Theodora Twist (5 page)

In another town, another school, Theodora would be just another mega movie star. But in Oak City, guys feel like she’s attainable—because she grew up here. They remember her as Dora Twistler, the gawky too-tall girl with braces and boobs and serious attitude at age thirteen. Dora Twistler was taller than most of the boys in eighth grade and wore high heels, even to gym class, which got her detention just about every day. She wasn’t interested in boys. She was interested in
guys.
High school guys. She particularly liked flirting with guys who worked in the mall or in stores, like the supermarket we went to for sleepover munchies. Not that we had many sleepovers. Two or three. Once I asked her why she liked fooling around with different guys, and she glared at me and said, “The lame-o shrink my mother’s making me see has a few idiotic theories. Why don’t you ask her?” End of
that
conversation.

See, I used to be friends with Dora Twistler, right when she became really weird and wild, just a year before she morphed into Theodora Twist, superstar. We were friends for five weeks and then she dumped me without an explanation and never spoke to me again, except to tell me to “get the hell out of her face.” When I’m watching one of her movies (a new one,
Family,
is coming out this weekend), I don’t see Dora Twistler. I don’t think,
Wow, I
actually admitted to that person that I couldn’t figure out
how to use a tampon.
(I was twelve and had just gotten my period). Or
Wow, I now live in the house she grew up in
until she moved to L.A. to seek her fortune (a piece of trivia that made me very popular for ten minutes late in my freshman year after her first film came out). I can’t really connect the Dora I knew and the movie star. They don’t look alike, even when she’s not made up to look like she’s twenty-five. How is that possible? I look like me no matter how much blush and eyeliner I slather on.

There are posters for the prom all over the place. Time is a-wasting. I avoid looking at Zach’s locker and head over to Todd, thinking positive.

“Hi, Todd.”

He turns around fast, as though he can’t believe a girl is speaking to him. He really does have gorgeous eyes. How have I not noticed Todd’s eyes were so blue?

“Could Mathers have given us more homework?” I say, sighing for dramatic effect.

As Todd puts his books in his locker, his pouf shakes. “I know. I’ll be solving proofs all weekend.”

Ah—he’s given me a good in. “Or . . . you could go out with me instead,” I say, feeling my cheeks burn. “To the movies, maybe.”

He stares at me. “You’re asking me out?”

He looks so incredulous that I relax and smile. “Yes, I am.”

He eyes me. Up, then down. He’s losing points on the nice meter fast.

“Sure,” he says. “That would be great. Cool.” He gestures at his Theodora montage. “Her new movie is opening Friday night. Wanna go?”

Deep sigh. “Sounds great.”

“Bye, Mom, I’m leaving,” I call out with a hand on the front door.

It’s Friday night and I’m meeting Todd at the theater in fifteen minutes. My mother is nowhere to be found. Earlier she was on the phone for at least an hour while Stew watched Sophie (very unusual). Then she and Stew disappeared behind closed doors for another hour. I have a feeling the call was my mom’s former boss and the “behind closed doors” was “Should I or shouldn’t I go back to work?” Whatever she decides, I just hope she’ll be happy. And go back to being herself.

“Mom, I’m leaving.”

“Okay, sweetie, have fun at Belle’s!” she calls down from upstairs, probably from Sophie’s nursery. I know from personal experience that when you’re changing a baby’s diaper, especially a gross one, you can’t drop what you’re doing and have a ten-minute conversation.

Still,
two
days ago I told my mom I had a
date.
How can she not remember?

She appears at the top of the landing, rocking Sophie in her arms. “Honey, can you pick up a new pacifier at Rite Aid on your way home?” she whisper-calls to me. “Oh, don’t you look nice,” she adds, eyeing my low-slung denim skirt and baby blue T-shirt with tiny rhinestones dotting the V-neck. “You and Belle and Jen going to a party?”

“I’m going out with Todd,” I say. “Remember?”

She knocks her forehead with her spare hand. “I’m sorry, sweetie. Between Sophie keeping me up all night with her teething and these new thoughts of maybe going back to work part-time, I can’t remember if I’m coming or going. Have a great time.” And she disappears, softly singing a lullaby to my baby sister.

Insane. I used to want my mother to butt out. Now I want her to butt in?

“God, she’s hot.”

Todd is practically foaming at the mouth. He’s staring up at the screen, so oblivious to everyone and everything except Theodora Twist that he just shoved a popcorn kernel up his nose instead of in his mouth. Finally the credits roll—on the movie and on my date.

“That was great,” Todd says, turning to me. His smile fades, those gorgeous blue eyes registering . . . disappointment?

“Something wrong, Todd?” I ask.

He collects his empty popcorn container and water bottle. “It’s just that it’s hard to look at Theodora Twist for two hours and then come back to reality, you know?”

Okay, so Todd Tuttle is not such a nice guy, after all.

“Can I admit something to you?” he asks as we head out.

You’ve secretly had a crush on me for years. You’re so
happy I asked you out. You think I’m way prettier than
Theodora Twist.

“I don’t even know your name,” he says with a snort. “But I know you’re in two of my classes. Math and history?”

Math and English. I sure can pick ’em.

Another huge difference between me and Theodora Twist: I am the opposite of famous.

EmilyIsFine: U should have seen the look on Todd’s face when the lights came up & he had 2 look at me instead of Theodora. Got the blahs. ☹

BelleSays: He looks like a Q-tip anyway. & there’s way more fish in the sea! LYLAS. xoxo

JenGirl: Chin up, my girl. The chess club president probably has no idea who TT is. Ray Roarke moves from #3 to #2 immediately.

Theodora

“No. No. And no,” I say to Ashley, who’s sitting across from me in her office on the gazillionth floor of an L.A skyscraper. She just finished pitching me her concept for a ridiculous TV show that I wouldn’t do for five million, let alone for
free
(Ashley’s other brilliant idea: my salary would go to various girls charities, like Girls Club of America and Big Sisters). “Hey, how’s that for repeating an answer if pressed—and by the way, stop pressing me. Because the answer is
no.
I’m not doing it.”

My publicist and my entertainment lawyer—who wears a stupid Yankees cap 24/7 because he’s bald—stare from me to Ashley as though we’re at Wimbledon.

Ashley glares at me with those shrewd dark eyes of hers. “Want to know about the offer I got for you this morning? Your own soft porn show on a major cable station. Wanna take it? Your career will be over by the time you’re eighteen. Oh, and you can forget about getting paid a fortune to eat M&Ms in commercials. The Mars company just dropped out of negotiations.”

Oh. “Good. I don’t need the extra calories. And the answer is still no.”

Ashley looks through a stack of phone messages on her desk. “Find yourself a new agent. I don’t work with losers who derail their careers. You don’t make money, I don’t make money.”

I hate you,
I want to scream.

“Would you like to change your answer?” she asks, scrolling through her e-mail. “I’m busy.”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

She stands up. “The door is that way. See my assistant for the necessary paperwork to terminate our contract—”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” I say, hating myself. “Fine. I’ll do it. It’ll be a total nightmare, but I’ll do it.”

Ashley smiles. She’s won. “With our salary going to charity.”

“Yep. Every friggin’ penny.”

Ashley is, annoyingly, always right. If I want to do a movie and she says no way, that movie ends up bombing. Endorsements, charity stuff—whatever she okays always ends up being good for me.

My publicist and my lawyer are beaming and nodding and already have their CrackBerries out.

Ashley smiles wider. “You’re a smart girl, Theodora.”

“I wish I were an idiot. Life would be a lot simpler.”

She shakes her head. “Trust me. It wouldn’t.”

Emily

Ray Roarke is walking down the hall, about to pass me. I tell myself to call out his name. But I can’t.

“You’re shallow!” Belle accuses me as he walks by.

I open my locker and put away my math and science textbooks and stuff
Romeo and Juliet
and
Human Psychology
into my backpack. “There’s a difference between being shallow and not being attracted to someone,” I say in my own defense. “There’s no way I can even
imagine
kissing Ray Roarke.”

“He could be the love of your life,” Belle says. She sighs dramatically. “Passed up because of his slightly large nose and his love of chess. Such a shame.”

“It’s not his nose,” I insist, watching him stop to drink from the water fountain. I actually like his nose. And unlike Todd, he has great hair. “It’s that—” I can’t say it.

“That he’s not Zach?” Jen says.

I nod. “
And
that he might be another Todd Tuttle. I can’t do this, okay?”

Belle squeezes my hand. “You can. Forget Todd. And try to forget Zach.”

I shrug. “I can’t.”

“So your gorgeous prom dress is going to hang in your closet till next year?” Jen asks.

Sigh. I don’t know. I just know that Ray Roarke can’t be the answer to the meaning of life.

After school I spend a little too much time lying flat on my bed, staring at the one photo of me and Zach Archer that I have. It’s my only proof that we were ever a couple—that it wasn’t all just a dream. It’s been over two weeks since we broke up, two weeks since he’s even acknowledged me in the hallways at school, so every now and then (okay, every
day
) I look at the picture to remind myself I’m not nuts. I didn’t imagine it.

Jen was the photographer. Zach and I were walking his beagle, Lucy, when we ran into Jen, who’s taking a photography class in the city on Saturdays with her mom.

Zach put his hand over his face. “I hate having my picture taken.”

“C’mon. Just one,” Jen said.

The hand came down. I smiled. He didn’t. But it was a great shot. We’re not holding hands or kissing or doing anything remotely adorable. But we’re in the same frame. We’re
together.

Bzzz!
Doorbell.

“Em, could you get that?” my mom calls from down the hall. “I’m in the middle of changing Sophie!”

Better her than me. I head downstairs and look through the peephole, and there stand three of the best-looking people I’ve ever seen in my life. People who look like they just stepped out of a TV screen. I open the door. They—two women and one man—are wearing sunglasses, which they all whip off at the same time. They smile bright white smiles at me.

“We’re Theodora’s People!” says one of the women. She’s wearing a tiny black jacket, a white micro-miniskirt, and high-heeled black shoes with glen plaid feathers poking out of the toe. I stare at the feathers for too long. The woman smiles and whispers, “Manolos.”

I know what Manolos are (seriously expensive hot shoes). I don’t know what Theodora’s People are. Theodora as in Theodora Twist? I’m trying to figure out why they could possibly be standing on our doorstep on an ordinary Monday at five o’clock when my stepfather comes up behind me and welcomes them in. Apparently, he’s been expecting them.

There’s nice-talk of how the flight was (Theodora’s People flew in from “the coast,” which I soon learn means Los Angeles), whether there was congestion on the New Jersey Turnpike (which is how you get to our house from the airport), a few exit jokes, and more nice-talk about how lovely the house is, and “would you like some coffee or a nice glass of fresh-brewed iced tea?” There’s also a brief debate on whether scones or bagels have more carbs; Theodora’s People are all on no-carb “eating regimens.”

My mother comes downstairs holding Sophie, which elicits more nice-talk of how cute she is and how old she is and “do any of you have kids?” None of Theodora’s People has children, so baby convo is thankfully cut short. My mom puts Sophie in her playpen with a giant Big Bird toy and a teething ring, which means that whoever these people are, they’re important.

“And I’ll bet this lovely young lady is our regular teen!” says the redhead in the white pantsuit. She’s wearing a ton of silver jewelry.

The man flashes his super white teeth at me. He’s wearing a backwards baseball cap, despite his business suit and shiny black shoes. He also has a tiny silver hoop earring, even though he has to be around Stew’s age.

“You’re right,” Stew says, slinging an arm around my shoulder. “This is Emily.”

Theodora’s People stand around the living room and eyeball me approvingly. Apparently, I’ve passed some sort of big test. All of them whisper back and forth in short exclamations: “She couldn’t be
more
of a regular teen! Love the no-makeup look! A mall-store Prada rip-off shirt, no-brand jeans with a cute belt, sparkly purple toe-nail polish, and her hair in trendy pigtails—just perfect!”