otherworldly, the installation was supposed to illustrate the dangerous intoxication of curiosity and wonder. I love how LeFeber can make simple shapes and materials seem dreamlike and surreal. I may be a painter instead of an installation artist, but I’d die to talk to someone like LeFeber.
My parents are well connected, but they’re not that interested in art. They’ve taken me—or have let me take myself—to a lot of museums, but never to gallery openings or lectures where the artist is actually present. There are so many questions I would ask him. How do you come up with your ideas? Did anyone believe in your work when you were young? When did you really know you were an artist?
I’m determined to get an invitation to the party.
A girl can hope.
I glance behind me. Sam has finally managed to finish tying his tie on his own. I’m glad I ran into him before photos. Being around him usually makes me less nervous.
Now that I know Sam looks put together, I have to drum up the courage to see what I can find out about that boat party.
“I’ll be right back. There’s someone I gotta talk to,” I say, leaving him so I can catch up to Jackson.
It’s not like people don’t know me. Dad’s position as the Speaker of the House is high profile, but his job also means that I’ve spent a lot of time on both coasts and helping out my parents with their projects—mostly Mom’s literacy campaign and whatever hot topic Dad happens to be dealing with at the moment—which means less time for making friends in LA.
After the Ollie incident, I’ve mostly been a loner the past couple of years. It’s not like I don’t have any friends, but I don’t put myself out there that much.
“Hey...Jackson,” I stutter.
My stomach instantly hurts.
“Olivia.” He smiles. Jackson’s all teeth and eyebrows. He talks to people like a salesman. Like they’ll all be potential clients someday. I’m not interested in him, but he’s the one hosting the party so I pretend to flirt. I have to be there.
“Is...that a new suit?” I ask. “You look great.”
God. I’m an idiot. What a suck-up.
“You do too,” he says. “That color is hot on you.”
Did he really just say that? I try to stifle a laugh, but this ugly, garbled half chuckle, half groan comes out of my mouth. Who takes sexy yearbook photos?
I can feel Sam following behind, so I grab Jackson by the elbow to get away. I haven’t told Sam about my plan yet. He would think I’m being stupid. Or shallow.
“Going inside?” I ask, propelling him forward. “I hate school photos but really love our photographer, don’t you?”
I don’t even know what I’m saying. I do this thing when I get nervous and start talking about anything to avoid an awkward silence.
“She’s all right,” he says without much enthusiasm. “Made my teeth look big.”
“No!” I say to Jackson. “I mean, not too big. Plus, big teeth are in these days. Don’t you watch Silver Lake?” The entire reality cast has giant teeth, like they’re a bunch of big-toothed piranhas about to attack the cameras and each other in every scene.
“No...” he says. “Should I?”
“They all have them,” I say. “That big teeth thing.”
He stops, runs his tongue across his top teeth. “They do?”
I turn around. The hall is filling up. Here comes Sam. And Zach. And Felicity Pace. She’s basically a teenage socialite, with her bouncy blond hair, which she swings back and forth as she walks down the hallway, linking arms with Cristina Rossi.
A massive crowd of students begins to descend on us like a horde of gorgeous, perfectly groomed, well-dressed zombies. No. No. No. I need to talk to Jackson alone. It’s the only way I’m going to get invited to that party. Maybe I’ll never have a chance with Zach, but I might still have one with LeFeber. I have to talk to him.
I grab his arm again. We head into the photo studio and join the queue.
“So that boat party,” I squeak. “The one in Marina del Rey?”
“What about it?” Jackson asks.
“Dad mentioned...”
I don’t want to tell him I overheard Felicity. Embarrassing.
“Yeah?” he says. “Aren’t he and Sean pals?”
I nod. Ever since Sean Clark campaigned for my dad for the House, they’re tight. Dad totally went Hollywood.
My family is nearly perfect—at least to the public. There’s Mr. and Mrs. Blakely, the charming political power couple, Mason, who turned his life around after rehab and now works in venture capital in Silicon Valley, and Royce, who has already had an article published in the New York Times while in college.
Then there’s Olivia Blakely.
I’m just trying to survive my junior year of high school.
“That’s cool,” he says. He seems like he’s about to say something else, but he looks over my shoulder. I whip around to see Zach and his entourage walking toward us.
Cristina. Felicity, her best friend. Thin. Tan. Fashionable.
“Do you need us to bring anything Friday?” Felicity asks. “My parents bought a case of St. Germain. It’s delicious with champagne.”
“You lovely ladies just bring yourselves,” Jackson says. “Zach and I will take care of the rest. And don’t worry, we’ll make sure the girly drinks are there.”
My feet feel heavy. My purse feels like it’s hiding an entire system of gravity and slings toward the floor. I barely catch it. The girls are laughing at something Zach says.
It’s like they’re all talking in slow motion.
So charming. So at ease with themselves.
I can’t outwardly hate them. They haven’t actually done anything mean to me other than to be.
But they don’t have to weigh every single piece of food they put in their tiny bodies like I do. They don’t have to count ounces and measure milliliters. Their brains don’t constantly tell them that they’re ugly and fat and should give up on their diets because they’re never going to meet their goals anyway. They probably drink to have fun with their friends. Not to numb the hunger long enough to fall asleep.
Jackson turns away from me to talk to Zach.
I don’t even register on his radar.
There goes my stomach again. It feels full. Gorged. I wish I hadn’t eaten at all this morning. I’ll be bloated for the pictures.
Then I really start to feel it. The invisibility. The cloak. Like an atmosphere, it surrounds the real me. The fullness is totally noticeable now. My stomach is bursting. My brain burns with shame. I’m fat. Everybody can see how huge I am right now. From my cheeks to my fingers. My waist. My hips. My thighs.
I just want to be perfect. I want to be worth noticing.
Is that too much to ask?
I ate half a grapefruit for breakfast.
I drank two cups of green tea.
Took two pulls of the vodka hidden in my closet.
Just to take off the edge.
I feel every pound I weigh, and every ounce, like my life, is too much. Even though I already threw up at the end of class, I feel like I have to get it all out again. I excuse myself and run back to the bathroom and start heaving in the empty stall.
Something has to come out.
Something. Anything.