Theodora Twist (6 page)

They smile and nod and stare. The redhead is taking notes. The woman in the feather shoes circles me like a fly. “Uncanny,” she says, looking me up and down, down and up. Her almost-black, bobbed-with-bangs hair flops around her cat’s-eye glasses, which are also glen plaid. She stops in front of me and smiles. “Emily, my name is Ashley Bean, and I’m Theodora Twist’s agent and manager. These are my colleagues, Blair Babcock, a television producer, and Michael Simms, Theodora’s attorney.”

Theodora Twist is everywhere. She’s in lockers. She’s on movie screens. And now her “People,” for reasons I can’t fathom, are in my house.

“Okay, Emily,” Ashley says with a clap of her hands. “Pop quiz time!”

Is this one of those “If you can name Theodora Twist’s movies and the character she played, you will win a trip to the Bahamas or tickets to the movie”? I hope it’s for the trip and not free passes to
Family.
Seen it.

Ashley is beaming at me. “What do you get if you take away Theodora Twist’s glossy blond hair, her huge blue eyes, her exquisite beauty, her adorable name, her multimillion-dollar bank account, her cozy mansion in the Hollywood Hills, her rock star boyfriends, her successful acting career, and her jet-setting, glamorous life at age sixteen?”

You get Dora Twistler. But that’s too easy. It must be a trick question. But there’s no other possible answer. “Dora Twistler?” I finally say in the form of a question, despite the fact that I’m not a contestant on
Jeopardy!

“You are absolutely right,” Ashley says. “You get just a regular, everyday teenager. And that’s who Theodora Twist is at heart.”

I expect them all to start laughing, but they don’t. The People look very serious. They sit and open briefcases.

Blair, the television producer, opens a folder in her lap and turns to my mom and Stew. “Would you like to fill Emily in on our prior discussion or shall I share the great news?”

Prior discussion? Great news? Ah—the mysterious hour-long phone call. The closed doors. Now it all makes sense. My mom’s not in talks with her former boss to go back to work. She’s been in talks with the People. Why?

“Emily, come sit down,” Stew says, patting the butter-scotch leather love seat. “Your mother and I have a big surprise for you!”

Maybe I’m being offered a part as an extra in an upcoming Theodora Twist movie? My birthday came and went three months ago with very little Sweet Sixteen–ishness. Perhaps my parents arranged something with Theodora’s People in lieu of throwing me a huge, expensive Sweet Sixteen that all of two people would attend.

“Theodora is famous for her acting talent and her beauty,” Ashley tells me. “But she’s becoming even more known for her
off-screen
behavior. Of course, it’s all just rumors and one hundred percent lies, lies, lies. But before it becomes
so
bad that she loses the tween crowd— the ten- to thirteen-year-olds that are a
huge
share of her audience—we need to show America that Theodora Twist is really just a clean-cut American teenager misrepresented by the media.”

So that wasn’t Theodora Twist skinny dipping with the Bellini Brothers on the front cover of every magazine last week? One Bellini was holding her bikini top and swimming toward her, licking his lips, while the other wrapped his arms around her.

“How are you going to do that?” I ask.

Ashley leans forward, clasping her hands on her knee. “Emily, I’ve made a deal with a major television network for Theodora to star in her very own reality TV show:
Theodora Twist: Just a Regular Teen!”

“And it’s going to be filmed right here in Oak City!” Stew adds. “Right here in our house—if we agree to do the show.”

Do the show? “What do you mean?” I ask. Are they going to film Theodora Twist paying a visit to her old house? Saying things like
We had the sofa on the other
wall
and
My bedroom was painted orange.
How interesting is that?

“Emily, we spoke with your parents a few days ago to discuss this,” Ashley says, “and they’re up for it, but they said that you’re the one who has to give the green light since you’re the one who’ll be most affected. So we’re here today to explain the show and how it will work, and to answer any questions. And hopefully you’ll say yes to participating.”

“In what, exactly?” I ask, my stomach flip-flopping.

“In having Theodora Twist as your roommate—and shadow—for a month!” Ashley says.

For the next hour, Ashley, Blair, and the entertainment attorney, who doesn’t do a lot of talking but does do a lot of jotting down on a BlackBerry, explain in detail. The gist of the show? Teen queen Theodora Twist returns to her hometown for one month to live in the house she grew up in with the family that lives there now. Theodora will live like a regular teenager and do everything her host family’s teenage daughter does—go to high school every day, do homework, hit the mall after earning some babysitting money, worry about a prom date, use zit cream, get briefly grounded for staying out a half hour past curfew.

This is insane. “You want to use my life as the basis for a reality TV show?” I ask, fighting the urge to laugh and cry. “It’ll be the most boring show imaginable!”

“Nothing about a teenager’s life is boring,” Ashley assures me. “The prom’s coming up in what—five weeks? Do you have a date?”

I blush. “No. I mean, not yet.”

She smiles. “Angsting about a date is hardly boring. Everyone can relate to that, no matter their age.” They all smile and nod and jot down who-knows-what on their BlackBerries.

“How will it work?” I ask. “I mean, I’ve watched reality TV. Will it be like
The Real World?”

She smiles. “It’ll be its own unique show, but the concept of filming you as you are is the same, yes. Our plan is to shoot unscripted and undirected, then see what we get and edit the heck out of it. Emily, you and Theodora will each have your own cameraperson assigned to you; Stew and Stephie, you’ll share one. The cameras will shadow you, but most of the time you won’t even notice they’re there.”

“In school too?” I ask.

Blair nods. “The principal of your school”—she flips open her notebook and scans some pages —“Mr. Opps,” she adds, closing the notebook, “has given his approval to shoot for a certain number of hours per day for four weeks starting in mid-April and ending in mid-May. A focal point of the six episodes—a half hour each—will be the Oak City High junior prom—the date, the dress, the preparation, the pictures. In fact, we’ve already lined up a number of sponsors, like the Dress Me Up chain in the Oak City Mall, to provide free dresses to you and Theodora in exchange for featuring the shop. We’re thinking the last episode will feature the prom—getting ready, the prom itself—and then goodbyes the next morning as Theodora leaves Oak City.”

Ashley smiles at me. “Showing America she’s really just a regular teen with regular worries, regular dreams, and a regular life outside of her not-so-regular job as an actress.” She smiles at me. “Any questions?”

“Well . . . why us? Why me?” I ask.

“Your family is our first choice for a number of reasons,” Blair says. “First of all, you’re representative of the new American family—Mom, stepdad, teenager, new baby. Second, you live in the house that Theodora grew up in, which adds a wonderful sense of nostalgia and poignancy. As if this is the life Theodora would have led had she not been discovered. And third, you and Theodora were friends before she became a star. That’ll add a completely new dimension to the show.”

I have no idea what to say. TMI overload. I need to think.

“Take some time to discuss it as a family,” Ashley says, as though she read my mind. “It’s a big decision; you’re going to be on national television, on a reality TV show, your every move filmed. It could very well change all of your lives. As discussed, you would receive a very handsome compensation package for your participation. I will need your answer by Wednesday. If you say no, we’ll need to line up another family.”

My mom smiles at me, then turns to Ashley, Blair, and Baseball Cap, whose name I forget. “Well, Stew and I have talked long and hard about it, and we’re on board. But it’s got to be Emily’s decision—if she’s uncomfortable with the idea, it’s going to be a no.”

My mom and Stew are willing to have their every move filmed for national television? My mom walking around in the same stained sweats day after day and Stew “I Don’t Change Diapers” Stewarts emerging from his study only for pretzels? Are they out of their minds?

Jen and Belle both freeze in the middle of pouring maple syrup on their Belgian waffles. The three of us are in CoffeeTawk, a popular coffee lounge that serves amazing waffles. I’ve just told them about Theodora’s People.

“You’re going to be famous,” Belle says. “Omigod. You’re going to be on a TV show!”

“Wait a minute. That means
we’re
going to be on a TV show,” Jen says. They suddenly look at each other and shriek.

Belle’s hands fly up to her hair. “I have to get this frizzpuff straightened. And I have to lose five pounds. I have to go shopping!”

“Nope, you can’t,” Jen says. “You’re supposed to be as is. That’s the point, right, Em?”

I hold up a hand. “Wait. First of all, I didn’t say yes yet. It’s crazy! If I get a zit, a camera will zoom in on me putting on Clearasil. This is going to be a hit TV show?”

“I think it’s more like Theodora putting on the Clearasil that’ll bring in the viewers,” Belle says. “Not that she’s ever had a zit.”

“Okay, backtrack,” Jen says. “You and Dora Twistler were friends in seventh grade for what—five minutes? What happened again? Why did you stop being friends?”

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly.

When Dora was twelve, her father died of a heart attack. One minute he was alive and well, and the next he was gone. Because I was the only other kid in our middle school whose father had died, my guidance counselor called my mom and asked if I’d be willing to talk to Dora about her loss. I said okay, and the next day, my mom drove me to the Twistlers’ house—the very house we live in now. I didn’t know Dora well; she was a little different even then, listening to music I’d never heard of, wearing twenty bangles on each arm, talking about film noir, whatever that is. She was cool. I was . . . not.

When I walked into her house (my house now), she was sitting on her bedroom floor, huge headphones on her ears and huge tears dripping down her cheeks.

“Dora,” her mother called. No response. “Dora. Dora!” No response. Her mom walked over to the CD player and shut it off.

“What the hell?” Dora snapped, taking off the headphones and swiping at the tears.

“Watch your mouth, please,” her mom said. “You have company.”

Dora eyed me. Her expression didn’t change. Her mom started to leave and my heart started booming in my chest.

“Why are you here?” she asked, turning the CD player back on.

“I’m really sorry about your dad,” I said. “My father died too, seven months ago. So, uh, I guess the guidance counselor at school thought you might want to talk to me.”

“Well, I don’t,” she said, flipping through her CDs.

“Well, if you ever do,” I told her, “I know what it feels like, okay?”

She didn’t respond, so I just left. The next day, a Sunday, she knocked on my front door.

“So, are you doing okay?” I asked.

“I really don’t feel like talking,” she said. And she didn’t. She didn’t say a word for the two hours she sat in my room, reading
People
and
Seventeen.
I asked if she wanted something to eat and she shrugged, so I went downstairs and got a bag of Milanos and two bottles of Snapple iced tea, and when I came up and handed her the cookies, she burst into tears. She was sobbing, her entire body shaking. I had no idea what to say, what to do, and I started to cry myself. Then she got up and flung the bag of Milanos against the wall and ran out.

The next day she was back.

“I’m sorry I freaked out,” she said, handing me a new package of Milanos. “It just sucks.”

“I know,” I said.

We hung out every day after that for just over a month, mostly at our houses. We didn’t talk much and we never talked about our dads, but I found her company comforting (and a little scary, to tell the truth) and I think she felt the same. But then one day she didn’t show up. She didn’t answer the phone—or return my messages. When I saw her at school, she totally ignored me. Finally, when I cornered her outside school one day, she screamed at me: “Take a hint! Get the hell out of my face already.”

And that was the end of my friendship with Dora Twistler.

“Are you going to say yes?” Belle asks, forkful of waffle halfway to her mouth. “How could you not?”

Which reason should I start with?

“Do you think you’d get along with her?” Jen asks. “I mean, would your friendship be scripted?”

“The producer said no scripts,” I say. “So if I do say yes and she still hates me, I guess the entire world will know.”

That night, my mom comes into my room to tuck me in.

“You’re confusing me with Sophie,” I say, but I like it. I miss it. My mom used to tuck me in every night; it was our ritual.

She sits on the edge of my bed and holds my ratty Winnie-the-Pooh that according to her I carried around everywhere until I was four. “Do you want to know why I think the show is a good idea for us?”

I nod.

She traces a finger down Pooh’s belly. “Having cameras following us around will force me and Stew to make some necessary changes. I’m tired of racing around like a lunatic with spit-up in my hair and wearing the same sweatpants for three days because I don’t have five minutes to take a shower. And Stew has to start finding a balance between his work and being a dad. Being a
stepdad.”

I smile at her and she smiles back.

“Who knows?” she says, squeezing my hand. “Maybe nothing will change. Maybe nothing big will come from it. Maybe things will be different for only a month and then life will go back to what it was before. But I doubt it. Any changes will be for the better. In any case, you’re going to be in the limelight, Emily. I know you can handle it—you’ve certainly dealt with quite a lot these past few years. But you have to want to handle it. Famous people pay a high price for fame.”