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Excerpt: Someone To Love by Melissa de la Cruz

o n e

“It’s not that I’m rebelling. It’s that I’m just trying to find another way.”

—EDIE SEDGWICK

The stall door won’t shut all the way.

What the hell kind of bathroom doors does our school have?

The kind with crooked doors that don’t always latch. The kind you don’t want to get caught in. Not with your head above the toilet. Not when you’re kneeling on the floor, puking your guts out. Not with a fifth of vodka—which I desperately need right now.

Shouldn’t the stalls all lock? Doesn’t matter anyway. I’m done.

I wipe my mouth and take a stick of gum from my purse and unwrap the shiny paper. It makes me think of Andy Warhol’s famous art factory, all wrapped in silvery aluminum foil and pulsing with artists and conversation. I can see Edie Sedgwick’s haunting face. Her platinum pixie. Smoky circles around her eyes. Dangling earrings. That megawatt smile. She may have been one of Andy Warhol’s superstars— those grimy, glamorous muses—but Edie was his angel too.

An angel wearing a leotard and fur coat, hiding in the backs of limousines and dingy clubs. Skinny as hell.

I’d rather be in New York. Studying art. Living in my own art factory. Get out of this sunshiny, swimming pool state. I crumple the paper into a ball, toss it into the wastebasket near the door and head for the sinks. I turn on the faucet. Pump soap onto my hands. Scrub. Scrub. Stare at the water slip- ping down the drain. Don’t look up.

I hate mirrors. Glass is dangerous. Water is dangerous. Windows are dangerous. Anything that ref lects myself back at me is a threat. A punishment.

Welcome to my Monday morning. It’s Eastlake Prep’s year- book photo day. Yeah. That Eastlake Prep—the one with the five-figure tuition and super-fancy alumni. Famous people have gone here, and famous people send their kids here.

It’s the end of September—we’re already a month into school—but I can’t seem to get into the swing of school. And I also can’t show up at photo day with frizzy hair and a pim- ple on my chin. As much as I hate taking them, I know the power of a class photo. Thirty years from now, when every- one has moved away and no one is following each other on social media anymore, people are going to pull out their year- book and look at you. That’s what you’ll be to them forever.

Do you want to be the girl with the greasy forehead? Or the bad bangs?

No. I didn’t think so.

The spotless surface reflects my double. I smooth my hands over my long dirty-blond hair and examine my skin, slightly jaundiced under the bathroom’s unflattering fluorescent light. The problem with mirrors is that they show me only what’s already there. It’s I who has to see the potential, who has to see how much more there is to lose. How much smaller I can be. How much closer to perfection.

Speaking of perfection: Zach Park.

He’s gorgeous. Thick dark hair tousled like he’s been loung- ing on the beach all day. Wide green eyes with teardrop curves that seriously make me want to stop everything and get lost in them for an eternity. I’ve had a low-key crush on him since the end of freshman year when he transferred here from a Korean private school.

I had only one class with him—the last semester of first- year English—but I doubt he remembers me. I mostly drew pictures of other people in the class on my notes to avoid looking at him too much, even though I was always listening to him. He was so well-spoken and mature. So different from the other teenage boys who seemed to be interested only in playing video games or whatever party they were planning for the weekend.

Zach actually liked talking about ideas. Whenever the teacher called on him, he would say something insightful that I’d never thought about before, and I loved when he vol- unteered to act out scenes from the books the class was dis- cussing, because Zach would bring them to life. It was like whatever character he was playing had stepped off the page into the classroom and was standing in front of you.

Not that I ever really talked to him. Today’s the day. Maybe.

I just have to pull it together for the camera, in front of all

the other junior and senior girls with their immaculate hair and carefully coordinated outfits, in front of Zach and his perfect jawline and forearms. Even thinking about all of them staring at me, wondering who the loser is who wandered into their perfect midst, is enough to make me want to skip school and never come back.

I screwed things up enough my freshman year. I was dating this guy—Ollie Barrios—who was a really popular junior bas- ketball player. I’d just lost a lot of weight and he was my first boyfriend. It felt amazing to be noticed. To be wanted—no, desired—by someone. I should have seen the red f lags though. Ollie was always telling me what I should wear or who should be my friends. He’d even choose my food at restaurants.

I ended up gaining some of the weight back during the first few months of school, and Ollie dumped me. We were leaving from my house to go to the homecoming dance. Ollie stopped me before I could get in the car. “We’re not going,” he said. “What do you mean?” I asked, thinking maybe Ollie made other plans.

“That dress makes you look like a stuffed sausage.” “I—I can go change,” I stammered.

God. I was so stupid. That would have just been putting lipstick on a pig.

“How much weight have you gained? Ten? Fifteen pounds?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

My skin was crawling. I wanted to escape my body. “Don’t you keep track? Most girls weigh themselves every day.”

“I’ll start eating better. Exercising,” I pleaded with him. “Whatever, Liv. You obviously don’t care about yourself.” He left me crying on the doorstep.

Ollie spread his version of the story around the entire school. He said our relationship wasn’t working out because he was an athlete and I wasn’t “disciplined” enough, which was obviously code for eating too much and not exercising enough. Everyone looked at me like I was the biggest loser. But Ollie was right. I was a fat cow. I immediately went on a revenge diet. I started fasting for days at a time, but then I would get so hungry that I’d binge and eat way more than any normal person should—pasta, burritos, ice cream, what- ever was available—and feel so guilty about bingeing that I’d puke everything up.

I’ll never let myself gain weight again.

I’m a yo-yo girl. What goes down must come back up.

I’ve been keeping myself from bingeing pretty well the past couple of months, but I still have to purge. I hate the feeling of being full. It makes me nauseous.

I smash the gum between my teeth, partly to cover the acrid smell, but mostly to give my mouth something to do. Chomp. Chomp. Chomp. I try to push away the thoughts. I’m stronger than my hunger. I take a cleansing breath to clear my head.

One.

Food is disgusting. It never made you happy.

I exhale slowly. My breath is my mantra. My focus.

You are not a slave to your hunger.

Two.

I’m finally ready to take on this torturous rite of passage. I leave the bathroom and am walking around the corner of Decker Hall when a guy staring down at his phone runs

into me, nearly knocking me over.

“What the hell?!” I say, then I realize I know him, a smile forming on my lips.

It’s Sam. We’ve been best friends since elementary school. “Sorry,” he says. “I was looking for you… You left class early.”

“Obviously.” I roll my eyes and make a sarcastic face at him. “I had to prep. Don’t wanna turn out wretched in my yearbook photo.” I look down at my simple, sleeveless black dress. The color suddenly seems so wrong. “What was I thinking? I look like a vampire. And not even the cool kind.”

“Oh please,” Sam says, laughing as he puts his arm around my shoulder. “You look great.”

“Greatly appalling,” I say. “Do we have to do this?”

I twist around to look into his deep blue eyes, trying to plead with him to cut class with me, but Sam doesn’t cut class. He actually likes school. He’s really smart—I’m sure he’s going to be a genius-level scientist someday—and handsome in that geeky, still-needs-to-fill-out kind of way, but there’s no way I’m ever going to tell him that.

“Why even bother asking?” Sam says.

“Fine,” I say, moving his arm off my shoulder. “You can at least walk me over to the shark tank. And button your shirt.” I don’t even wait for him. I start doing it myself.

Just like when we were kids. They don’t go anymore, but Sam’s parents used to take me sailing with him and his older brother, James, on the weekends. I remember standing on the deck, the boat going full speed, the wind whipping my hair back and forth across my face, feeling weightless and com- pletely free from the prison of my own body. Sam may not be the best at dressing up for yearbook photos, but he seemed so confident on those sailing trips. The way he handled the ropes so deftly, how he steered the boat with ease. I envied him, because Sam was the master of his own destiny on the water.

I miss those days.

“They’re yearbook photos. Who cares? We’re all just going to stuff them in our closets anyway,” Sam says.

“Wrong,” I say. “Yearbook photos are like diamonds. They’re forever.”

“Actually you’re wrong,” he says. “The whole concept of a yearbook is obsolete. Everyone blasts their lives on social media now, so what’s the motivation to rummage through some old book?”

He takes over buttoning his shirt when I get up to his neck. “Have you not seen the awful yearbook photos of celebri- ties on the internet? Just because they’re not on social media

to start with doesn’t mean they won’t end up there.”

A tie hangs limply from his pocket. “Do you know how to tie that?” I ask.

“I watched a tutorial,” Sam says. “It can’t be that hard.” I laugh.

We must look like a couple, but everyone knows we aren’t together. I love Sam. We always sit next to each other in classes because our names are so close. Sam Bailey. Olivia Blakely. He’s super smart and will probably do something ex- ceptional someday, like work on a giant particle accelerator. He’s also the most loyal guy I know.

He’s had a crush on a few girls over the years, but neither of us has been that lucky in love.

“We better get going,” I say, continuing on my way. “I want to be early.”

I start thinking about Zach. Again.

If only he knew that I exist. And that I’m totally in love with him. He’s always off and on with Cristina Rossi. God. That girl. Model gorgeous. And, since this is Los Angeles, she actually is a model. She even appeared half-naked for a Calvin Klein underwear campaign on a billboard next to the Chateau Mar- mont this summer. They both look like works of art. Ms. Day, my studio art teacher, might call them “aesthetically pleas-

ing.” Well-proportioned. Shapely. Statuesque.

Sam pulls the tie out of his pocket. He tries to tie it as he walks. It’s as defiant as his unruly hair. He can’t manage a Windsor knot to save his life.

“How ’bout just ditch the tie?” I say.

“Help me out, Liv. You’ve known how to tie these since the fourth grade.”

Out of the corner of my eye I see a guy with brown, slicked-back hair and a gray suit striding across the quad like he owns the school. Jackson Conti. He’s a mass of muscle and has the confidence to match. We sat near each other in biol- ogy sophomore year, but I haven’t hung out with him outside of school or talked to him much since then. I hear he’s plan- ning an event with Zach, who happens to be his best friend, in Marina del Rey on a 148-foot yacht that belongs to Sean Clark, an up-and-coming action movie star.

Did I mention that Zach is also an actor?

He played a minor part in one of Sean’s recent movies. Sean’s letting him borrow the yacht to throw a killer party for his friends and cast members while Sean’s out of town. It’s not the actors I’m interested in though—except Zach, of course. I overheard Cristina’s best friend, Felicity, whose fa- ther is a big art dealer, telling someone that Geoff LeFeber, a major contemporary artist, is supposed to be visiting from New York and might be going to the party. I guess one of the executive producers of the TV show Zach stars on knows him. It seems like a long shot that he’ll attend, but anything’s possible in Los Angeles. It’s a smaller place than people think. I have to be there. LeFeber’s my favorite living artist. He puts together these insane installations that completely alter your perception of reality. I’ve never been to one in person, but I watched a YouTube video the Museum of Modern Art put out that took you through this massive open room filled with tunnels of tape attached to the beams of the roof and pillars. It looked like you were caught in a giant spider’s web from the perspective of the f ly. Besides looking otherworldly, the installation was supposed to illustrate the dangerous in- toxication 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 inter- ested 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 ques- tions 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 pho- tos. 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 f lirt. 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 stif le 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 so- cialite, 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 al- ready 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 some-

thing 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.

t w o

“Creativity takes courage.”

—HENRI MATISSE

“Can anyone figure out the origin of this painting?” Ms. Day asks, fluffing her afro with one hand. Her gold hoop earrings glint under the light of the projector.

My mind wanders from the class, thinking about how the photo I took the last period turned out. The photographer took the picture before I was ready, and I’m almost certain I had a deer-in-the-headlights kind of look, but they only take one shot before they shuffle you off and move on to the next person in line.

“Look at the subject,” Ms. Day adds, patiently waiting for the class to respond.

The painting on the screen behind her shows a young woman wearing a pale pink dress being pushed on a swing above an admiring young man. The two figures aren’t touch- ing each other, but the artist painted their movements so dy- namically that they seem like they’re about to leap across the painting to embrace each other. A lush garden surrounds the lovers. Every leaf and f lower has been painted with an in- credible amount of detail and attention to light and shadow.

A girl at the front—Emma—raises her hand.

“The fashion definitely looks English or French,” she says. Ms. Day nods. She’s not giving any hints.

I have her for two classes. AP art history and studio art. She’s the only teacher I feel like I can actually talk to honestly about my future goals. Not because I like her subject the most—though that’s true—but because she never mentions my parents. Or my brothers. Not that they would have ever dreamed of taking an art class.

“I’d say French,” Emma’s friend sitting next to her adds. “Even though she’s wearing stockings, the way her legs are exposed is too scandalous to be English.”

“Forget her legs.” Nate, a boy who sits in the back, snick- ers. “He’s looking up her dress. Bet he’s totally going to get him some.”

“Our very own connoisseur of the romantic arts speaks,” Ms. Day says. “Tell us more, Casanova!” The other boys snicker, but Nate’s too embarrassed to say anything else. I love how salty she can be with her students. She’s my favor- ite teacher.

Ms. Day turns away from the painting and gives him some serious side-eye. She puts her hands on her hips and sighs. “It is French. French Rococo, to be exact. The painting’s official name is The Swing. It was painted right before the Revolution by an artist named Jean-Honore Fragonard. The painting was commissioned by the notorious French libertine Baron de St. Julien as a portrait of his mistress. That’s all I’ll say for now. What do you think this painting is about? What’s the context?” The class is silent again. “History is important to under- standing art,” Ms. Day continues, asking us for our analysis of the piece before she gives us her interpretation. “But be- coming a truly great artist means keeping your soul trained on the future. What will someone hundreds of years from now think or feel when they view your painting? What speaks across time and culture? Think about what truly moves you as a viewer.”

Emma raises her hand again. “It’s kinda playful.”

“That’s right.” Ms. Day paces across the front of the room. “Many of the painting’s critics called it frivolous. Why do you think they might have used that word?”

“Well,” I say, leaning forward in my seat to see the paint- ing better. “It’s not like the subject is an important religious or historical person or event or anything. And the painting’s focal point is clearly her pink dress.”

“You think there’s more to the painting than that…” Ms. Day walks up the aisle and pauses by my desk, gesturing to- ward the painting. “Don’t you, Olivia?”

“She always has something to say,” Nate groans.

I ignore him. This is pretty much the only class in which I feel in my element.

“That playfulness that Emma mentioned? I think she’s right. I also think the painting is about seduction. Except the moment doesn’t seem so planned out. It’s like their de- sire is spontaneous.” I wonder whether someone will ever feel that way about me. Why do so many things have to come together perfectly for people to fall in love?

“The French would call that joie de vivre,” Ms. Day adds. “That translates to a cheerful enjoyment of life. An exulta- tion of the spirit. Of the soul. Everything one does becomes filled with joy. Conversation. Work. Play. Eating.”

I wish I could feel joy when I eat. The only thing I feel is dread.

“Why do you think the painting is about seduction?” Ms. Day asks.

“Besides the fact that the man on the ground is pretty much looking up her dress?” I pause for a moment. The boys in the back laugh. “They know they’re being provocative. She’s let- ting her shoe f ly off her foot like she’s Cinderella. He’s her Prince Charming. They’re gazing directly into each other’s eyes. Maybe they’re in love.”

“Or lust,” Ms. Day says. The class murmurs like they’re scandalized.

I trail off, thinking about Zach’s eyes and what I might feel if he ever looked back at mine that way. I’d probably melt into a puddle on the f loor.

While I’ve been thinking about Zach, Ms. Day has moved on to analyzing other parts of the painting. “What details do you notice? Look at the background.”

The class goes silent. We’re stumped.

“See this statue of a cherub on the left?” Ms. Day walks up to the screen and touches the left side of the painting. “Can you see what he’s doing?”

“Oh my god,” Emma squeals. “I totally see it.” Everybody squints and leans forward. We’re still all confused.

“The little cherub? He’s holding his index finger in front of his lips. He’s trying to keep everything a secret.”

Ms. Day smiles and draws circles around the other statutes in the garden with her finger. “What about the other sets of cherubs? The ones below the humans looking up?”

A few students respond to her question. “They look concerned.”

“More like afraid for her.” “I think they’re scowling.”

“Yes. This is obviously an illicit love affair,” Ms. Day says. “Yet the painter casts off the moral concerns of the day to illustrate a moment of lighthearted pleasure. It is frivolous. Free. In fact, the painting’s alternate title is The Happy Acci- dents of the Swing.”

“They’re definitely, like, living life to its fullest or whatever,” Emma says.

“YOLO,” Nate adds.

“Exactly.” Ms. Day laughs. “Homework for tonight is to research…”

I lose myself in my thoughts while she gives us tonight’s assignment.

I can barely remember the last time I felt truly happy like the woman on the swing. When I was younger, tapping into that feeling of freedom seemed so much easier. I could ride my scooter fast down the street. I could get on a swing and pump my legs until I was soaring high over the playground. What happened to that girl? Did I lose her?

Am I living my best life? Am I even trying to?

The bell rings for lunch and all the students start piling out the door. I slowly put my notes and my textbook in my backpack while Ms. Day turns off the projector.

“Olivia,” she says. “I wanted to tell you something in stu- dio art this morning, but you were out the door too fast. Do you have time to stick around for a few minutes?”

Of course I have time. It’s not like I actually eat lunch anyway.

I have only one rule about eating at school. I don’t do it. “Yeah,” I say. “What’s up?”

“There’s an opportunity that would be great for you.” She walks to her desk and grabs a neon-yellow f lyer. “One of my old friends from grad school is part of the staff at an art gal- lery that wants to feature young artists from the area.”

My pulse quickens. This could be huge. “Which gallery?” I ask.

“It’s called the Wynn. It’s fairly small, but they have a great schedule of contemporary artists lined up for this year. It would be a huge deal when you’re applying to art schools to say you’ve shown your work there already.”

“Sounds…great,” I say, unsure.

I’ve heard of the Wynn before. It’s an up-and-coming gallery that mostly features artists early in their careers, but I’m not sure I’m good enough. I sketch and paint constantly, but I don’t like showing my work to people. I come up with these concepts in my mind, but I can never seem to execute them exactly the right way. Sometimes I feel as if my skill will never match up with my vision.

“It’s a ways off—the show won’t be until near the end of the school year—but you have to submit a portfolio to be considered. They’re going to take only two or three artists total.”

How can I pull off a full show in eight months?

I’m a perfectionist. I take forever to put together a painting. “That sounds pretty intense,” I say. “I don’t know what I would paint.”

Ms. Day puts down the f lyer and looks at me. “Olivia. You need to start believing in your work. Really. It’s time for you to push yourself. Find your voice. You’ve been experiment- ing with figure drawing lately. Why don’t you try painting live models?”

I want to ask Ms. Day what she means by finding my voice, and exactly how I should go about doing that, when the fire alarm goes off.

“Really?” Ms. Day shakes her head. “We’ve had three of these damn things this week already. Wish I could catch what- ever little delinquent is responsible for this.”

Lights flash on and off as the alarm buzzes. The school installed these alarms with strobe lights that practically blind you. It’s most likely a false alarm, but they’re so annoying they make you want to leave the room.

She heads for the door. “You don’t have to decide now,”

she says, holding the f lyer out to me. “You’re the only stu- dent I am recommending for this, so please promise to think about it.”

“Yeah,” I say, taking the flyer, my stomach tightening with nerves. “I promise.”

t h r e e

“You live but once; you might as well be amusing.”

—COCO CHANEL

I’m sitting with Mom and Dad at a table at Musso & Frank Grill on Hollywood Boulevard, dining under the chandeliers in the ambience of mahogany decor and literary ghosts. Faulkner. Hemingway. Fitzgerald. Steinbeck. Parker. You name the writer—they ate here. The restaurant is old Holly- wood classy. Waiters wear red jackets and black ties. Mom and Dad love this kind of stuff. A sense of history appeals to them. I had to go home after school to change just so I could go out to dinner with my parents, even though I have absolutely no interest in eating.

It’s Thursday. Today was supposed to be a fast day.

I’m trying to break a plateau. My goal is to get down to 100 pounds, and I’m not going to get there by eating ham steak or a rack of lamb or whatever.

When the waiter delivers my salad, Dad starts doing this thing he always does at these dinners, as if his life suddenly revolves around my eating habits.

“A house salad?” Dad asks. “That’s it?”

I get irritated with them at dinners because they’re always commenting on what and how much I put on my plate, making me feel guilty for whatever I do or don’t eat.

Believe me. I already judge myself enough for my own eating habits. Like those two Rice Krispies treats Mom made that I binged on yesterday? They made me feel terrible.

Words slip out before I have a chance to process. “Why do you care?”

Sometimes I want to stand on the table and inform the congressman: Sir, my life isn’t about shoving millions of calories of dead cow into my body.

They were the ones who encouraged me to lose weight in the first place. When I came home crying about how fat I was after Ollie dumped me freshman year, Mom was the first to help me go on a diet. She bought me weight loss guidebooks, exercise tapes and a food scale. I would give her a special list of what to pick up at the grocery store.

I counted every calorie. Weighed every ounce. Recorded every mile. It was healthy at first. I started to lose weight. Fast. I really did need to ditch some of the weight, but I couldn’t stop even after I lost all the weight I had gained.

And everyone, I mean everyone, was nicer to me. Even my parents. But I don’t want their attention anymore. They’re more controlling with me than they were with either Mason or Royce. Dad claims I’m more prone to extremes. Mom says I’m too hard on myself. I fail to see either. I’m pretty average.

Devastatingly average.

“Give me the benefit of the doubt,” he says. “I’m just saying that you don’t have to order the salad. Eat whatever you want. You used to like the Manhattan steak.”

I refuse to react. I take a small bite of lettuce, the smallest leaf I can find.

I chew thirty times, counting each one like a bead on a rosary.

30…29…28…27…

It’s way harder to come up with excuses for not eating at a restaurant, and I can’t go to the bathroom after dinner either. Too obvious. So I order light and chew my food for so long that when they’re ready to go, I end up leaving half my food on the plate.

I may be a fairly average teenage girl, but I’m strong-willed. Probably more so than any of those girls who hang around with Zach. I can put up a good fight.

I smile at Mom as if to say, Please keep the congressman behind the imaginary fence. She looks at me and shrugs. I guess I’ll have to fight this battle on my own.

So I feign deafness, take a sip of water and stare at the wood paneled walls, thinking about my conversation with Ms. Day right before lunch. Having my work shown at a real gallery would be an amazing experience. It would mean that I actually have the talent to be a professional artist someday. Just being good at art in your high school classes isn’t enough. I have to test myself outside of school too.

I want to put together a portfolio, but I don’t know where to begin. My mind goes blank every time I try to think of a concept or theme for the show. I need to find my inspiration.

If only I could talk to LeFeber…

“You might consider returning to Earth once in a while, Ms. Space Cadet,” Dad says. His mouth is moving, but his words are white noise. “Ground control to Olivia.”

I’m a disappointment to him. Not only am I not interested in his job, I don’t get as high grades as Royce and I’ll never be as popular as Mason was in high school.

He taps his fork on my plate, clanging the tines against the glass to get my attention. I stare at him, hoping my smoldering irises are enough to laser some more gray streaks into his hair. “I hope the rabbits across America aren’t starving…”

I scrunch up my forehead. What the hell is he talking about?

“You eat so much lettuce you must have tanked their food economy,” he says.

“Congressman Blakely,” I say, stabbing my fork into a leaf covered in sesame seeds, “I like salads, the rabbits will be just fine and, besides, I’m just not super hungry, okay?”

I started calling him Congressman Blakely about a year ago. I don’t know why, other than I thought it was funny. Maybe I was being a little mean. It’s a way for me to passively fight back in my own house. My own private revolution, for no reason other than that I’m a teenager. It’s practically my duty to get under my parents’ skin.

“Can you not be like this? I’d love to have a peaceful dinner.” Mom wipes a touch of water from her lips, then folds up her napkin into a perfect rectangle. She’s perfect. Intelligent. Tactful. Nothing—not one stray hair or wrinkled shirt— ever out of place.

I reach for my own napkin and realize it has fallen on the f loor. Compared to my mother, I’m a hot mess. I’m not diplomatic in social situations, and I can barely manage to find a clean pair of jeans in the mornings. I don’t know how I ended up so different from my parents. I would be the worst politician ever.

Dad has just opened his mouth to argue again when Mar- tin Barrios—Ollie’s father—approaches the table. Just seeing him makes me want to slink down in my chair and hide under the table. He’s wearing a black toupee slicked tight against his head and a blue suit that’s slightly wrinkled and damp from sweat. He’s fresh from the bar, face red, and too happy—way too happy for me anyway. He winks at Dad as if he knows some big secret. Not only is Mr. Barrios Ollie’s father, which is mortifying enough, he’s also worked with Dad on a big downtown renovation project, so there’s no getting away.

“Colin Blakely?” He squints at Dad and spills a few drops of his martini on the carpet. “Whoa! Don’t want to lose that,” he adds. “This is a Musso martini!”

Dad laughs. “I hope you brought that for me.”

“Why? Is this a celebration? I mean, I hope it is.” He looks at Mom. “You look lovely as always, Debra.”

“How’s Oliver doing at…” Dad pauses. “Where does he go to school again? Princeton? Or Dartmouth?”

“He’s a Princeton man. Double major in economics and Near Eastern studies.”

“That’s good to hear,” Mom says politely.

How can she keep smiling at him? I never told her exactly what Ollie’s comment was when he broke up with me, but she knows he said something horrible to me.

Then Mr. Barrios turns toward me, training his bloodshot eyes on my face.

“Olivia?” he says in faux surprise. It’s so fake I want to laugh.

“I’m her doppelgänger,” I deadpan. “The real Olivia has been claimed by the robotics industry and is now being mass manufactured.”

I imagine a hundred little replicas of myself and shudder. I can barely stand seeing myself doubled in a mirror, let alone a never-ending assembly line of Olivia Blakely dolls.

Mom shoots me a death stare. She doesn’t like when I’m sarcastic around adults. It’s a liability. I say they could stand to loosen up. Why take everything so seriously?

“Is she?” He laughs like a factory-produced automaton. “You’re all grown up,” he says. “You’ll be a marvelous woman. You have two great brothers. And mother…”

Gag. That’s when I stop listening. I shut him off completely. I’ve heard this speech before from a hundred different politi- cians. He’s lost interest within seconds anyway, because I’m not important to these kinds of people other than that I’m merely something to turn into a compliment for my parents. I check my phone. There’s a text from Sam. I answer as surreptitiously as I can. Mom and Dad don’t like when I text at the dinner table, but I can’t help myself.

SAM: Feeling better? LIV: Yep

SAM: Thinking about doing a bonfire at the beach. You down? LIV: I wish. Dinner with my parents

SAM: Bummer. Hang out tomorrow? LIV: Totally. I’m down.

SAM: I have a surprise for you. LIV: OoOoO. What is it?

SAM: It’s a surprise…

“Liv? Could you put your phone down, please?” Mom asks. She places her napkin on the table like she’s about to make a serious announcement.

“Yeah. One sec,” I say, rapidly texting Sam back.

LIV: Gotta go. Txt later

I was supposed to hang out with him after taking year- book photos yesterday, but I just felt like locking myself in my bedroom after the disaster with Jackson, so I gave him an excuse about not feeling well. I’m a terrible friend. I need to make it up to him.

Mr. Barrios has waded his way back to the bar. I really wish I could join him. Maybe he could buy me one of those fa- mous Musso martinis. I could use one.

Or three.

The buzz would help deaden the anxiety whirling in my stomach. I think about my conversation with Jackson— rehashing every tiny word and action over and over in my mind—until I convince myself that Jackson and all his friends, especially Zach, think I’m a freak who just wants to party with the popular people.

I’m feeling more nauseous by the second.

I’m just getting up to go to the bathroom when I realize Dad’s been trying to get my attention.

“Honeybee,” he says. He’s been calling me that since I stepped on a bee at my friend’s birthday at Griffith Park nearly ten years ago. “Don’t go just yet. I have something to tell the both of you.”

“Ugh,” I say and sit back down. “I have to pee. What is it?” Mom puts a hand on his arm. The news is something she’s been anticipating. I’ve always been able to read her. And Dad? He’s an open book. He’ll tell anyone whatever he’s thinking at any given moment. No secrets there. I guess that’s some- thing people admire about him, but I don’t understand. Ev-

eryone needs a secret to call their own.

“There’s a reason we went out on a school night,” he says. “What is it?” I ask absentmindedly, thinking about how much homework I have to get done tonight. I have at least

two hours’ worth. It’s going to be a late night.

Dad jolts me back into reality.

“I’m running for governor of California,” he says.

My stomach drops.

“We’ve been waiting to tell you,” Mom says, her face full of joy. I’m pretty sure the expression on my face is communicating the otherworldliness of this announcement.

“Really?” I ask. “Are you serious?” “Couldn’t be more serious,” he says.

I should be happy for him, happy for his achievements, but this is terrible news. This means even more attention on the family and more stress during my junior year, which every- one knows is the hardest school year ever, especially since I have to start studying for the SAT, working on my portfolio and thinking about art school—or at least how I’m going to convince my parents to let me go there instead of a regular university.

All eyes are going to be on us. That means I have to be more perfect than ever. Stronger. Nothing should be able to take me down. Not food. Not school. Not this election.

I push the lettuce around on my plate and crush the croutons with my fork while Mom and Dad talk like old high school lovers, excited about this new opportunity.

“This is exactly what we need. Imagine not having to fly to Washington all the time.” I can tell that, in her mind, Mom is already decorating and ordering furniture for a new house. “We’ll live in the governor’s mansion. Sacramento is so lovely, and I miss having seasons.”

The timing couldn’t be worse.

My entire junior year is going to be taken up by this campaign. Probably part of my senior year too. Everything will be about him. Like always. Not to mention I may have to live in Sacramento for half of my senior year.

Sacramento? I mean, seriously, what’s in Sacramento? A river? Let me say it again: There’s. No. Way.

Might as well join the Mars Colony. They’re taking hip young up-and-coming artists ostracized from their power- hungry families, aren’t they? Sign me up.

A campaign for governor changes everything. Forget mak- ing any friends, let alone hooking up with Zach Park. Dad winning the governorship would ruin all that. And Dad’s scarily good at winning elections.

Fine. I’m just going to say it. Not out loud, but I’m going to say it in my head because it’s all I can think. I hope he loses. I hope his campaign completely tanks. There. Said it. I just need to get on the ball and focus on getting invited to Zach’s boat party.

That’s my only chance to get on his radar and to ask for LeFeber’s advice. I have to start living my best life. Stop constantly overthinking things and doubting myself.

No more being a wallflower.

No more being known only as the congressman’s daughter. Or Mason and Royce’s little sister.

I have to make a name for myself. For my art. Everyone needs to know who Liv Blakely really is.

#Melissa de la Cruz #Someone to Love #tw: eating disorders #book excerpt #books

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