Theodora Twist (2 page)

Only a handful of the reporters who interviewed me yesterday and today got really personal with the virginity question. I gave the scripted response. But I wouldn’t mind telling girls around the country the truth, which is: if you want to go from middle school to starring in a major film with A-list actors,
don’t
do what I did, because you’ll want to vomit every time you think about it, even if you don’t quite regret it.

Story in a nutshell: One of the producers of the film I was up for liked my screen test and asked for a meeting. Two minutes into it, he walked up to my chair so that my face was directly in line with his belt buckle and said, “You’ve told me how badly you want this role, Theodora. But acting requires
showing,
not
telling. Show
me how badly you want it.” I was thirteen, but a smart thirteen (or a dumb thirteen, depending on how you look at it). I smiled up at him, thanked the powers of the universe that he was young and hot, and not forty, fat, and bald, and unzipped his pants.

How did I know what to do? Practice, and lots of it, in Oak City with various members of the Oak City High football, baseball, and basketball teams. It started when a cute junior I met at the mall assumed I was also sixteen. So I said my name was Lola and that I went to private school. The way he salivated over me made me forget everything else. Made me feel
powerful.
My mother caught us fooling around on a chaise lounge in the backyard (why she had to pick that day to come home early from work, I don’t know), screamed like a lunatic that I’d just turned thirteen, and called the police. The guy turned white, grabbed his clothes, and ran. I changed my name for every guy—I’ve been Miranda, Zoe, Jessica, Raina, Emma, and once I even pretended to be a British exchange student named Lavinia.

I had no idea I was honing my acting skills—and my sexual skills—for the future. And so after no more than ten minutes in that producer’s office, without moving from the chair or removing an article of my clothing, the role was mine, pending the director’s approval. Lucky for me, the director wasn’t a slimebucket like the producer. Since I passed muster with the producer, and the director loved my screen test, I got the part. Which guaranteed that what happened in the producer’s office was a one-time thing. When I lost my virginity to the star of my first film (a hot thirtyish actor with an equally famous movie-star girlfriend), I didn’t do it because I felt I had to, but because I
wanted
to. After my first film came out, I was A-list myself and everyone wanted to sleep with me. The Bellini brothers are my first Hollywood boyfriends under the age of twenty-five.

“Just one more question,” the reporter says, flashing me more white underwear. “Do the Bellini brothers kiss differently?”

That’s a new one. So far I’ve only been asked if it’s true that I’m
dating
them. I blush, per Ashley. I giggle nervously, per Ashley. I say, per Ashley, “We’re really just good friends.”

But instead of rolling her eyes at me again and thanking me for my time, she wags her finger at the TV camera, then holds up the cover of a tabloid. “So this
isn’t
you and the Bellini brothers getting busy on the beach? You look like more than friends to me.”

If a reporter presses you, repeat answer. . . .
“We’re really just good friends!” I chirp again.

She leans in as though she’s my buddy and says, “Who’s the better kisser? Just tell me that.” She turns to the camera. “Every teenage girl in America is dying to know! Bo and Brandon
are
identical twins, after all.”

Well, not
identical, I want to say.
Bo’s got a much
bigger—

“Oh, wait a minute,” the reporter says, wagging her finger at me again, but this time in a tsk-tsk way. “It’s all a publicity stunt, isn’t it? You and the Bellini brothers aren’t dating at all.” She turns away from me to speak directly into the camera. “Viewers, you heard it here first. Hype, hype, hype. And lies, lies, lies. Studio executives and PR people concoct outrageous behavior for box-office stars to generate publicity—and box-office receipts. It’s a celebrity’s dirty little secret.”

Too bad Ashley and my publicist, a hyper motor-mouth named Stella, took off for dinner a half hour ago. They were both so happy with my “performance” all day that they left me on my own for the last two interviews. For the past two days I’ve been dying for them each to get a life. Now that I actually want them hovering for a little coach-me session, they’re stuffing their faces at some new vegan place.

“Tell us, Theodora,” the reporter persists. “Who actually chooses the celebrities with whom you’ll carry on your fake relationships? Your manager? The producers of your latest film? Was there another fake boyfriend celebrity you wanted instead? An actor who refused to live a lie? Do tell!”

Oh please. I reach for my purse on the side of my chair and pull out my cell phone. I press Bo’s number. Bo and Brandon are waiting for me upstairs in my hotel room, unless they got bored and left. They taped Leno earlier, and tomorrow they’re leaving for their European concert tour to promote their new CD. They’re not going to wait much longer, and I have one more interview after this. They could use a little sneak preview of what’s in store for them later. “Can you and Brandon come down to the junket for a minute?” I ask Bo. “Room twenty-three.”

The television reporter shoots a grin at her cameraman and jumps up. “Are they really coming?”

I sit back and examine my perfectly manicured nails. The reporter rushes to the door to alert security. Five minutes later, Bo and Brandon, hotter than anything anyone’s ever seen, saunter in. They’re gorgeous. Tall, built, blond, blue-eyed surfer dudes. They gleam like sunshine.

“You asked if they kiss differently?” I say to the reporter, getting up from my chair. I press myself against Bo Bellini and plant a hot, openmouthed kiss on his hot, open mouth. I mentally time it. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi, until I get to five. And then I lay one on Brandon Bellini. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. I reluctantly stop at five.

I smile at my boyfriends. “I’ll meet you guys up in my room in a few,” I say. Then I turn to the reporter. “They kiss
completely
differently.”

Emily

D
ear Been There/Done That,

I’m a high school sophomore and I’m in love with my
boyfriend, but all he wants to do is fool around. Yesterday I
was telling him something important, and he stuck his hand
up my shirt and under my bra. . . .

As Zach Archer sticks his hand up
my
shirt and under
my
bra, I try to remember what Been There/Done That (the advice columnist on GirlScene.com) told Emma K., fifteen, Omaha, Nebraska.

I’m pretty sure this is supposed to feel good—his hand on my chest, groping, squeezing. Like Emma K., I’m in love with my boyfriend. But it doesn’t feel good. It feels . . . weird. We’re in my bedroom now (door ajar, as per Mom). Tonight we went to the movies (a documentary about foreign affairs that our history teacher assigned for extra credit). Here’s a recap of the walk home:

Me: So, what did you think of the movie?

Zach: You have really sexy legs.

Me, glancing down at my too-skinny legs: Thanks.

I’m glad I listened to my friend Belle and wore the cute skirt and not my jeans. I’m thrilled that Zach thinks anything about me is sexy. But since we started seeing each other, he’s ignored almost everything I’ve said. Up until now I’ve let it go—his compliments overshadow any rude behavior. I’ll say something like, “My stepfather can be so clueless sometimes,” and Zach’s response will be: “I really like your shirt. You look hot.” Tonight, though, I’m determined to have a real conversation. We will get to know each other.

Me: I really learned a lot from the film. I had no idea that—

Zach: (Stands in front of me. Lifts the hem of my shirt. Stares into my eyes and slips his hand under the fabric.)

Me: (I freeze. Then step back. Turn red. Quickly say) I’m going to write my extra-credit paper on the effects of war on children caught in the crossfire. How about you?

Zach: (Lets out frustrated breath. Resumes walking. Never answers my question.)

This pretty much sums up our relationship. Our thirteen-day relationship. And now, while he squeezes my 32A chest, his breath warm in my ear, I will the phone on my desk to ring or my baby sister to let out a blood-curdling shriek. But there’s silence. Except for the occasional “You’re so hot” being whispered in my ear.

I’ve wanted Zach Archer for two years. Two years! And he finally noticed me, suddenly, mysteriously asked me out two weeks ago. Zach is beautiful. Dark, thick wavy hair. Dark blue eyes. One dimple. He’s smart. He’s funny. And until he asked me out I thought he was out of my league.

But here he is, on a Saturday night in April, the first warm night of spring, sitting next to me on my bed, whispering that I’m not.

I wriggle away and try to think of something interesting to talk about. Zach isn’t the conversationalist I’ve always imagined him to be. I could bring up something funny that happened in school. Or I—

“Emily,” he whispers in my ear. “I have something important to ask you.”

We’re talking!
Yes, Zach. Yes, yes, yes. Of course I’ll go
to the junior prom with you. In fact, I’ve already bought a
great dress. . . .

He takes my hand. “Emily, when do you think you’ll be ready to have sex?”

I come back to earth fast. This is the first time he’s asked—directly. For the past thirteen days, he’s limited the topic to trying to find out for himself. Tonight, for example, was a repeat of our first date, when he tried to un-snap my jeans under the table in Burger Busters, my favorite diner. A French fry in one hand, my silver snap in the other. I bit the fry out of his hand to distract him, and it worked. For a minute. Same thing afterward in the dark movie theater. Every day he’s tried to take off my pants/skirt/shorts. Every day I’ve distracted him.

“I don’t know,” I say, feeling like such a baby.
Please
stop pressuring me. I just want to talk to you. Look at you.
Kiss you. Be with you.

“A week? A month?” he asks, leaning over to kiss my neck. One hand is on my rib cage, just under the band of my bra.

If I’m so in love, why do I start sweating and feeling slightly sick when his hand travels?

Because you’re not ready,
Belle and Jen tell me all the time.

So when
will
I be ready? And if I’m not ready for Zach Archer, love of my life, who could I possibly ever be ready for?

“You know who is ready?” Zach asks, those gorgeous blue eyes on mine. “Chloe Craven.”

Did he just slap me across the face? Chloe Craven is very pretty, takes all AP classes, and has had a rep since eighth grade. This is not the point, though. The point is that Zach Archer isn’t supposed to be a jerk. He’s supposed to be my boyfriend.

I pull my hand away. “Are you saying if I don’t have sex with you, she will?”

“Maybe.” He lifts my chin with his finger. Suddenly his expression is all puppy dog.

I want to tell him to give me five minutes to go online and see what Been There/Done That would advise. But I already know. I’m supposed to tell him he’s a jerk who doesn’t deserve me.

“I—I’m . . . just not ready. I really like you, Zach. I
want
to be ready. But I’m just not. Yet,” I add, wishing this wasn’t so hard. “I mean, we’ve only been hanging out for two weeks, right?” I force a smile. “Hey, let’s go downstairs and see what’s on TV. Want some ice cream? We have everything for make-your-own sundaes—”

He stands up and runs a hand through his silky brown hair. “Look, Emily, the only reason I asked you out in the first place is because I figured if you liked me as much as I heard you did, you’d have sex with me.”

I stare at him, unable to speak, unable to think. With that one sentence, Zach Archer is no longer my boyfriend. Was never really my boyfriend. All I’ve been to Zach is an
opportunity.

“That doesn’t make me a jerk, by the way,” he adds offhandedly. “It makes me honest.”

“Trust me,” I say, closing my eyes for a second. “It makes you a jerk.”

“You’re a nice girl,” he says, giving my hair a playful tug. “Maybe too nice. Friends?” He extends his hand, which I don’t shake. He shrugs. “See you around school.”

I wait until I hear him racing down the steps— probably straight to Chloe Craven’s house—before I burst into tears.

I pick up the phone to call Belle, but I start crying, so I IM her and Jen instead.

EmilyIsFine: He dumped me. 2 sad 2 type details. EmilyIsDefinitelyNotFine.

JenGirl: OMG!!! RUOK? Be there in 15 minutes with ice cream.

BelleSays: Me 2.

Belle and Jen are in my room in less than fifteen minutes.

“He
is
a jerk, right?” I say, hoping for just a moment that I might be wrong so that I can hit rewind and go back to twenty minutes ago, when Zach was here, when he was my boyfriend.

Belle glances up from last year’s yearbook, pushing her long auburn curls out of her face. She’s drawing horns on Zach’s picture. “No, he’s not a jerk. He’s a shithead.”

“I’m really sorry, Em,” Jen says. “I know how much you liked him.”

I don’t want to cry again, so I head downstairs to get three Diet Cokes. I pull open the fridge and fight back tears.

“Out of Fluff?” Stew, my stepfather, asks with an awkward smile as he comes into the kitchen. He often has on Awkward Face. It means he knows something’s wrong but doesn’t want to deal with it. (“Or he doesn’t know
how
to deal with it,” my mother likes to correct.) Stew and I never have all that much to say to each other, but he knows I have a thing for peanut butter and Fluff sandwiches.

I quickly collect myself. “Ha ha,” I say. “I just thought of something sad, that’s all.”