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3
HER
I said yes.
Because (1) It’s a lot of money. And (2) It’s a lot of money.
Guess that makes me a kinda sorta gold digger? I’m not sure if my situation fits the exact definition, but I can’t deny I feel like one as I follow Paisley into the elevator the next morning.
Diamond Talent Management is an entire building. Not just a couple of floors, but an entire glass-covered, needs-an-elevator-and-a-security-team building. The scowly but hot guards with the earpieces give me the willies, but Paisley walks by them with a wave. I copy the motion. I kind of wish I hadn’t had that second cup of coffee this morning. It’s sloshing around in my stomach like a tidal wave.
The elevators are a shiny brass, and there’s a guy in a suit whose only job appears to be spraying them constantly with cleaner and wiping them down. He’s got a jaw that would look good on the side of a mountain and a butt tight enough to rival any football player’s.
Paisley gets off on the sixth floor, which is emblazoned with Music Division in big gold letters on a dark wood backdrop. The receptionist is more beautiful than half the actresses on the tabloid covers. I try not to gawk at her perfectly outlined lips and wicked winged eyeliner.
“You’re staring,” Paisley mumbles under her breath as we pass the reception desk.
“I can’t help it. Does Diamond only hire people who could star in their own movies?”
“Looks aren’t everything,” she says airily, but I don’t believe her because clearly Diamond requires photo applications. Gotta be beautiful to work in show biz, I guess, even if you’re behind the scenes.
We’re ushered into a huge conference room, where I stop in my tracks. It’s full of people. At least ten of them.
I quickly scan the table, but I don’t recognize anyone, and the one person I would recognize—and who this meeting is about—isn’t even there.
A tall man with dark hair and plastic skin stands up from the head of the table. “Good morning, Vaughn. I’m Jim Tolson, Oakley’s manager. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
I awkwardly shake the hand he extends. “Nice to meet you, too, Mr. Tolson.”
“Please, call me Jim. Have a seat. You, too, Paisley.”
As my sister and I settle in the chairs closest to his, he goes around and makes a bunch of introductions I can hardly keep up with.
“This is Claudia Hamilton, Oakley’s publicist, and her team.” He gestures to a redhead with huge boobs, then at the three people—two men and a woman—flanking her. Next, his hand moves toward three stone-faced men on the other side of the table. “Nigel Bahri and his associates. Oakley’s lawyers.”
Lawyers? I cast a panicky look at Paisley, who squeezes my hand under the table.
“And finally, this is my assistant Nina—” he nods at the petite blonde to his right “—and her assistants. Greg—” a nod to the African-American guy to his left “—and Max.” A nod to the slightly overweight guy next to Greg.
Jeez. His assistant has assistants?
Once the introductions are out of the way, Jim wastes no time getting down to business. “So, your sister has already provided you with some details about this arrangement, but before I tell you more, I have some questions for you.”
“Um. Okay. Hit me.” My voice sounds unusually loud in this massive conference room. The echo feels endless.
“Why don’t you start by telling us a little about yourself?” he suggests.
I’m not sure what he wants me to say. Does he expect me to recite my life story? Well, I was born in California. I live in El Segundo. My parents died in a car accident when I was fifteen.
Or maybe he wants trivia-type stuff? My favorite color is green. I’m scared of butterflies. I hate cats.
My confusion must show on my face, because Jim gives me a few prompts. “What are your interests? What do you aspire to do after high school?”
“Oh, I’m done with high school already,” I admit.
“Are you in college?” Claudia, the publicist, twists and frowns at Paisley. “She may need to miss classes. How old are you again?”
“Seventeen.”
“Age of consent in California is eighteen.” This reminder comes from the end of the table, where the lawyers, plural, are sitting.
Claudia waves her hand dismissively. “They’re dating. Nothing more. Besides, Oakley’s audience is mostly young girls. Anyone older and it won’t have the same impact.” She turns to me. “What are you currently doing?”
“I’m working. I took the year off to work to help our family.” I’ve said it so many times, but even the passing mention of Mom and Dad being gone still makes my heart clench.
“Paisley and Vaughn’s parents died a couple of years ago,” Jim explains.
Paisley and I cringe as the entire table gives us pitying looks, except for Claudia, who beams. “Wonderful. An intelligent, plucky orphan,” she says, and her voice is so high and squeaky it hurts my ears. “This backstory gets better and better. She’s just what we’re looking for.”
We? I’m even more confused. I thought this was about me pretending to be Oakley Ford’s girlfriend, so why am I in a conference room filled with strangers? Shouldn’t my soon-to-be fake boyfriend be here, too?
“Do you plan on attending college?” Jim asks.
I nod. “I got into USC and Cal State, but I deferred until next fall.” I wipe my sweaty palms against my jeans as I trot out my practiced speech about wanting to have real life experience before school but how I eventually plan to go into teaching.
From the corner of my eye, I notice Claudia’s “team” taking diligent notes. My confession that I like to draw triggers several interested looks from the PR section.
“Are you good?” Claudia asks bluntly.
I shrug. “I’m okay, I guess. I mostly do pencil sketches. Usually just faces.”
“She’s being modest,” Paisley speaks up, her voice firm. “Vaughn’s drawings are amazing.”
Claudia’s blue eyes shine with excitement as she turns to her team, and then four voices chime out, “Fan art!”
“I’m sorry...what?” I say in bewilderment.
“That’s how we’ll make first contact. We’ve been brainstorming various online meet-cutes, but they all felt so contrived. But this has potential. Picture this—you Tweet a gorgeous sketch you drew of Oakley, and he’s so blown away he Tweets you back!” Oakley’s high-voiced publicist begins to make rapid hand gestures as she gets more and more excited by the picture she’s painting. “And his followers will take notice, because he so rarely replies to Tweets. Oakley tells you how your piece touched him. It brought tears to his eyes. You Tweet back and forth a few times, and then...” She pauses for effect. “He follows you.”
This prompts simultaneous gasps from her three assistants.
“Yes,” one of them says with a vigorous nod of her head.
“But,” another speaks up hesitantly, “we need to address the sister issue.”
“Right,” Claudia agrees. “Hmmm. Yes.”
Paisley and I exchange flabbergasted looks. It’s like these people are speaking a different language.
Jim sees our faces and quickly clarifies. “The fact that Paisley works for this agency will no doubt come out. Once the press digs that up, they’ll start concocting wild theories about how the relationship is a scam arranged by Oakley’s manager—”
I can’t help but snort.
Jim doesn’t seem to be as amused by the truth as I am. “—who just so happens to be related to the head of this agency. So we need to provide a plausible reason why a Diamond employee’s sister is suddenly involved with one of the agency’s clients.”
“We’ll blame it on coincidence,” Claudia says with total confidence. “One of Vaughn’s Tweets to Oakley will be this—” She moves her fingers through the air like she’s conveying a headline “‘Oh-em-gee! I just realized my big sis works at the same agency that reps you! How cool is that!’”
I try not to roll my eyes.
“That could work,” Jim says thoughtfully. “And then we’ll get Paisley—” he glances at my sister “—to give a short interview about her role in the relationship.”
“My role?” Paisley sounds uncertain.
Claudia can obviously read Jim’s mind, because she starts nodding again. I’m surprised her head is still attached to her neck at this rate. “Yes, you’ll give a statement about how you could not believe it when Oakley’s manager called you into his brother’s office and told you that Oakley wanted your sister’s phone number.”
Paisley starts nodding, too, and I almost reach over to smack her. Why is she feeding into these people’s craziness?
“I have a few more questions for Vaughn,” Jim says. “Your sister said you were dating someone?”
I don’t miss the way Paisley’s lips curl slightly at the reminder of W. Ugh. One of these days she’s going to have to suck it up and accept that I’m in love with the guy.
“Yeah, I have a boyfriend,” I reply awkwardly. “And actually, my Twitter and Instagram have lots of pictures of the two of us.”
Jim turns to Claudia, who falls silent. I can see the wheels in her bouncy head turning and turning.
“You’ll announce a breakup on your social media,” she decides. “We’ll spend two—no, three, weeks focusing on the split. First will be your despondent post announcing the end of the relationship, then we’ll document your grieving process, how you’re so upset and—”
“Listening to Oakley Ford’s albums on repeat,” one of the assistants finishes animatedly.
Claudia’s eyes light up. “Yes!” She claps her hands together. “Oakley’s music pulls you from the dark abyss of heartache.”
I almost gag.
“And that’s what inspires you to draw his face, which leads to our social media meet-cute.” She glances at Jim. “It still works.”
He looks pleased. “All right. What about Vaughn’s appearance? How do we feel about that?”
Everyone at the table swings their heads toward me. Their gazes pierce me, assessing me like I’m a specimen under a microscope. My cheeks heat up, and Paisley squeezes my hand again.
All of a sudden, the critiques start pouring in.
“The bangs are too long,” Claudia chirps. “We’ll trim them.”
“Hair itself needs a trim, too. And that shade of brown looks too fake.”
“It’s my real hair color!” I protest, but nobody’s listening to me.
“The honey-brown eyes are nice. I like the gold flecks. We’ll forgo colored contacts.”
“Shirt’s a little too baggy. Are your shirts always this baggy, Vaughn?”
“Isn’t normal what we are going for?” someone disagrees. “If we make her pretty, then the fans won’t be able to relate.”
I have never been more humiliated in my life.
“Oh, one last thing,” Claudia says suddenly. “Are you a virgin?”
Scratch that—it’s possible to be more embarrassed. There are a few coughs from other people at the table. Jim pretends the traffic in the hallway outside the room is fascinating, while the lawyers all stare stone-faced down the length of the table.
“Do I have to answer that?” I cast a dark look at my sister, who shakes her head.
“That can’t be important,” Paisley says to the man who’s more or less her boss.
Jim ignores her. Clearly this question is one he wants the answer to, as well.
I want to hug her for standing up for me. I’m pretty sure my cheeks are officially as red as Claudia’s hair.
“If you’re worried there’s some sort of sex scandal in Vaughn’s past, don’t be,” my sister assures the table. “Vaughn is the definition of good girl.”
I don’t know why, but Paisley’s view of me kind of stings. I mean, I know I’m not Miss Badass, but I’m not a Goody Two-shoes, either.
Claudia shrugs. “We’ll do a thorough background check, nonetheless.”
Background check? My sex status shows up in someone’s report? I’m about to burst in outrage when Jim steps in.
“All right, I think we can all agree that this arrangement shows promise.” He clasps both hands together and glances at the lawyer section of the table. “Nigel, why don’t you and the boys draft a rough contract and jot down any negotiation points you anticipate? Oakley will be here in an hour, so we can get into the finer details then.”
I frown. We’re all just supposed to wait around for an hour until His Majesty gets here? And now that I think about it, do I need a lawyer? I whisper the question to Paisley, who voices the question to her boss.
“The contract will be very straightforward,” Jim assures us. “Basically, it will state that you’ve agreed to enter into a service contract and that should you, at any time, no longer be able to perform your duties, the contract can be terminated. Any goods or monies received up to that time are yours to keep.”
I bite my lip. This is starting to feel exceptionally complicated. But I guess when twenty thousand dollars—a month!—is involved, I should have expected complicated.
“How about this?” Jim suggests. “Why don’t we sit down with Oakley and go over the contract details? Then you can read the agreement Nigel’s firm drafts, and then you can decide where we go from there.”
“Okay,” I answer, because that sounds very reasonable despite the ridiculousness of the situation.
Next to me, Paisley winks and gives me a not-very-subtle thumbs-up of encouragement. I shoot her a wan smile in return.
If I just remember why I’m doing this—so my brothers can go to college, so Paisley can stop worrying about how we’re going to pay the bills... If I can just keep focusing on all that, then maybe I’ll stop feeling like I’m going to throw up.
4
HER
I’m hungry and my stomach’s been announcing that fact for the last thirty minutes. Still, no one suggests we take a break for lunch, even though it’s close to noon and Oakley Ford still hasn’t appeared. It’s been two hours. Jim and the lawyers have left the room, but everyone else is glued to their chairs.
“Here’s a granola bar. And a Coke.” Paisley sets the snacks on the table in front of me.
“No wonder you like working here,” I joke. “The free lunches are so fancy.”
But since I’m starving, I shove half the bar in my mouth—at the exact same moment that Oakley Ford throws open the door.
Two burly guys with arms like tree trunks follow him inside. One plants himself next to the entrance while the other trails behind the singer. I barely notice Jim and the lawyers entering and closing the door, because I’m too busy staring at Oakley.
He’s taller than I thought he’d be. Everyone in Hollywood is short. Zac Efron is barely taller than my five-six. Same with Daniel Radcliffe. At six-four, Ansel Elgort is a veritable giant. Oakley looks to be Elgort-size, but with way more muscles.
He’s even hotter in person. It’s not the sandy-blond hair spiked up in the front and cut short in the back. Or his moss-green eyes. Or his chiseled jaw. He actually has an aura. You hear of things like that, but until you’ve experienced it in person, you don’t believe it exists.
But he has it.
Everyone in the room is responding. People are sitting up and straightening their clothes. I dimly register Paisley smoothing her perfect hair into place.
And I can’t look away.
Oakley’s jeans are low enough that the brand of underwear he’s wearing is visible as he reaches across the sideboard to grab a bottle of water. His arm muscles are defined enough to be noticeable, and I watch in fascination as the right biceps flexes when he twists the bottle cap off. Those muscles remind me of the shirtless spread he did for Vogue a couple of months ago. It was all over the web because the editorial spread had one shot of him in underwear only, and the size of his crotch got everyone speculating whether he stuffed a sock down his shorts.
I forget I’m eating my granola bar. I forget that I’m sitting at a table with a bunch of lawyers. I forget my own name.
“Sorry. Traffic,” he says before settling in the seat at the very end of the table. The bodyguard stands at his shoulder.
I find myself nodding, because LA does have horrible traffic. Of course this beautiful god wouldn’t make us mere mortals wait for him because he was doing something—is his hair wet? Did he just shower? Is it getting hot in the conference room?
This is Oakley Ford and I did listen to his album on repeat when I was fifteen. And fine, I might have harbored a teeny-tiny crush on him, which was why I was so upset when he cheated on his girlfriend. His fake girlfriend.
Which I’m going to be.
Fake.
I don’t like fake, but I’m good at it. Faking things, that is.
Paisley nudges me.
“What?” Then I realize I still have the stupid granola bar hanging out of my mouth.
A quick scan of the room reveals that everyone has noticed this. Claudia wears a worried expression. Jim is resigned. I don’t want to look at Oakley, but I do anyway. His face shows a cross between horror and fascination. The glance he throws his manager definitely says You’ve got to be kidding.
The only thing to do is act like I don’t care. I bite off the bar and start chewing. The health bar, never an appealing item to begin with, tastes like cardboard. Everyone watches me, and I chew even slower. Then I take a big swallow of Coke before wiping my mouth with the napkin that Paisley miraculously produces. I’m certain I’m redder than the receptionist’s lipstick, but I pretend that it’s no big deal. See how good I am at acting like everything is perfect?
“So this is her?” Oakley waves a hand in my general direction. I’ve heard him speak in interviews before, but his voice sounds even better in person. Deep and raspy and hypnotizing.
Jim hesitates and then looks down at his phone. Whatever he sees there stiffens his resolve. He sets the phone down. “Oakley Ford, this is Vaughn Bennett. Vaughn, Oakley.”
I start to rise and hold out my hand, but stop halfway out of my seat when Oakley leans back and clasps his hands behind his head.
Okay then.
Suddenly all my nervousness and embarrassment drain away. Relief settles in their place. I take another sip of my Coke. Surprise, surprise—Mr. Famous is a total jerk.
For a moment there, I felt like I was in danger of being sucked in by his magnetism. That I’d forget W, the money, April Showers, Brazilian supermodels and become caught up in his force field. But a guy who mocks me because I had the nerve to eat a granola bar while we all waited on his late ass? Who doesn’t have the courtesy to shake my hand?
There’s no way I’d ever fall for a guy like that.
I sneak a look at Paisley, who’s smiling slightly. She must have had the same concerns.
“So are we going to talk about terms? Like, what are my work hours?” I ask coolly, cradling the pop can between my hands.
“Work hours?” Claudia echoes, a tiny furrow appearing on her forehead.
“Yeah, since this is my job.”
She titters. “Not a job, more like a...”
“Role?” one of her assistants offers.
“Yes. A role in a long, romantic movie. And you’re the two leads.”
I feel actual bile rise up in my throat.
Oakley grumbles with impatience. “Let’s get on with it.”
Quickly, Claudia outlines our meet-cute with the drawing and the Twitter stuff. When she’s finished, Oakley yawns.
“Sure. Whatever. You’re going to handle it, right?”
“Well, not me, but Amy here will.” Claudia tips her head to the raven-haired woman on her right.
Amy holds up her phone in acknowledgment.
“Great.” He slaps his hands down on the table. “Then we’re done?”
Seriously? I waited over two hours and got only a granola bar and an extra serving of humiliation for this five-minute demonstration of how Oakley Ford isn’t even going to participate in this charade? Instead, I’ll be fake flirting with the assistant of one of his media people.
I turn to Paisley, who gives me a small, rueful shrug.
“No. We’re not done,” Jim barks from the other end of the table. The two of them exchange glares, but whatever power Jim holds over Oakley, it’s enough to get the young star to resettle into his chair.
“Let’s hear the rest of it.” He makes a tired gesture toward Claudia.
She picks up her notepad. “We’ll need the first date. We don’t think you should have any physical contact until after the third—” she looks at her assistants and then at Jim “—fourth date? I mean, we’re trying to sell this as a wholesome romance.”
Everyone starts throwing ideas out about when and how the touching will happen. Someone says he should kiss me on the forehead. Another suggests a hand on the small of my back. There’s another vote for hand-holding.
I’m still struggling with the concept of any touching when Paisley, the traitor, asks, “When did you and W start holding hands?”
Before I can answer, Oakley jumps in, snickering softly. “You dated a guy named W?”
“So what?” Wow. His first words to me are to make fun of my boyfriend’s name? It’s like Oakley’s trying to get me to dislike him.
“Sounds like a pretentious asshat.” He leans back in his leather chair and folds his arms across his chest. The action makes his biceps flex again.
I drag my eyes away. “Okay, Mr. I-Name-All-My-Albums-After-Me Ford.”
Someone at the end of the table gasps at my audacity, but Oakley’s unfazed by my insult. “Even Madonna has a full collection of letters in her name.”
“W is not pretentious.”
“If you say so.” He smirks.
“I do. He’s awesome. And sweet.”
“So why’d you break up with him?”
“I didn’t,” I say indignantly.
His brow creases. “So he broke up with you?” He sounds...confused. Like that doesn’t make sense to him.
“He hasn’t!”
Oakley shifts to Claudia. “So my down-to-earth, wholesome, normal girlfriend is a cheater?” He raises his eyebrows. “That’s gonna go over well.”
“Oh, you mean the fake breakup,” I say. For a minute there, I’d forgotten.
He looks like he wants to roll his eyes, but refrains.
“He’ll break up with her tomorrow. The sooner, the better. We’ll give it approximately two weeks after the breakup, and then she’ll Tweet you the drawing. Then there’ll be a series of dates, but no touching.” Claudia turns to me. “When did you have your first kiss?”
“Ever?” I realize it’s a stupid question, but my mind is stuck on the breaking up with W bit. I haven’t thought this whole thing through. I’ve been so focused on the money and how we’d be able to pay off the mortgage, pay for the twins’ college, allow Paisley to sleep better at night, that I hadn’t given any thought to the actual details of how this whole thing was going to work.
“Yeah, ever,” Oakley says, and this time he does roll his eyes.
These personal questions suck. “When was yours?” I counter, still focused on the W issue. Lately, he’s been pulling away. He says it’s my fault that I don’t act like an adult about our relationship because I’m still refusing to have sex with him.
“With tongue? I think I was eleven. It was with Donna Foster, the daughter of my dad’s side chick.”
My eyes grow wide. He French-kissed at eleven? I still thought boys had cooties at that age. Oakley would probably pee with laughter if he knew I was a virgin.
“You?” he prompts.
“Um...” Jeez, now I’m even more embarrassed, but for another reason. “Sixteen,” I mumble.
“How sweet. Just like the saying.”
I curl my fingers into fists. If Claudia’s team wasn’t sitting between the two of us, I might’ve reached over and smacked his smug smile off his smug face.
Paisley grips my hand, an unspoken gesture for me to get it together.
Even Claudia must sense that my patience is coming to an end. Hurriedly, she says, “Let’s do hand-holding on the third date and then a kiss on the fourth date. We’ll keep the first couple of dates under wraps, but leak the later ones to the paps.”
“Hold up, we’re going to kiss? I have a boyfriend,” I remind the room. “No one said there’d be kissing.”
“We’re gonna have a year-long relationship and we don’t kiss? Why don’t we just announce that it’s fake from the beginning?” Oakley mocks.
“But...but...” Yeah, I definitely didn’t think this through. I quickly turn to Paisley for help.
She grimaces. “They’re right. No one is going to believe that you and Oakley haven’t kissed. Not if you’re serious.” Her tone is apologetic, but her words don’t provide me any relief.
“You don’t expect me to...” I trail off, not able to bring myself to say the words out loud.
“Of course not,” Jim interjects briskly. “We’re not that kind of agency.”
He tries to play it off as a joke, but, um, they kind of are. They’re hiring this guy a girlfriend and they expect us to kiss.
How am I going to explain this to W? Sorry, babe, not willing to have sex with you yet, but I’m going to kiss another guy. In public.
That will go over well.
Claudia leans forward. “This is no different than if you were acting on a television show. Remember, you’re playing a part in a big love story.”
Her assurance doesn’t help, either. I may not know what I want in life. I may just be telling everyone I want to be a teacher because that’s easier than admitting I’m clueless about my future and that I’d rather hide as a waitress for the next five years. But I do know that the entertainment industry doesn’t interest me.
Paisley squeezes my hand again, probably to remind me why I’m doing this. By playing the role of a girlfriend, I get to lift the burden off my big sister’s shoulders and provide for my brothers. It’s not like I’m signing my entire life over. It’s just one year.
“What do I need to do?” I ask, feeling resigned.
“Just a few kisses, some hand-holding. It’s nothing, really.” Claudia waves her hand airily. “And it doesn’t need to be in the contract other than some general terms about physical contact when necessary.”
“Does any of this need to be in the contract?” Oakley sounds annoyed.
“I agree. If this ever got out, it would be terrible for Oak’s image,” Jim points out.
“The terms need to be specific so that the girl can be held to them,” one of the suits replies. Then he and Jim engage in some furious whispering until the lawyer presses his lips together in unhappy surrender. “Fine, it can be general, then. A general contract of employment.”
Once that’s decided, Claudia returns to her list. I wonder how long it is. I glance at the big white clock on the wall. It’s going on three hours and I’m exhausted.
“Let’s talk about her look again.”
“I’m not changing my look,” I mutter. “I like my look.”
I like my comfy skinny jeans, assortment of colorful T-shirts and the Vans that W and I doodled on during morning advisory last spring. The sneakers are filled with details marking our favorite dates. There’s a wizard’s wand along the left sole because we’re both Harry Potter fans. Then there’s the light post to signify the Urban Light display on Wilshire, where W kissed me for the first time. Where there was definitely tongue. His initials are on the back of one shoe and mine are on the other. He has a pair of them, too, but he doesn’t wear his. He says he doesn’t want to ruin them.
“You have a look?” Oakley raises his eyebrows.
“Yeah, and it’s better than yours,” I retort, tired of his attitude. “Would it kill you to wear pants that actually fit around your waist? No one wants to see your underwear.”
“Baby, everyone wants to see my underwear. I get paid a hundred grand per pap pic.”
“Baby?” I scoff.
He leans forward, threading his surprisingly elegant fingers together. “Don’t like that one? Pick another, then. You’re my girlfriend,” he reminds me mockingly.
“So you’re into infants?”
“What?” He rears back. “No. Fine. How about—” he pretends to think and then snaps his fingers “—old lady?”
“Great.” I give him my fakest smile. “I’ll call you...dick cheese.”
“Vaughn, gross,” my sister interjects.
Oakley covers his mouth. I swear I see a smile. I wait for his response and I’m not disappointed. “I have no problem with that, crabby patty.”
“All right, that’s enough of that. None of this needs to be in the contract.” Oakley’s lawyer rattles his papers in agitation.
I turn back to Claudia. I’ve given in on the kissing. On the dates. On this made-for-the-media breakup with my boyfriend, but no way am I going to let them change my look. I’ve got to fight for something. “I thought you wanted a normal girl. I’m a normal girl. This is what some normal girls wear.”
When Claudia and Jim exchange a glance, I know I’ve won this one. They agree to keep my look...for now.
“But when we take pictures, at least let us do your makeup. You’ll want us to,” Claudia promises.
Um. That doesn’t sound ominous or anything.
The negotiation goes on. When will our first official picture be released? Where will the dates take place? Will I go to an awards show with him? How about fashion week in New York? How often should I be seen with him? Every day? Every other day?
Oh, and I would not get Oakley’s phone number. Like I care.
But I still find it weird, because what nineteen-year-old isn’t allowed to give his number to his own girlfriend? And how does he communicate with his friends? Wait—does he even have friends? Or are they all fake like me?
I peer at him from underneath my lashes and feel a pang of sympathy. Oh, brother. Am I actually starting to feel sorry for him? I think I might be.
But then my stomach growls and reminds me that we’re still mad. And unfed.
“You’ll text Amy or me if you want to get ahold of Oakley,” Claudia says.
“I feel like I need my own people. My people can text your people,” I joke.
No one laughs. Instead, Claudia looks like she’s seriously considering it, but then decides against it. “No, I think two nonteens Tweeting each other and commenting on Instagram would appear too contrived. And your voice, we want to preserve that. Whereas Amy has been running Oak’s page for a couple of years now.”
I have a voice?
“Whatever.” I’m exhausted and hungry. One granola bar wasn’t enough, and my stomach rumbles again to alert everyone to that fact.
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