And everyone, I mean everyone, was nicer to me. Even my parents. But I don’t want their attention anymore. They’re more controlling with me than they were with either Mason or Royce. Dad claims I’m more prone to extremes. Mom says I’m too hard on myself. I fail to see either. I’m pretty average.
Devastatingly average.
“Give me the benefit of the doubt,” he says. “I’m just saying that you don’t have to order the salad. Eat whatever you want. You used to like the Manhattan steak.”
I refuse to react. I take a small bite of lettuce, the smallest leaf I can find.
I chew thirty times, counting each one like a bead on a rosary.
30...29...28...27...
It’s way harder to come up with excuses for not eating at a restaurant, and I can’t go to the bathroom after dinner either. Too obvious. So I order light and chew my food for so long that when they’re ready to go, I end up leaving half my food on the plate.
I may be a fairly average teenage girl, but I’m strong-willed. Probably more so than any of those girls who hang around with Zach. I can put up a good fight.
I smile at Mom as if to say, Please keep the congressman behind the imaginary fence. She looks at me and shrugs. I guess I’ll have to fight this battle on my own.
So I feign deafness, take a sip of water and stare at the wood paneled walls, thinking about my conversation with Ms. Day right before lunch. Having my work shown at a real gallery would be an amazing experience. It would mean that I actually have the talent to be a professional artist someday. Just being good at art in your high school classes isn’t enough. I have to test myself outside of school too.
I want to put together a portfolio, but I don’t know where to begin. My mind goes blank every time I try to think of a concept or theme for the show. I need to find my inspiration. If only I could talk to LeFeber...
“You might consider returning to Earth once in a while, Ms. Space Cadet,” Dad says. His mouth is moving, but his words are white noise. “Ground control to Olivia.”
I’m a disappointment to him. Not only am I not interested in his job, I don’t get as high grades as Royce and I’ll never be as popular as Mason was in high school.
He taps his fork on my plate, clanging the tines against the glass to get my attention. I stare at him, hoping my smoldering irises are enough to laser some more gray streaks into his hair. “I hope the rabbits across America aren’t starving...”
I scrunch up my forehead. What the hell is he talking about?
“You eat so much lettuce you must have tanked their food economy,” he says.
“Congressman Blakely,” I say, stabbing my fork into a leaf covered in sesame seeds, “I like salads, the rabbits will be just fine and, besides, I’m just not super hungry, okay?”
I started calling him Congressman Blakely about a year ago. I don’t know why, other than I thought it was funny. Maybe I was being a little mean. It’s a way for me to passively fight back in my own house. My own private revolution, for no reason other than that I’m a teenager. It’s practically my duty to get under my parents’ skin.
“Can you not be like this? I’d love to have a peaceful dinner.” Mom wipes a touch of water from her lips, then folds up her napkin into a perfect rectangle. She’s perfect. Intelligent. Tactful. Nothing—not one stray hair or wrinkled shirt—ever out of place.
I reach for my own napkin and realize it has fallen on the floor. Compared to my mother, I’m a hot mess. I’m not diplomatic in social situations, and I can barely manage to find a clean pair of jeans in the mornings. I don’t know how I ended up so different from my parents. I would be the worst politician ever.
Dad has just opened his mouth to argue again when Martin Barrios—Ollie’s father—approaches the table. Just seeing him makes me want to slink down in my chair and hide under the table. He’s wearing a black toupee slicked tight against his head and a blue suit that’s slightly wrinkled and damp from sweat. He’s fresh from the bar, face red, and too happy—way too happy for me anyway. He winks at Dad as if he knows some big secret. Not only is Mr. Barrios Ollie’s father, which is mortifying enough, he’s also worked with Dad on a big downtown renovation project, so there’s no getting away.
“Colin Blakely?” He squints at Dad and spills a few drops of his martini on the carpet. “Whoa! Don’t want to lose that,” he adds. “This is a Musso martini!”
Dad laughs. “I hope you brought that for me.”
“Why? Is this a celebration? I mean, I hope it is.” He looks at Mom. “You look lovely as always, Debra.”
“How’s Oliver doing at...” Dad pauses. “Where does he go to school again? Princeton? Or Dartmouth?”
“He’s a Princeton man. Double major in economics and Near Eastern studies.”
“That’s good to hear,” Mom says politely.
How can she keep smiling at him? I never told her exactly what Ollie’s comment was when he broke up with me, but she knows he said something horrible to me.
Then Mr. Barrios turns toward me, training his bloodshot eyes on my face.
“Olivia?” he says in faux surprise.
It’s so fake I want to laugh.
“I’m her doppelgänger,” I deadpan. “The real Olivia has been claimed by the robotics industry and is now being mass manufactured.”
I imagine a hundred little replicas of myself and shudder. I can barely stand seeing myself doubled in a mirror, let alone a never-ending assembly line of Olivia Blakely dolls.
Mom shoots me a death stare. She doesn’t like when I’m sarcastic around adults. It’s a liability. I say they could stand to loosen up. Why take everything so seriously?
“Is she?” He laughs like a factory-produced automaton. “You’re all grown up,” he says. “You’ll be a marvelous woman. You have two great brothers. And mother...”
Gag. That’s when I stop listening. I shut him off completely. I’ve heard this speech before from a hundred different politicians. He’s lost interest within seconds anyway, because I’m not important to these kinds of people other than that I’m merely something to turn into a compliment for my parents.
I check my phone. There’s a text from Sam. I answer as surreptitiously as I can. Mom and Dad don’t like when I text at the dinner table, but I can’t help myself.
SAM: Feeling better?
LIV: Yep :-)
SAM: Thinking about doing a bonfire at the beach. You down?
LIV: I wish. Dinner with my parents ;-)
SAM: Bummer. Hang out tomorrow?
LIV: Totally. I’m down.
SAM: I have a surprise for you.
LIV: OoOoO. What is it?
SAM: It’s a surprise...
“Liv? Could you put your phone down, please?” Mom asks. She places her napkin on the table like she’s about to make a serious announcement.
“Yeah. One sec,” I say, rapidly texting Sam back.
LIV: Gotta go. Txt later :-)
I was supposed to hang out with him after taking yearbook photos yesterday, but I just felt like locking myself in my bedroom after the disaster with Jackson, so I gave him an excuse about not feeling well. I’m a terrible friend. I need to make it up to him.
Mr. Barrios has waded his way back to the bar. I really wish I could join him. Maybe he could buy me one of those famous Musso martinis. I could use one.
Or three.
The buzz would help deaden the anxiety whirling in my stomach. I think about my conversation with Jackson—rehashing every tiny word and action over and over in my mind—until I convince myself that Jackson and all his friends, especially Zach, think I’m a freak who just wants to party with the popular people.
I’m feeling more nauseous by the second.
I’m just getting up to go to the bathroom when I realize Dad’s been trying to get my attention.
“Honeybee,” he says. He’s been calling me that since I stepped on a bee at my friend’s birthday at Griffith Park nearly ten years ago. “Don’t go just yet. I have something to tell the both of you.”
“Ugh,” I say and sit back down. “I have to pee. What is it?”
Mom puts a hand on his arm. The news is something she’s been anticipating. I’ve always been able to read her. And Dad? He’s an open book. He’ll tell anyone whatever he’s thinking at any given moment. No secrets there. I guess that’s something people admire about him, but I don’t understand. Everyone needs a secret to call their own.
“There’s a reason we went out on a school night,” he says.
“What is it?” I ask absentmindedly, thinking about how much homework I have to get done tonight. I have at least two hours’ worth. It’s going to be a late night.
Dad jolts me back into reality.
“I’m running for governor of California,” he says.
My stomach drops.
“We’ve been waiting to tell you,” Mom says, her face full of joy. I’m pretty sure the expression on my face is communicating the otherworldliness of this announcement.
“Really?” I ask. “Are you serious?”
“Couldn’t be more serious,” he says.
I should be happy for him, happy for his achievements, but this is terrible news. This means even more attention on the family and more stress during my junior year, which everyone knows is the hardest school year ever, especially since I have to start studying for the SAT, working on my portfolio and thinking about art school—or at least how I’m going to convince my parents to let me go there instead of a regular university.
All eyes are going to be on us. That means I have to be more perfect than ever. Stronger. Nothing should be able to take me down. Not food. Not school. Not this election.
I push the lettuce around on my plate and crush the croutons with my fork while Mom and Dad talk like old high school lovers, excited about this new opportunity.
“This is exactly what we need. Imagine not having to fly to Washington all the time.” I can tell that, in her mind, Mom is already decorating and ordering furniture for a new house. “We’ll live in the governor’s mansion. Sacramento is so lovely, and I miss having seasons.”
The timing couldn’t be worse.
My entire junior year is going to be taken up by this campaign. Probably part of my senior year too. Everything will be about him. Like always. Not to mention I may have to live in Sacramento for half of my senior year.
Sacramento? I mean, seriously, what’s in Sacramento? A river?
Let me say it again: There’s. No. Way.
Might as well join the Mars Colony. They’re taking hip young up-and-coming artists ostracized from their power-hungry families, aren’t they? Sign me up.
A campaign for governor changes everything. Forget making any friends, let alone hooking up with Zach Park. Dad winning the governorship would ruin all that. And Dad’s scarily good at winning elections.
Fine. I’m just going to say it. Not out loud, but I’m going to say it in my head because it’s all I can think. I hope he loses. I hope his campaign completely tanks. There. Said it. I just need to get on the ball and focus on getting invited to Zach’s boat party.
That’s my only chance to get on his radar and to ask for LeFeber’s advice. I have to start living my best life. Stop constantly overthinking things and doubting myself.
No more being a wallflower.
No more being known only as the congressman’s daughter.
Or Mason and Royce’s little sister.
I have to make a name for myself. For my art.
Everyone needs to know who Liv Blakely really is.
f o u r
“Always remember that you are absolutely unique. Just like everyone else.”
—Margaret Mead
It’s Friday afternoon and I still haven’t been invited to the party.
Do I have loser stamped on my forehead?
I’ve tried talking to Jackson three times. Three times!
This is what I’m thinking about as I walk to the front of campus by myself.
I cut across the parking lot from Ms. Day’s room, where I was working late to put together an inspiration board for my portfolio. I’m starting with Frida Kahlo’s work. She’s always been inspiring to me. I even have a print of one of her paintings hanging above my bed called What the Water Gave Me. It’s this strange picture of her feet peeking out of a tub of bathwater, except floating in the water are all these surreal images from her consciousness: a sailboat, a wrinkled dress, a conch shell, native plants from her homeland, a skyscraper rising from a volcano, a miniature figure of herself drowning in the middle of the scene.
I head to the front of the school, waiting for Mom to pick me up like the total nerd I am. Great Friday, right?
At least I have plans to go to the movies with Sam. We haven’t had much time to get together since school started, and his text asking me to hang out tonight made me smile and helped take my mind off my complete failure to get invited to the boat party. Sam doesn’t notice—or maybe he doesn’t care—what a loser I am. He doesn’t even mind picking me up again.
This is what happens when you’re already sixteen and you can’t drive. It’s a movie called Mommy and Daddy Are Always Too Busy to Teach Me How to Drive. Starring me. I play the depressed Goth-girl artist. I don’t even really wear that much black—I just consider sarcasm a never-leave-home-without kind of accessory. In the movie version of my life, I’m on the brink of insanity and draw images of sad carless girls on every wall I can get away with scribbling on. At the end of the film, I finally get to drive around the block. Big deal.
Mason and Royce could do pretty much anything they wanted in high school, which was partly because they each had a car to go along with their driver’s licenses. Dad keeps promising me a car. Not that I even have my license yet. Before the end of the school year, that’s what he told me. So I’m sitting on a low brick wall, waiting for Mom to show up, kissing away any hope of meeting LeFeber, when guess who walks up to the strikeout queen?
“Liv, Liv... Look at you sitting out here.”
“Jackson! Hey!”
He looks at me funny.
I guess I sound a little overenthusiastic. I mean, it is the day of the boat party and all. I don’t know what to say to Jackson and I start to panic a little. This is my last chance to get on the same boat as LeFeber and Zach. I consider just asking him for an invite, but then realize that would either be too tacky or would seem completely desperate.
“You’re by yourself,” I say stupidly.
“Yeah. Weird, huh?” Jackson laughs. “I had to see Mr. Richie about a test. Dude’s holding back points again.”
He knows, I think. He really knows it’s weird that girls aren’t trailing him like a comet’s tail. I wish I could be that confident, but I never seem to be able to shake the names that are always underneath my other thoughts.
Fatso. Blimp. Heifer.
It sounds kind of crazy, but I call it my other voice. It used to sound like Ollie was stuck in my head—every bad thing I thought about myself was in his voice—but eventually it changed, and now the other voice’s words are all mine.
“What are your plans this weekend?” Jackson asks, inching closer to me. He’s so close that I can smell his cologne. He smells like a cool breeze, like a pool of sparkling water. He puts his hand up to my hair and twists a strand around his finger.
Hold on. What’s going on right now? The situation just got unpredictable. Is he flirting with me? This isn’t supposed to happen. It may turn out to be a total fantasy, but if it’s not, I’m interested in Zach. Not Jackson.
But I can’t brush him off. This is my last chance to land an invitation.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Nothing
much. Just like...”
“Seriously,” he says. “I want to know what’s going on. You can’t be doing nothing. A girl like you doesn’t do nothing...”
What girl like me? Are there girls like me? I want to know them. I also want to know why Jackson’s flirting with me.
Before I can say anything, I sense disaster in the form of a car pulling up. Another ruined encounter. Mom has the worst timing.
Wait a minute. That’s not Mom’s car. It’s a yellow Land Rover pulling up in front of us with a certain Dominican girl at the wheel, pumping salsa music out her windows.
I immediately squeal, “Antonia!”
I try not to scare Jackson off, but I totally was not expecting her to show up at school on a Friday afternoon. She’s been visiting family in the Dominican Republic all summer and is arriving late for the school year. I didn’t think I was going to see her until the beginning of October. She’s almost a month early. And she didn’t tell me she was back.
She rolls down the window. Her long, curly hair is swept into a high, messy ponytail, showing off her milk-chocolate eyes accented by thick black liner. “Baby, look at you,” is all she says through pouty lips before letting out a wolf whistle.
I’m smiling ear to ear. She’s the most no-nonsense, fun-loving human being I’ve ever known. I might be a perfectionist about a lot of things, but Antonia and I complement each other perfectly. She’s all breezy and carefree while I can’t go to sleep at night without obsessing over every little thing I’ve said or done the day before.
“I wanted to surprise you,” she says. “I figured you would be here so I called your mom to tell her I was going to pick you up. Come to my house, we have tons to catch up on.”
I grab my bag and look at Jackson, trying to decide what to do. I want to go to the boat party so badly, but I also want to hang out with Antonia. I’ve missed her like crazy.
“I should go,” he says.
I don’t know what to say. I’ve probably already ruined my chances. Why can’t I just ask for what I want? Why can’t I spit it out? “Yeah, I guess so,” I say.