fact that she had recently chopped off her long blonde hair into a short bob and died it jet black, “just because.”
Olivia flinched as Maya shoved three fries at once into her mouth. Up until last summer Olivia had considered fries a major food group herself, and had had the butt to prove it. Four weeks at fat camp and one eating disorder later, she existed on steamed veggies with a dollop of sriracha sauce for almost every meal, and the butt was a thing of the past. As was her previously frizzy brown hair—now it was blonde and keratin straight.
“Has Billy Barrett tweeted about it?” she asked.
The vein on the side of my forehead that had been pulsing on and off ever since picking Mom up at the police station started up again with a vengeance. “Why would he do that?” I had made the mistake of telling them about meeting him in Whole Foods, and now they wouldn’t drop it.
She shrugged as she dipped a piece of broccoli in the sriracha and began to nibble at it. “Because they’re now friends because of Whole Foods.”
“Yeah. The Whole Foods thing,” Sarah agreed as a glop of her tuna fish sandwich ended up on her shirt on its way to her mouth. With her frizzy red hair and freckles, she looked like the L.A. version of Pippi Longstocking. “Celebrities always tweet about other celebrities when they die and stuff like that. Not that, you know, your mom is dead ,” she began to backpedal. “What I mean is that they tweet when some crazy drama that’s all over TMZ happens.”
“Nice, Sarah,” Maya hissed as she grabbed one of her sweet-potato chips.
“What?” Sarah hissed back, moving her chips closer to her.
“Way to take her mind off it.”
“No, he hasn’t tweeted about it,” I replied. “Because they’re not friends. They talked for two seconds.”
“And he gave her his number and e-mail,” Olivia added.
“And he gave her his number and e-mail,” I agreed. “Which she won’t be using because in light of everything that’s going on, hooking up with some actor—who, by the way, has a girlfriend—is the last thing on her mind.” At least I prayed it was. Not to mention I had managed to snag the receipt from her bag after we had gotten home from the market that day and tuck it away in my sock drawer.
As I managed to change the subject to the guy from Harvard-Westlake whom Olivia had met at the Crossroads party over the weekend, I flashed on a photo that I kept on one of my nightstands of the four of us. It had been taken two years ago, at the Oscar party Mom threw every year at the house. Her parties were almost as famous as the post-Oscar Vanity Fair party. In the photo, we’re all crowded together, me in the middle, holding us all together, which was essentially how it had been since the four of us became friends back in seventh grade. When there were fights, I was the one who played Oprah and got everyone to make up. I was the one who decided what we’d do for our birthdays. I was the one who made a yearly scrapbook and gave them out to everyone on the last day of school.
Because it was just Mom and me—no siblings or even cousins—these guys weren’t just my friends. They were my sisters.
Having a famous mom definitely raises your stock in terms of popularity, and sure, I had been invited to hang out with the super-popular girls—shopping, sleepovers . . . you name it. One spring break, Yancy Shapiro had even invited me to go to Hawaii with her and her family. But I just wasn’t popular-girl material. I wanted to hang out with Maya and Olivia and Sarah. Like me, they were a little off. Maya had the whole IDI (inappropriate disclosure of information) thing going on. Olivia liked to eat her feelings, after dipping them in hot sauce. And Sarah was a hypochondriac who had a symptom-navigator app so she could try to diagnose all the diseases she was sure she had. While we weren’t un popular, no one would be mistaking us as characters on Girls anytime soon.
“So are
Olivia flinched as Maya shoved three fries at once into her mouth. Up until last summer Olivia had considered fries a major food group herself, and had had the butt to prove it. Four weeks at fat camp and one eating disorder later, she existed on steamed veggies with a dollop of sriracha sauce for almost every meal, and the butt was a thing of the past. As was her previously frizzy brown hair—now it was blonde and keratin straight.
“Has Billy Barrett tweeted about it?” she asked.
The vein on the side of my forehead that had been pulsing on and off ever since picking Mom up at the police station started up again with a vengeance. “Why would he do that?” I had made the mistake of telling them about meeting him in Whole Foods, and now they wouldn’t drop it.
She shrugged as she dipped a piece of broccoli in the sriracha and began to nibble at it. “Because they’re now friends because of Whole Foods.”
“Yeah. The Whole Foods thing,” Sarah agreed as a glop of her tuna fish sandwich ended up on her shirt on its way to her mouth. With her frizzy red hair and freckles, she looked like the L.A. version of Pippi Longstocking. “Celebrities always tweet about other celebrities when they die and stuff like that. Not that, you know, your mom is dead ,” she began to backpedal. “What I mean is that they tweet when some crazy drama that’s all over TMZ happens.”
“Nice, Sarah,” Maya hissed as she grabbed one of her sweet-potato chips.
“What?” Sarah hissed back, moving her chips closer to her.
“Way to take her mind off it.”
“No, he hasn’t tweeted about it,” I replied. “Because they’re not friends. They talked for two seconds.”
“And he gave her his number and e-mail,” Olivia added.
“And he gave her his number and e-mail,” I agreed. “Which she won’t be using because in light of everything that’s going on, hooking up with some actor—who, by the way, has a girlfriend—is the last thing on her mind.” At least I prayed it was. Not to mention I had managed to snag the receipt from her bag after we had gotten home from the market that day and tuck it away in my sock drawer.
As I managed to change the subject to the guy from Harvard-Westlake whom Olivia had met at the Crossroads party over the weekend, I flashed on a photo that I kept on one of my nightstands of the four of us. It had been taken two years ago, at the Oscar party Mom threw every year at the house. Her parties were almost as famous as the post-Oscar Vanity Fair party. In the photo, we’re all crowded together, me in the middle, holding us all together, which was essentially how it had been since the four of us became friends back in seventh grade. When there were fights, I was the one who played Oprah and got everyone to make up. I was the one who decided what we’d do for our birthdays. I was the one who made a yearly scrapbook and gave them out to everyone on the last day of school.
Because it was just Mom and me—no siblings or even cousins—these guys weren’t just my friends. They were my sisters.
Having a famous mom definitely raises your stock in terms of popularity, and sure, I had been invited to hang out with the super-popular girls—shopping, sleepovers . . . you name it. One spring break, Yancy Shapiro had even invited me to go to Hawaii with her and her family. But I just wasn’t popular-girl material. I wanted to hang out with Maya and Olivia and Sarah. Like me, they were a little off. Maya had the whole IDI (inappropriate disclosure of information) thing going on. Olivia liked to eat her feelings, after dipping them in hot sauce. And Sarah was a hypochondriac who had a symptom-navigator app so she could try to diagnose all the diseases she was sure she had. While we weren’t un popular, no one would be mistaking us as characters on Girls anytime soon.
“So are
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