fragrance in the country among teen girls), my mom can also afford her private six-week recuperation at the Miraval spa in Arizona.
She glances up at my racks and shelves of clothes and shoes. “You’re kidding, right? You have hundreds of T-shirts. At least thirty pairs of jeans. That’s what regular teenagers wear.”
I roll my eyes. “I don’t think Oak City juniors are wearing custom Sevens or Iisli T-shirts. I have to go to the Gap.”
She reaches for my shelf of white tees (I have twenty. Thirty?) and grabs one with her sweaty paws. “This is a piece of cotton. It’s worth all of fifty cents. Trust me, no one will know the difference between this and a T-shirt from Old Navy.”
My mother is clueless about clothes. Let’s just leave it at that.
For an entire month I have to wear dorky clothes and take math tests and pretend that the Oak City junior prom is the event of my life? Please. Last night I went to three of the hottest clubs in L.A. with my friend Kayla (NBC soap star) and danced my ass off and I was still bored out of my mind. Because I miss Bo and Brandon. Until I met them, I wasn’t used to having a boyfriend. Now that I have two of them, it drives me crazy not to see them or talk to them or roll around on the bed with them. But I’m lucky if I even get a phone call in. They’re in a different city every night, and with the time change, it’s almost impossible to actually talk live.
Ashley filled my mom in on the whole sorry story. I both like and hate that Ashley tells my mother everything. First of all, I’m emancipated, which means I don’t answer to my mother. I answer to myself. I control every aspect of my life, from my money to my career. (With a lot of help from my lawyers and Ashley.)
In other words, no one can tell me what to do. Except maybe Ashley. But if Ashley didn’t tell my mother my business, my mother would never know because I refuse to tell her anything.
My mother is impossible to talk to. Always has been. Even before my dad died. If I came home from school and said, “I hate school,” she wouldn’t ask, “Why, Dora?” There would be no heart-to-heart talk, no mother-daughter bonding over a cup of hot cocoa, leading to a moral and a hug like on one of those sappy Lifetime movies. Instead, she would say, “All you do is complain.” Or another classic: “If you studied harder, you’d get better grades. Maybe you’d actually like school.” For a little while after my dad died, she did turn into a TV mom. But I was such a bitch to her that she reverted to her old self. We barely get along, but we’re all we have, which is why we live one minute away from each other. At least I don’t have embarrassing relatives selling stories about me to the tabloids.
Anyway, one of the reasons why I’m almost glad to be living on the other side of the country for a month is to get away from here. My mom wants her boy toy to move in, but I told her if he moves in, she moves out. I own the houses. It’s not that I don’t want my mom to have a life. But while she’s living under my roof, she’ll have to live by my rules. I actually said that to her last month and she slapped me across the face.
“This reality TV show is the best thing that could happen to you,” my mother says now, holding up one of my Marc Jacobs dresses against her sweaty sports bra and yoga pants. “You’re beyond out of control, Dora. The stupidest thing I ever did was let you live on your own.”
“So now you believe everything you read in the tabloids? Thanks, Mom.”
“So you’re not sleeping with two brothers?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. “I suppose the photo of you skinny-dipping in the ocean with the Bellini brothers was doctored?”
“Were we having sex in the photo?” We were—for exactly two seconds—but no one could possibly know that.
She rolls her eyes. “Dora, you’re sixteen. You’re a baby. And when you get back to Oak City and see how sixteen-year-olds really
She glances up at my racks and shelves of clothes and shoes. “You’re kidding, right? You have hundreds of T-shirts. At least thirty pairs of jeans. That’s what regular teenagers wear.”
I roll my eyes. “I don’t think Oak City juniors are wearing custom Sevens or Iisli T-shirts. I have to go to the Gap.”
She reaches for my shelf of white tees (I have twenty. Thirty?) and grabs one with her sweaty paws. “This is a piece of cotton. It’s worth all of fifty cents. Trust me, no one will know the difference between this and a T-shirt from Old Navy.”
My mother is clueless about clothes. Let’s just leave it at that.
For an entire month I have to wear dorky clothes and take math tests and pretend that the Oak City junior prom is the event of my life? Please. Last night I went to three of the hottest clubs in L.A. with my friend Kayla (NBC soap star) and danced my ass off and I was still bored out of my mind. Because I miss Bo and Brandon. Until I met them, I wasn’t used to having a boyfriend. Now that I have two of them, it drives me crazy not to see them or talk to them or roll around on the bed with them. But I’m lucky if I even get a phone call in. They’re in a different city every night, and with the time change, it’s almost impossible to actually talk live.
Ashley filled my mom in on the whole sorry story. I both like and hate that Ashley tells my mother everything. First of all, I’m emancipated, which means I don’t answer to my mother. I answer to myself. I control every aspect of my life, from my money to my career. (With a lot of help from my lawyers and Ashley.)
In other words, no one can tell me what to do. Except maybe Ashley. But if Ashley didn’t tell my mother my business, my mother would never know because I refuse to tell her anything.
My mother is impossible to talk to. Always has been. Even before my dad died. If I came home from school and said, “I hate school,” she wouldn’t ask, “Why, Dora?” There would be no heart-to-heart talk, no mother-daughter bonding over a cup of hot cocoa, leading to a moral and a hug like on one of those sappy Lifetime movies. Instead, she would say, “All you do is complain.” Or another classic: “If you studied harder, you’d get better grades. Maybe you’d actually like school.” For a little while after my dad died, she did turn into a TV mom. But I was such a bitch to her that she reverted to her old self. We barely get along, but we’re all we have, which is why we live one minute away from each other. At least I don’t have embarrassing relatives selling stories about me to the tabloids.
Anyway, one of the reasons why I’m almost glad to be living on the other side of the country for a month is to get away from here. My mom wants her boy toy to move in, but I told her if he moves in, she moves out. I own the houses. It’s not that I don’t want my mom to have a life. But while she’s living under my roof, she’ll have to live by my rules. I actually said that to her last month and she slapped me across the face.
“This reality TV show is the best thing that could happen to you,” my mother says now, holding up one of my Marc Jacobs dresses against her sweaty sports bra and yoga pants. “You’re beyond out of control, Dora. The stupidest thing I ever did was let you live on your own.”
“So now you believe everything you read in the tabloids? Thanks, Mom.”
“So you’re not sleeping with two brothers?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. “I suppose the photo of you skinny-dipping in the ocean with the Bellini brothers was doctored?”
“Were we having sex in the photo?” We were—for exactly two seconds—but no one could possibly know that.
She rolls her eyes. “Dora, you’re sixteen. You’re a baby. And when you get back to Oak City and see how sixteen-year-olds really
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