wants you?”
I flash her a grin. “It’s awesome.”
She smiles back. Downstairs, we hear the doorbell, then the clomping up the stairs; then Vic calls out, “Ready or not, here we come!”
We’re in our beds before the door opens. We open our eyes and stretch on cue.
Emily and I are two minutes into breakfast in the dining room when Sophie throws a handful of pureed something—peaches?—at me.
“Holy shit!” I yelp, jumping up.
Emily, her mom and stepfather all whirl and stare at me. How do they expect me to react when gross gloppy goo lands on my shirt? I feel a cold, slimy piece on my neck.
“Will Ashley be pissed that you cursed?” Emily asks, gesturing at the three camerapeople filming two feet away.
“That’s the joy of network television,” I say. “They’ll bleep it. Teens do curse, you know.”
“Not in this house,” Stew says jovially, staring awkwardly at the camera.
I share a “give me a break” smirk with Emily, which she truly seems to appreciate, then excuse myself to change. I couldn’t decide between outfits anyway, so at least now I get to wear the other one I thought worthy for my first day of school. Fun ice-pink cropped cargo jeans, a really cute white T-shirt with tiny silver snaps dotting the hem and V-neck, and low-heeled pink suede slides that cost all of $21.99.
“Come have your waffles before they get cold,” Emily’s mom calls as I get back downstairs. I help myself to an apple instead; when I was upstairs I also munched on my VegeFood breakfast: granola with yogurt. Waffles? I don’t think so.
“Emily, your hair looks so nice,” Mrs. Stewarts says, admiring her daughter.
“Thanks. Theodora was my stylist.”
“You learn a lot by sitting in a chair and watching what the hair and makeup people do when you’re on a shoot,” I say, then smell something gross. I wrinkle my nose.
Emily’s mom smiles at me, then kneels down next to Sophie’s high chair. She almost drops the cup of coffee in her hand. “Someone needs her diaper changed,” she coos to Sophie.
We all look at Stew. He’s been sitting at the table since we arrived, scarfing down homemade waffles while flipping through the New York Times. He’s on his third cup of coffee. Emily’s mom hasn’t sat down once. He finally glances up. “Could you take this one, Steph? I’m right in the middle of an article.”
Mrs. Stewarts looks exasperated. She clearly spent the past hour whipping up this homemade breakfast, from the waffles to the fresh-squeezed orange juice. And it was Mrs. Stewarts’s voice I heard early this morning in the nursery—not Stew’s. “Stew, honey, could you do the honors? I haven’t even had a cup of coffee yet.”
Stew glances at Emily. “Em, would you mind?” He points to the newspaper. “I’m right in the middle of an article about the real estate market. And that’s my biz. Gotta keep up to date if I’m going to make my first billion. Right, honey?” he adds to Mrs. Stewarts, who looks like she’s going to lose it any second.
“Tell you what,” I say. “ I’ll change Sophie’s diaper. I used to babysit Madison Levy—I can’t believe she’s, like, four years old now—before I moved to L.A. It’s the least I can do for you all hosting me.”
They stare at me as though I just said I like to eat the contents of diapers. “I’m not a prima donna,” I point out, knowing Ashley will like that. Then I scoop up Sophie, who grabs a fistful of my hair. Vic follows me upstairs, followed by Emily, who probably thinks I’m either going to put the diaper on backward or drop Sophie on her head. Nicole follows Emily.
As we head into the nursery, I hear Mrs. Stewarts say, “You should have done it, Stew.” There’s no response, which means Stew is either engrossed in his article or he gestured at the camera to remind her that now is not the time for ragging on him. “She’s our guest, Stew,” Mrs. Stewarts adds. “You should have put the paper down
I flash her a grin. “It’s awesome.”
She smiles back. Downstairs, we hear the doorbell, then the clomping up the stairs; then Vic calls out, “Ready or not, here we come!”
We’re in our beds before the door opens. We open our eyes and stretch on cue.
Emily and I are two minutes into breakfast in the dining room when Sophie throws a handful of pureed something—peaches?—at me.
“Holy shit!” I yelp, jumping up.
Emily, her mom and stepfather all whirl and stare at me. How do they expect me to react when gross gloppy goo lands on my shirt? I feel a cold, slimy piece on my neck.
“Will Ashley be pissed that you cursed?” Emily asks, gesturing at the three camerapeople filming two feet away.
“That’s the joy of network television,” I say. “They’ll bleep it. Teens do curse, you know.”
“Not in this house,” Stew says jovially, staring awkwardly at the camera.
I share a “give me a break” smirk with Emily, which she truly seems to appreciate, then excuse myself to change. I couldn’t decide between outfits anyway, so at least now I get to wear the other one I thought worthy for my first day of school. Fun ice-pink cropped cargo jeans, a really cute white T-shirt with tiny silver snaps dotting the hem and V-neck, and low-heeled pink suede slides that cost all of $21.99.
“Come have your waffles before they get cold,” Emily’s mom calls as I get back downstairs. I help myself to an apple instead; when I was upstairs I also munched on my VegeFood breakfast: granola with yogurt. Waffles? I don’t think so.
“Emily, your hair looks so nice,” Mrs. Stewarts says, admiring her daughter.
“Thanks. Theodora was my stylist.”
“You learn a lot by sitting in a chair and watching what the hair and makeup people do when you’re on a shoot,” I say, then smell something gross. I wrinkle my nose.
Emily’s mom smiles at me, then kneels down next to Sophie’s high chair. She almost drops the cup of coffee in her hand. “Someone needs her diaper changed,” she coos to Sophie.
We all look at Stew. He’s been sitting at the table since we arrived, scarfing down homemade waffles while flipping through the New York Times. He’s on his third cup of coffee. Emily’s mom hasn’t sat down once. He finally glances up. “Could you take this one, Steph? I’m right in the middle of an article.”
Mrs. Stewarts looks exasperated. She clearly spent the past hour whipping up this homemade breakfast, from the waffles to the fresh-squeezed orange juice. And it was Mrs. Stewarts’s voice I heard early this morning in the nursery—not Stew’s. “Stew, honey, could you do the honors? I haven’t even had a cup of coffee yet.”
Stew glances at Emily. “Em, would you mind?” He points to the newspaper. “I’m right in the middle of an article about the real estate market. And that’s my biz. Gotta keep up to date if I’m going to make my first billion. Right, honey?” he adds to Mrs. Stewarts, who looks like she’s going to lose it any second.
“Tell you what,” I say. “ I’ll change Sophie’s diaper. I used to babysit Madison Levy—I can’t believe she’s, like, four years old now—before I moved to L.A. It’s the least I can do for you all hosting me.”
They stare at me as though I just said I like to eat the contents of diapers. “I’m not a prima donna,” I point out, knowing Ashley will like that. Then I scoop up Sophie, who grabs a fistful of my hair. Vic follows me upstairs, followed by Emily, who probably thinks I’m either going to put the diaper on backward or drop Sophie on her head. Nicole follows Emily.
As we head into the nursery, I hear Mrs. Stewarts say, “You should have done it, Stew.” There’s no response, which means Stew is either engrossed in his article or he gestured at the camera to remind her that now is not the time for ragging on him. “She’s our guest, Stew,” Mrs. Stewarts adds. “You should have put the paper down
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