“Hi, Sid,” she said, sitting on the edge of the bed and unbuckling her sandals.
Sid raised his head and blinked sleepily. A lone tooth stuck out of his mouth and almost up his nose, giving him a surly, defiant air. She’d given him his name because of it. Lizzie liked to imagine that he was the preeminent punk rock star of the cat world.
Sid went back to sleep, and she took out her iPhone. All the way home in the town car, she had been too panicked to text her friends. Now she thought she might call one of them.
“Fuzz?” she heard her dad yell. “Food’s getting cold!”
She put down the phone. She’d wait until after dinner. She changed into a T-shirt, shorts, and Havaianas, and when she walked out to the kitchen her dad was doing a last polish on his column with a red pencil. Takeout containers of steaming Thai food were spread out on the table in front of him.
“Got pad thai and duck skewers,” he said, looking up. “And spring rolls. Nice and healthy,” he said, chuckling.
From the time she was born, it had been obvious to everyone who Lizzie actually did look like: her father. She and Bernard Summers had the same buggy eyes and the same confused nose, and even though his hair wasn’t red, it was the same frizzy, gravity-defying texture. They both had thick eyebrows (though his were furrier), full lips, and broad knuckles that they cracked when they were nervous. When he married Katia, the press had dubbed them “Beauty and the Beast.” But despite his odd looks, Bernard Summers had enjoyed a very successful life. He was a brilliant journalist, and had twice been a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize. Plus, he’d married the most beautiful woman in the world (who happened to appreciate good writing). Lizzie liked to think that she’d inherited some of her dad’s writing talent along with his looks. But she didn’t expect to marry someone gorgeous. Weird-looking girls usually didn’t score the Brad Pitt look-alikes of the world.
“So, how was the show?” her father asked as she sat down.
“Great,” she said, trying to sound upbeat. “Mom did an amazing job.”
“I would have been there, but this column’s not even close,” he said, shaking his head. “And we have to leave for Paris in the morning. Those L’Ete people wouldn’t budge. There’s so much red tape at that company it’s like talking to the Pentagon.”
L’Ete, a French cosmetics company, was one of Katia’s biggest and best modeling contracts. Three times a year her mother flew to Paris to stand in an evening dress and heels in front of obvious landmarks like the Arc de Triomphe and the Eiffel Tower. As if wearing a certain kind of blush would transport you to Paris.
“Would you rather I stayed home with you?” he asked. “Instead of Irlene? I don’t have to go.”
“I’ll be fine, Dad. Go. It’ll be okay.” Lizzie chewed her duck. If Katia had heard what she’d said to the reporter, maybe a nice long trip was exactly what they needed.
Suddenly Lizzie heard the front door burst open. “I’m home!” her mother called from the hall, and Lizzie felt her stomach tighten again. You’re going to have to tell her, she thought. Tonight—before they leave.
“We’re in here!” Bernard called out as Katia burst through the swinging door.
“Guess what?” she asked, her aquamarine eyes shining like an excited child’s. In her dress and heels, she looked way too stunning to be standing in their kitchen. “Saks, Nordstrom, and Neiman Marcus all placed orders. Isn’t that incredible?” She stomped her feet on the ground. “And Bergdorf’s, too. I can’t believe it! I can’t believe it!”
Katia never got this excited about a modeling assignment. It was almost sweet.
“Fantastic!” Bernard crowed. He stood up and gave his wife a vaguely paternal hug and kiss. The fifteen-year age difference between them came out whenever Bernard was proud of her. “I knew you could do it. Lizzie said it was a great show.”
Katia kicked off her heels and sat down at the table. “The Paris stores are interested, too,” she said. “I’ll be meeting with them after the shoot with L’Ete. Of course, that means we might end up staying a bit longer than a week.” She said this last part to Lizzie as she spooned a small heap of pad thai on her plate. Instead of following a certain diet, her mother simply ate three-quarters less than everyone else.
“That’s okay,” Lizzie said, straining to be nice. Seeing her mom was starting to make her angry again. “It really was a great show. Congratulations.”
Katia ate a small nibble of food. “Martin Meloy was there,” she said to Bernard. “He said some kind things.”
Lizzie mowed her fork over her rice. “Mom?” she began, still looking at her plate. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
She felt Katia’s eyes on her, waiting.
“When we sat down, and the paparazzi came up to us, this guy, a reporter, kind of ambushed me, and he started asking me questions, and I think I said some stuff that came out wrong.”
Katia didn’t say anything. Still looking down, she waited.
“It wasn’t anything too bad, but I still thought I should—”
“I heard what you said, Lizzie,” her mother said. “I heard the whole thing.”
Lizzie looked up. Her mother was staring at her plate, dragging a piece of tofu around with her fork.
Bernard looked up from his reading. “Heard what?” he asked absently.
“Lizzie spoke to a reporter,” her mother said in a low voice. Lizzie felt her heart skip a beat. “About me.”
Her father put down his work. “What?” he asked.
“It just slipped out. I didn’t mean it.”
“What slipped out?” Bernard wanted to know.
Lizzie paused. Please Mom, she thought. Don’t tell him.
“She said she was sick of me,” Katia murmured. “And some other things.” In an even lower voice she added, “On videotape.”
“What?” Bernard sputtered. “This was filmed?”
Katia held up a cautionary hand. “I already spoke to Natasha. It was a couple of guys from an English news channel, nothing big. She’s taking care of it.” Katia turned her stony glare back at Lizzie. Her eyes had turned into a deep, furious purple. “I’m just sorry that’s how you feel, Lizzie. I would never have asked you to come if I’d known. And from now on, you don’t have to come.”
“Mom, I didn’t do it on purpose,” she argued, starting to get panicked. “And I did ask you before we got there—”
“You’re fourteen years old,” her father broke in, his voice perilously close to a shout.
“Dad—”
“You should know better than that,” he yelled, cutting her off. “She’s your mother!”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Lizzie shot back. “Don’t you think I deal with that every single day?”
Katia and Bernard looked at her, startled.
“Do you think that’s fun for me?” she went on. “Getting my picture taken with you? Being compared to you?”
Katia stared at her, aghast. Lizzie was startled, too, but she couldn’t take the two of them judging her. Not when they so clearly didn’t care about her feelings.
“I asked you tonight in the car if I could just meet you inside!” she yelled. “Remember? And you totally blew me off!”
“Lizzie, don’t be so dramatic—” Katia said.
“Look at me! Do you think it’s easy going to things like that with you? Why don’t you get it? Or do you just want to show everyone how great you look for having a fourteen-year-old daughter?”
Katia’s face went pale. Bernard rose to his feet. “Go to your room,” he ordered. “Now!”
“Is that what it is, Mom? Am I just there to make you look good?” The words were bubbling up from within her, from places she didn’t even know existed.
“Well, I’m sorry, Lizzie,” Katia said coolly. “I’m sorry that I’ve given you a good school and a beautiful apartment. I’m sorry I’m such a terrible mother.”
“That’s not what I’m saying. I’m just telling you it’s har
d! It’s hard being around you!”
Katia took a deep breath. “Maybe if you were just more comfortable with yourself,” she said. “If you didn’t compare yourself… if you just accepted the fact—” Katia stopped herself, as if she realized what she was about to say.
“That I’m ugly?” Lizzie asked, her voice trembling.
“Oh, Lizzie,” Katia sighed, looking down at her lap. She was either unwilling or unable to look Lizzie in the eye. And that was as good an answer as any.
Lizzie’s face was so hot it felt like her skin might sizzle off the bones.
She stood up, letting the legs of her chair screech painfully against the tile.
“Lizzie,” her dad said in a warning voice.
She ignored him.
She ran straight out of the room, into the hall. In one swift motion she pulled open the front door and slammed it behind her so hard the walls shook.
She bypassed the elevator and dashed into the stairwell. Flight after flight, she ran down the stairs, the sound of her steps echoing against the walls. At last, when she felt like she might throw up, she stopped and leaned against the cool wall. The first sob came, and then she couldn’t stop. She sat down on a step and threw her arms around her bare, stubbly knees, and feeling as sad and alone as if she’d never had parents at all, she cried.
chapter 6
After she collected herself, she took the elevator to the lobby and went to the Barnes & Noble on the corner. She read The Great Gatsby, sitting cross-legged on the floor of the fiction section, until she finished it. At ten o’clock she tiptoed back into the apartment, on alert for a run-in, but her parents’ bedroom door was closed. When she awoke the next morning they were gone.
Now as she climbed the limestone steps of her school’s main staircase, she felt unsettled and uneasy, as if she’d had a bad dream. She’d never screamed like that at her parents before—she’d never even come close. But even worse was what her mother had said. Every time she remembered Katia’s words—and the subtext underneath them—she felt a sharp pain in her chest. So her mother hadn’t been oblivious after all.
It was all so painful and embarrassing that she wasn’t even sure what to say about this to Carina and Hudson. At least being here at school, she could try to push last night out of her mind.
When she walked into homeroom, Hudson and Carina were sitting in their usual spot, in the desks by the blackboard, but both of them looked upset. Carina had her tin of Carmex out, and was rubbing it onto her lips, which was always a sign that she was stressed about something.
“You guys okay?” she asked, looking around quickly for Todd.
Carina’s suntanned face looked a little pale. “Something just happened,” she muttered. Lizzie could see that she was holding her iPhone.
“What?”
“Not here,” Hudson said, shaking her head. They pointed to the door, and Lizzie, puzzled, followed them back out into the crowded hallway, and then into the ladies’ room.
“What happened, you guys?” she asked, more seriously.
Carina and Hudson squeezed themselves into a single stall like they did whenever there was a crisis, pulled her inside, and shut the door. This was definitely not good.
“Will you guys just tell me?” she asked.
Carina handed her the iPhone. “Look at this,” she said.
Lizzie looked down at the screen. It was a video clip on YouTube. On it she could see her mother, sitting in a folding chair, in her purple halter dress, fielding questions from the press. It was the fashion show.
And then she saw herself. Sitting next to her mother. Wearing the strapless Trina Turk dress. And talking into a microphone. Lizzie turned up the volume, just as she heard herself say the words she couldn’t get out of her head: Actually, it kind of sucks… And I think her clothes are a little slutty.
She watched it three times until Hudson gently pulled the iPhone out of Lizzie’s hands. “You okay?” Hudson asked, slipping the iPhone back into her cotton tote, silkscreened with a picture of her French bulldog.
There had been 12,378 hits already. In two hours it would be double that. Every fashion and celebrity gossip blog would have a link to it by the afternoon. And underneath the clip a post had said:
She’s just jealous cuz her mom is hot. And she got hit with the ugly stick.
“Lizzie, talk,” Carina said, her brown eyes filled with worry.
“Does your mom know?” Hudson asked calmly. She smelled like Kate Spade’s orange blossom–scented perfume.
Lizzie nodded. “I told her last night. And then we had a huge fight. Now she’s on a plane to Paris. But the publicist was supposed to take care of it.”
“Well, obviously that publicist’s doing a crappy job,” Carina said. “I say you call her up and complain.”
“Or go down there and talk to her about it,” Hudson suggested, her green eyes sparkling. “Ask her if there’s anything you can do. She won’t be mad.”
“Uh, right,” Lizzie said, staring at some graffiti of a broken heart that some nameless girl had scratched into the wall. “You guys haven’t met Natasha. She’s paid to get mad.” She touched the wall of the stall to keep herself steady. “Oh my God, you guys. I called my mom a slut.”
“You called her clothes a slut,” Carina corrected her.
“Why’d you do it?” Hudson asked patiently.
Lizzie shrugged, feeling tears come to her eyes. “I asked her before we got there if I could skip the photo craziness and it was like she didn’t even hear me. And lately, the cameras and the pictures, the posing with her… it’s just kind of hellish.”
From deep inside her bookbag, her iPhone dinged with a text. Her first thought was that it was her mother. She pulled out the phone and checked the screen. “It’s Natasha,” she announced to her friends.
She clicked on the message and read it aloud. “We need to talk. Call me at the office. ASAP. N.” Lizzie put down the phone. “Great. She wants to kill me.”
“She probably just wants to help you,” Hudson said, twisting her black hair up into a makeshift bun and securing it with a pencil. “This is not the end of the world, okay?”
Lizzie nodded. Her friends were right: this wasn’t the end of the world. Even if twelve thousand people had already watched this.
She wrote Natasha a quick reply, saying that she would be able to stop by after school, and then walked back into homeroom, where Todd waited for her near their usual cluster of desks, looking adorable as usual. “Hey,” he said, grinning. “Everything okay?”
“Sure, everything’s fine,” she said, even though she wanted to cry.
The rest of the day was torture. During each class, she pretended to listen and take notes, while in her mind a deep male voice announced YOU ARE A TERRIBLE DAUGHTER, over and over and over.
When the bell rang after their last class, Lizzie, Hudson, and Carina walked straight to the corner of Fifth Avenue, hailed a cab, and jumped in.
When they got to Natasha’s office building in midtown, Lizzie paid the driver and stepped out of the cab.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Hudson asked, looking up at the tall, foreboding skyscraper. It was one of hundreds that lined the cool canyon of Third Avenue but this one looked especially scary.
“I think so,” Lizzie said. She looked enviously at the people walking past, their faces free and innocent of wrongdoing. Chances were that none of them had ever insulted their mothers on YouTube. “Okay, let’s go, you guys,” she said.
She swung her bookbag to the other shoulder and led the way through the revolving doors, into a soaring atrium-style lobby.
After a swift, silent elevator ride, they walked out into a sterile-looking reception area done in a depressing burgundy color scheme. She’d been here only once before, with her mom.
“You want us to go with you?” Hudson asked, biting her pouty lower lip with concern.
“No, that’s okay. You guys wait out here.” Lizzie gestured toward the two
couches.
“Just don’t forget, she works for you,” Carina said, bossily pointing an index finger in her face.
“Right.”
Lizzie headed toward the frizzy-haired receptionist. The phones were ringing off the hook.
“You can go right in,” the girl said, pointing down the hall. “Last office on the left. Natasha’s expecting you.” Apparently, she’d seen the YouTube clip, too.
Lizzie turned and padded down the soft-carpeted hallway, her bookbag sliding onto her arm. Relax, she told herself, tying her hair into the best version of a ponytail she could. One ten-second clip wasn’t the end of the world. It wasn’t like she’d done anything illegal. Natasha was used to DUI arrests and panty-less crotch shots. Surely she’d be able to put this in some kind of perspective for her. Even if she was a tad uptight, from what Lizzie remembered.
Toward the end of the hall, she heard a familiar, withering English accent.
“She’s a teenager!” the voice said. “You know how bloody disagreeable they are, they say whatever comes out of their mouths. It’s not like it means anything!”
It was coming from the last door on the left. Maybe Natasha won’t be able to put this in perspective, Lizzie thought.
“No, Katia doesn’t have a comment, and there are no problems at home,” the voice went on. “And my God, there is real news out there. Haven’t you ever heard of Darfur?”
It was too late to turn back. With a gulp, Lizzie stepped through the doorway.
Natasha sat behind a desk piled so high with trades and magazines and newspapers that at first Lizzie could barely see her. She was tinier than Carina, and always looked like she was playing dress-up in her uniform of sharp, pinstriped suit and lace-trimmed camisole. She wore her usual accessories—a thick silver cuff bracelet and a silver Cartier tank watch, and a razored fringe of black bangs ended just above her tiny, raccoon-lined eyes.