Kutcher. Jennifer Aniston. Kim Kardashian.
“I wonder who’ll be on the show today. Do you think it’ll be someone big? Like Zac efron?” McCartney asked, sneaking up behind me as I checked out the pictures. “Please let it be Zac efron…”
“God, I hope it’s
not
Zac efron,” I said. I so didn’t need the extra stress that a celebrity encounter would add to the day.
“Bite your tongue!” McCartney said, horrified.
“Come on, guys,” my mom called out, ending what was probably the beginning of a fight.
A woman stood next to Mom in the lobby now, wearing a headset and carrying a clipboard; a clear sign that she worked on the show. Which meant that she was a very important person. To me at least.
We walked over to where the woman and Mom were talking, and I attempted what I hoped was an I’m-super-excited-to-be-here smile, despite the fact that I was probably going to throw up at any moment. She didn’t smile back. In fact, her face seemed to fall even more as we made eye contact.
“You Arielle?” Miss snippy asked me, the annoyance in her voice loud and clear.
“Uh, yeah. That’s me,” I answered, raising my hand slightly before letting it drop to my side again.
“Uh, huh,” Miss snippy said, then sighed. “Walk with me.”
She abruptly turned and began to march down a nearby hallway, making turns without giving us any notice. I looked back a few times, trying to keep track of where we were going, but after a while it was useless. We were like Hansel and Gretel minus the tasty treats to mark our way back home. Or in this case, out of the TV station and back to our car.
How was I supposed to make a speedy getaway if I didn’t know where I was getting away to?
“Wait here until someone comes to get you,” Miss snippy said, before disappearing from the room she’d just deposited us in.
“But how long will we—” my mom began, but the girl was already gone. “Well she was rather…brusque.”
“More like a bit—” McCartney said.
“
McCartney
,” Mom warned before she could finish her sentence.
“Sorry Mrs. S.”
I busied myself by getting ready, since none of us knew exactly how long it would be before they’d bring us to the set. I dumped my makeup bag out onto the empty counter, which was surrounded by ten tiny lightbulbs. Then I went over to my bag and retrieved the outfit I’d finally decided on—Free from any possible malfunctions…trust me. I checked. Twice—and skipped over to the bathroom in the corner to put it on.
A few minutes later, I walked out in a pair of jeans and a pink iridescent tank top. I pulled on my favorite pair of cowboy boots and wrapped a beige belt around my waist.
No way anything was falling out of this.
McCartney opened her mouth to say something, but I cut her off.
“I don’t even want to hear it,” I said, both hands up in the air defensively. “I don’t need to dress like I’m going clubbing at the buttcrack of dawn. This is what I’m comfortable in and at least I know everything will stay put. You’re gonna have to deal with it.”
McCartney snapped her mouth shut again as I finished my speech, but she continued to eye my tame outfit wearily. Finally, she stood up and made her way across the room until she was standing right in front of me.
“Fine. But
I’m
doing your makeup,” she said, picking up my mascara and twisting it open.
“Deal,” I answered relieved, and sat down on the stool in front of her.
I may not trust her to dress me, but I had to admit that McCartney was a genius when it came to wielding a makeup brush. She had a natural touch and the uncanny ability to pick
The
perfect shade to match your complexion and compliment your outfit—all without making you look like a clown or a drag queen. I was always trying to convince her to go to cosmetology school, but she insisted it was more of a hobby of hers than a calling.
“If you become famous, do you think you’ll move to new york? Or maybe la would be
“I wonder who’ll be on the show today. Do you think it’ll be someone big? Like Zac efron?” McCartney asked, sneaking up behind me as I checked out the pictures. “Please let it be Zac efron…”
“God, I hope it’s
not
Zac efron,” I said. I so didn’t need the extra stress that a celebrity encounter would add to the day.
“Bite your tongue!” McCartney said, horrified.
“Come on, guys,” my mom called out, ending what was probably the beginning of a fight.
A woman stood next to Mom in the lobby now, wearing a headset and carrying a clipboard; a clear sign that she worked on the show. Which meant that she was a very important person. To me at least.
We walked over to where the woman and Mom were talking, and I attempted what I hoped was an I’m-super-excited-to-be-here smile, despite the fact that I was probably going to throw up at any moment. She didn’t smile back. In fact, her face seemed to fall even more as we made eye contact.
“You Arielle?” Miss snippy asked me, the annoyance in her voice loud and clear.
“Uh, yeah. That’s me,” I answered, raising my hand slightly before letting it drop to my side again.
“Uh, huh,” Miss snippy said, then sighed. “Walk with me.”
She abruptly turned and began to march down a nearby hallway, making turns without giving us any notice. I looked back a few times, trying to keep track of where we were going, but after a while it was useless. We were like Hansel and Gretel minus the tasty treats to mark our way back home. Or in this case, out of the TV station and back to our car.
How was I supposed to make a speedy getaway if I didn’t know where I was getting away to?
“Wait here until someone comes to get you,” Miss snippy said, before disappearing from the room she’d just deposited us in.
“But how long will we—” my mom began, but the girl was already gone. “Well she was rather…brusque.”
“More like a bit—” McCartney said.
“
McCartney
,” Mom warned before she could finish her sentence.
“Sorry Mrs. S.”
I busied myself by getting ready, since none of us knew exactly how long it would be before they’d bring us to the set. I dumped my makeup bag out onto the empty counter, which was surrounded by ten tiny lightbulbs. Then I went over to my bag and retrieved the outfit I’d finally decided on—Free from any possible malfunctions…trust me. I checked. Twice—and skipped over to the bathroom in the corner to put it on.
A few minutes later, I walked out in a pair of jeans and a pink iridescent tank top. I pulled on my favorite pair of cowboy boots and wrapped a beige belt around my waist.
No way anything was falling out of this.
McCartney opened her mouth to say something, but I cut her off.
“I don’t even want to hear it,” I said, both hands up in the air defensively. “I don’t need to dress like I’m going clubbing at the buttcrack of dawn. This is what I’m comfortable in and at least I know everything will stay put. You’re gonna have to deal with it.”
McCartney snapped her mouth shut again as I finished my speech, but she continued to eye my tame outfit wearily. Finally, she stood up and made her way across the room until she was standing right in front of me.
“Fine. But
I’m
doing your makeup,” she said, picking up my mascara and twisting it open.
“Deal,” I answered relieved, and sat down on the stool in front of her.
I may not trust her to dress me, but I had to admit that McCartney was a genius when it came to wielding a makeup brush. She had a natural touch and the uncanny ability to pick
The
perfect shade to match your complexion and compliment your outfit—all without making you look like a clown or a drag queen. I was always trying to convince her to go to cosmetology school, but she insisted it was more of a hobby of hers than a calling.
“If you become famous, do you think you’ll move to new york? Or maybe la would be
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