,” I explain.
“That’s good to hear. And the campaign?”
I shrug. “It’s the campaign.”
“I hope your father wins his election,” she says. “At the same time, I’d hate to see you leave us early. Would your parents consider making plans to let you stay?”
I look out the window at the campus. Despite all my problems with Antonia and Sam this year, I feel like I was finally getting comfortable here. I don’t want to leave. I don’t know what to say to her, so I just smile weakly.
“Well... We’ve got to build your schedule for next year anyway. Have you thought about what you might want to study in college? That might help you decide.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “My parents want me to go to one of their schools.”
Mrs. Cline peers at me over her glasses. “Is that what you want?”
Do I tell her what I actually want to do? Or what my parents want me to tell her? Is planning for senior year even worth having this conversation if I might have to leave halfway through school? I might as well tell her the truth. It won’t matter anyway.
“I want to study painting.”
“You’re a very talented artist.” She nods.
Someone to Love Page 20