Free Theodora Twist by Melissa Senate Page B

Tashema White asks, and everyone freezes and stares at me, waiting, waiting, waiting.
    The exact date of Theodora’s arrival has been kept top-secret. So top-secret that not even my family and I know when she’s going to show up at 455 Raspberry Road. Blair, the producer, is afraid that Theodora won’t look much like a regular teen if she arrives in Oak City to paparazzi and thousands of screaming fans waving autograph books in her face.
    We do know she’s coming this weekend, between the hours of 12:01 a.m. Saturday and midnight on Sunday. She could arrive at our house at the crack of dawn, or dinnertime, or midnight. Blair thinks that’ll help us “keep it real” (one of her favorite expressions).
    Keeping it real would mean leaving Sophie’s spit-up stains and half-chewed toys everywhere, but my mom hired a cleaning service and bought new throw pillows and fresh flowers and candles. Our house was already nice, but now it looks “TV ready” (my mom’s new favorite expression).
    Very weird: When I come home from school today, my room will be completely changed. There will be another bed and another desk; two drawers of my dresser will be cleaned out, and so will half my closet. I doubt two drawers and half of a small closet will be enough for Theodora Twist’s wardrobe. Jen thinks the change will help me get over Zach, since he dumped me in my bedroom. Then again, my bedroom is the last place we were when he was still my boyfriend. I’m not so sure I want that messed with yet—even if Zach is a jerk.
    On Saturday and Sunday we’re supposed to do what we normally do, but I have a feeling all we’ll do is sit around like nervous idiots, waiting for the doorbell to ring. When it does, it’ll be the camerapeople. They’ll precede Theodora by an hour. That’s all the notice we’ll have.
    “Can I come over after school on Monday?” six people ask as I’m trying to head out.
    Do I know you? Have you said two words to me before this moment? No.
    “The producers want to keep it really simple,” I say, and then flee to the girls’ bathroom, dodging “That’s her!” the entire way. Head down, books practically covering my face, I slip into the bathroom and dash into the first open stall.
    Everyone in the bathroom, in the stalls, by the mirror, is talking about the show. About Theodora. About me. I hear my name at least twenty times.
    I wait until the warning bell rings, then slip out and head for my history classroom. On the way, I run into Belle. “I’m the same person I was before homeroom!” I mutter at her.
    “No, you’re not,” she says. “You’re about to be Twisted.”

Theodora
    “Stop the car,” I tell Ashley. She’s driving a Ford or Buick, some normal, ugly rental car. “Stop the car!” I scream at her.
    “Are you trying to get us into an accident?” she screeches back at me. “You almost made me spill my soy latte all over myself. And we’re not near a Starbucks.”
    I squeeze my eyes shut. I’m going to be sick.
    “Theodora?” Ashley says, pulling over. She turns to me and rubs my shoulder. “Honey, what’s wrong?”
    I glance out the window. We’re around the corner from Raspberry Road. I see the exact spot where I wiped out on the skateboard my dad bought me for my eleventh birthday. I see Mrs. Fingerman, the old bat who lives on the corner, walking her French poodle, Madeleine. I see people I haven’t seen in forever, planting in their yards, coming and going, washing their cars. Life has gone on here. Out of nowhere I burst into tears.
    Ashley pulls me against her, and I cry all over the collar of her Prada shirt. “I forgot how emotional this might be for you. I’m sorry, hon. This is probably the first time you’re seeing this house since you moved to L.A.
    “You okay?” she asks. I don’t answer. I’m not okay. “You know,” she says, “Maybe we should go with this angle. The emotion. Originally I thought you should be all happy and excited to be back in