I am so excited to share two scenes from my very first novel. The Reel Live Life of Rubie Jones is a snarky take on the coming-of-age makeover fairy tale in the tradition of Princess Diaries, Mean Girls and Unreal. The book follows Rubie who dreams of being cast in a reality show. However, once chosen, Rubie quickly learns that she wasn’t chosen for the reasons she expected, and pretty soon she’s watching a high-drama version of her life starring someone blonder, blander and almost unrecognizable. The first scene below is the opening of the novel. 

Have you ever had a moment when you thought: This is my moment: the first scene of the rest of my life? I totally have. It happened on the very first day of tenth grade at the activities fair. As I entered the gym, all of the bubble-lettered posters and teachered tables blurred to the background, and as the morning soundtrack cut to the bell, my world became something out of a Realiteen show. And for the first time, I would be the one in the spotlight.

Sophomore elective is our first chance to sign up for whatever we like, to be whoever we like. I need to figure out which one is the most Rubie. Psychologists say that the mid-teens are ripe for brain growth and an evolving sense of self. It’s proven that high school popularity is correlated with career success. Extra credit isn’t enough anymore. I can’t spend the rest of my high school   life, watching the world go by on social media. The world is a real life newsfeed, full of moments I’m missing. Everyone is smiling right past me and I can scroll forever and still no one’s tagging me. What if high school ends and all I have to show for it is good grades and one friend? No. I can’t live like that anymore. I won’t.

“Of course this is where I find you. Never too far from him.” My best friend Zooey’s snarcasm cut me back into Monday morning reality. Reality smelled like skinny cinnamon lattes and too much cologne: like sleepy, autumn-spiced hormones. When she alludes to Max Holloway, “Soccer Hotshottie,” I can’t help but turn to him, he’s so handsome hanging out with teammates outside of boy’s bathroom. But I happen to know for a fact that we’re destined to end up together, so technically that doesn’t make me crazy. It makes me a romantic.

All I ever wanted was to be somebody. Max, he’s one of those guys that people just respect. Last year, he starting eating cheese balls, and you still can’t turn a doorknob at Southland Academy without the possibility of orange fingers. Everything he touches turns to popular and I’ve been dreaming of the day that he’ll touch me. Not in a creepy way. Max is the guy who has female teachers giggling at his jokes, even when he isn’t making any. He’s ended best friendships between dozens of girls whose names he will never know. He’d totally get a full ride to college on a hotness scholarship if that weren’t a thing that I just made up. He's That Guy.

“Well, happy first day to you, too, Zooey.” I smiled. “I hope that you find true love this year or gender equality for unicorns or whatever you’re into these days,” I niced at her. Nothing gets Zooey Horowitz’s “Best Friend/Over-Activist’s” attention more than being made the victim of aggressive niceness.

“You’re right. Good Morning, Rue,” she smiled up at me as she twirled her dark curls. At 4’10”, she smiles up at pretty much everyone. “I see you’ve bedazzled your knee socks. Someone's on a mission. That or Christmas threw up on your feet.”

“Thanks,” I laughed, spinning around and shedding specks of glitter. “I did my backpack, too. I am on a mission. A good one.”

“Really? What?“ her words quickened. “Did you pick an elective? I definitely haven’t seen anything. When I asked Mrs. Waverly about the curriculum for Women’s Leadership Society, she mentioned, ‘ladylike thank-you notes.’ What is this school? 1956?”

“Well, I--, I’ve decided that my elective will be something that Max will appreciate.”

“Max Holloway?” Zooey raised her eyebrows. I knew this is one of those times when she wishes she could lift just one. “And which class is he in? The History of Chest Muscles?”

I shake my head. Zooey has always underestimated Max. How can she not see that, under those cara-mocha-milkshake eyes, the ones that light up my newsfeed, he’s just shy sometimes. Like me or like Bradley O. “The One with the Hidden Six-Pack” on Seven Hot Guys and a Secret.

“Don’t you see?” I whispered, mentally texting her to lower her volume. “It’s finally happening!”

“It is?” Apparently, she didn’t get my text. “Wait. What is it exactly?”

“The story of my life! It’s finally about to start. He’ll finally get a chance to get to know the real me” and he’ll just get me. He’ll ask me about my favorite TV shows and books, then to homecoming. The whole school will have a music-pausing moment when we enter. At the end of the night, he’ll confess that he’s always dreamed of ending up with a redhead in the honors program and then, finally, he’ll kiss me. It will be perfect Season One Finale to my life. I didn’t say any of this, but I thought it pretty loudly.

“Rue,” Zooey scrunched her face, “you know I love you, but this Max thing has been going on for how long?  Three years?”

Four.

“I know that he’s cute, but seriously, his Freshman Wonderland Prince speech was about the swirl in pudding packs,” she folded her arms. “You can do so much better.”

“I’ve told you!” I glanced back at the bathroom door. “The pudding thing was a metaphor.” She just looked at me. “Clearly, he just needs someone to connect with.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’d love to connect with him,” she shimmied her shoulders, and her curls flopped along. Sometimes I feel sorry for Zooey. She’s a Too-High-Up-on-Her-Soapbox-to-Fall-in-Love Type. I don’t get her. I’d give anything for somebody to fall in love with me.

“Oh! I almost forgot,” she clapped. “The randomest thing! I heard Headmaster Michaels on the phone saying something about Realiteen. Maybe he’ll become your new partner for discussing shows about spending money and making out. Not that I don’t love your psychoanalytic plot synopsis.”

“Why is that weird? I hope he really does so Realiteen recap syplotses.”

“Syplotses?” Zooey rolled her eyes straight up at me. “Like a plot synopsis? Seriously, what are you trying to prove with these weird word puns?”

“I’ve told you! They’re called portmanteaus, they’re a combination of words and they’re totally a thing. Like brunch, heard of it? Or spork, bromance, and, I don’t know, Realiteen!”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“That’s okay,” I smirked. “I’m sure that’s what you port-meant-to-say.”

Her eyes rolled back up on cue. For someone who knows everything, Zooey really doesn’t know anything.

“You know,” I said. “Realiteen is an amazing anthropological resource for an adolescent educator. Realiteen represents the realities of today’s youth.” I nodded to signify that this was a cause. If Zooey supports anything, it’s a cause. She once posted a six-minute video rant, denouncing people who like avocados just because they’re trendy.

“Really?” Zooey rolled her eyes, “because I’m pretty sure that Southland doesn’t look anything like those shows.” We turned to watch the cliques of skinny-hipped blondes and lacrosse jocks bobbing along on the vanilla river that runs through this school. “Maybe after an affirmative action suit.” Zooey doesn’t get it. I searched her scrunched-up, sunburnt face for a glimmer of girl, just a bit of understanding. How could she not get this?

“Anyways,  I have an elective to choose,” I turned toward the nearest table.

“What about Cheerleading Squad?”  Zooey smirked. I laughed. Not because Zooey was being funny, because she wasn’t. I laughed because there was no way I could even dream about making the squad; they were too perfect to even look at directly. The cheerleaders have got the tannest abs, the highest ponytails, and the shortest skirts in Southland. My skin doesn’t tan. It freckles. Especially Winnie Southland “School Princess/Homecoming Queen Shoe-In.”--Southland, yes, like as in Southland Academy. Just looking at Winnie’s glowing, summer-fresh tan is enough to make you want to buy bronzer, suck in your gut and wish that you’d worn wedges. Enough to remind you how you’ll never be that beautiful. But enough to inspire you to put on some lip gloss and try.

“Obviously,” I said. “There’s no way I’m going anywhere near the Performing Arts Society or Drama Class.”

“We both know who is.”

You could spot Winnie’s younger sister, Lela Southland and her butt from a hundred tables away. Lela was leaning over the Performing Arts table, practically horizontal as she forced her cleavage into the face of the club’s president, Oliver Johnson. “He’s studying her chest like it’s the storm speech from King Lear.”  

“In Latin,” Zooey scrunched her face.

“Actually,” I looked away, “more like braille.” Ew.

“So, basically”—she looked out to the gym—“our only options are either gender conforming or exploit our sexuality?”

I refused to indulge her with a response. Like Zooey has any experience exploiting her sexuality. The two of us combined have about as much sexual experience as a set of adult braces.

“You know what?” her face lit up with optimism. You can always tell what she’s thinking since she never wears any makeup. “I’m starting an equal opportunity club: Redefining Gender Roles, an all-inclusive club. We should have an ice cream party, right? It’ll be completely vegan!” She looked up at me. “I know what you’re thinking.”

“Doubtful.”

“No,” she rolled her eyes, “not just sorbet. We’ll get the coconut milk kind. They have normal flavors like chocolate and strawberry. Even mint chocolate chip. How fun?” Her brows shot back up.

“I have no idea.” I didn’t even need to sound sarcastic.

“No, you don’t,” said Zooey. “You can’t even imagine how this is going to revolutionize elective period. Have fun with Pudding Pack Max.”

“You know what? I will have fun with Pudding Pax,” I raised my chin. “Today’s the very first day of a whole new year. Fair game for anything to happen.” I spun around and picked up my pace. I needed to scout the new location for the new season of my life, to find something, anything.

“Hello, Rubie.” Everything inside me perked up, but it wasn’t Max. It was Dr. Peterson, my freshman AP Composition teacher, waving at me from an empty table.

“How was your summer?” Dr. P. is Southland’s official Teacher Crush. Pretty disrespectful, considering he’s the super brilliant. But I guess he’s okay-looking if you’re the kind of girl who giggles over Kafka passages and thirty-somethings with graying sideburns.

“Hey, Dr. P.! It was awesome,” I gushed, just like I’d practiced.

“Oh, yeah?” he tilted his head. He’s definitely grayer; he should get a girlfriend before he’s full-on salted. Based on his paper-grading speeds, he doesn’t get out much. “Any exciting highlights?”

“Oh.” I hadn’t planned those. “Well, on Thursdays, I got really into Six-Pack Island.”  I shifted in my flats. “Jeremy C. won. So that was good.” I tugged at my uniform skirt. It’s a particularly melancholy kind of loneliness, long summer nights and nothing to fill them with. I considered mentioning the paperwork at my dad’s office or the Smoothie Garden dates with Zooey, but choked on the bland taste of the words. I looked down at the poster hanging from his table. It read, “Arts Seminar” in Dr. P.’s loopy calligraphy.  

“You’re running an elective? Cool.”

“I’m really excited about it,” he nodded. “It’s a creative space for students with artistic ambitions.”

“Students here?” I laughed. “Do you consider the state football championship an art form?”

“I consider Southland Athletics to be a religion.” We both turned to Coach O.’s Athletics table where Brady “The Jenk” Jenkins was rousing a crowd.  

“Pound it, Hounds!” He shot his fist into the air.

“Hound it!” they howled.

“However,” laughed Dr. P., “I believe in the freedoms of both religion and speech.” He held out a sign-up sheet. “I’d be honored if you’d join. I’m sure your peers will look up to a contemporary with a fresh voice.”  

I turned to make sure no one was listening. They weren’t. Twist. “You think I have a fresh voice?” Last year I changed my profile picture and had to take it down after only getting four likes. Dr. P is easily my favorite teacher at Southland but he doesn’t get it. Take Zooey for example, she definitely has a voice, a loud one, but using the freshman orientation icebreaker to declare that your pet peeves are “injustice” and “GMOs” doesn’t really get you many friend requests. Me? Nobody here looks up to me; they don’t even look at me.

“Rubie, your final Composition paper argued that a series titled, Too Bossy for a Boyfriend? is your generation’s answer to Taming of the Shrew.” He raised his brows. “In iambic pentameter. I read it to my other freshman classes.” I pulled at my backpack straps, wondering if Max had heard it.

I felt myself smile. Maybe I could be a voice. Like Fat Catherine on Fatty Campers. I picked up the sheet, Beacon Bass had signed up. I never really considered him much of a voice, just kind of off. His freshman representative slogan was, “Power to the libertarians!” He lost. I made out Lacey Taylor’s tiny signature. Lacey is always reading these weird books, and I’ve never heard her speak more than two consecutive sentences. There was a third scribbly signature that I couldn’t even read. How artsy. Dr. Peterson was wrong. Beacon, Lacey, and this random mystery person would just drag me further down into the Honors Program abyss.

“I’m sorry,” I shrugged, “But I’m sure other people will sign up.”

“Hello, um, Dr. Peterson,” said Max. Max Holloway. When his blazer brushed the side of my backpack, it was like every atom was orbiting at an accelerated pace, and, at any moment, I’d melt into a liquid state and ruin his boat shoes. Now, this was my moment.

“I just wanted to check that Arts Seminar doesn't have a rule that poems only rhyme. I write in a non-rhyming style. It’s called free verse.”

“Don’t worry, Maxwell”—Dr. P. looked over his glasses—“we’re on the same page here.”

“OK. Awesome,” Max said. “See you next period.” I watched him walk off until all that was left was his backpack bobbing into the crowd. That signature! They say that people with unconventional handwriting are more creative. No wonder Max wants to be in Dr. P.’s class. Max is an artist. He’s so amazing.

“Wow, Rubie,” said Dr. P as I scribbled my name. “What changed your mind?”

“Destiny.”

“Well”—he cocked his head—“who am I to question destiny?” I smiled at the floor. I can only handle so much teacher eye contact.

“Rumor has it, you’re a voice,” called a deep voice called from the next table.

“Wha--” Someone heard the me-being-a-voice thing. A guy.

“Oh, hey Cooper.” Cooper Conley “Basketball God” is by far the most popular person to acknowledge my existence on a regular basis. It took me a moment to recognize him; he had grown stubble--and I guess--a more adult-like presence to match his deep voice. He waved, I assumed, at the Dance Team girls giggling behind me.

“Hi, Miss Voice,” he smiled, right at me. Cooper has this squinty smile where the exposed slits of retina glow against his brown skin. I bit my lip, guilty that he’d be seen talking to someone like me. “So, with all due respect to Dr. P. He’s the man, but he’s a little late. I’ve been onto you when you were just a fourth grade spelling bee prodigy whooping my sixth-grade butt.”

It's true. I beat Cooper Conley, the celebrated point guard, in a spelling bee. He’s also the only Southland Varsity Hall-of-Famer in the honors program, the reigning Homecoming prankster and there’s always a picture of him on the “Student Diversity” section of the website. Even college are obsessed with him; basketball coaches have been scouting him for years now. Not to brag, but we live in the same neighborhood, so we used to carpool back from spelling practice.

“Well,” he cocked his head. “I hope those rumors are true. A voice is pretty much the only requirement for the venture I’m recruiting for.”

“Wow,” I clasped my hands. “Flattered.”

“Flattered by your flattery,” Cooper squinted into a smile.

“When will you be announcing this grand venture?”

“Always one step ahead,” he nodded.

“I’m confused.”

“It’s the school announcements.”

“Like Ms. Farmer’s PA announcements?” I searched his face, afraid that this was one of his pranks.

“Kind of--Ms. Farmer’s letting me take over. I’ve set up a headquarters in the old maintenance closet; it’s nothing fancy, but there are mics and everything. My mom even made this giant sign for the door. Turns out it looks kind of awkward with just one name. Almost as awkward as it’d look if I started hanging out alone in a closet.”  

“You’d be Cooped up Con-all-lonely,” I said. Out loud. To Cooper Conley.  

“Ru-bie Jones-ing?” I must not have hidden my confusion. “You know?” his nostrils flared, “like ‘You be joking.’ Sorry, that was embarrassing. See? I really do need your help. Please help me.”

“I don’t know,” I shrugged. I’m not exactly the greatest public speaker. Suddenly I spotted the backpack floating above the crowd, and my stomach fizzed like fountain soda. Starting just next period, I’d be sitting next to Max, or maybe even across from him at Dr. P.’s seminar. If he hears my voice over the PA later in the morning, then he can’t help but notice me.

“I’ll do it.” At the sound of the bell, I waved to Cooper and hurried off to seminar. I didn’t want to be late for the rest of my life.

 The next scene takes place after Rubie is chosen to star in the Realiteen show. 

The following weeks were a blur of “Hi”s in the hallway and assorted stages of shock. But walking into the Delta Hotel Spa for an afternoon of beauty treatments, it finally hit me. I was like a cartoon peasant girl that just learned I was really a princess. How can you not just frolic when you’re surrounded by dreams coming true and bowls of roses and mirrors on mirrors reflecting infinite white leather lushness?

I powered up my camera, as I inhaled the cucumber-y aroma. It’s like my whole life I've been preparing for this happily-ever-after-party. And on Monday, when the camera strikes “on” and my pumpkin transforms into a Reality Show, it’s finally going to begin.

“Mm. Smells like me,” Jade’s voice seemed to echo off of everywhere. It took me a moment to find him among the endless reflections. “Sweetie,” he picked up the chocolate bowl. “Why are you holding that camera?”

“It’s fine,” hissed Cat, as she ignored my wave. “Now everybody,” she motioned to the other three women, “this is Rub-,”

“Ruby!“ Jade interrupted. “With-a-Y! Now, Ruby is clearly in a very early ‘Before’ stage-”

“Um, sorry,” I whispered. “But, my name is actually spelled-“

“Like a typo,” His palm swallowed my shoulder. “So, on-screen you’re Ruby-with-a-Y. The ‘IE’ was just too confusing. What would happen to the hashtags?”

“I don’t know.”

“Exactly.”

“So,” I turned down to my shoes. “Is this new show protocol?”

“It is if you want to stay on that show,” Cat whispered. Shivers trickled up my spine.

“Now Ruby,” Jade sang. “Meet D and our Beauty Team.”

I swallowed a squeal. It’s like they came from some magic-cool land, somewhere all sharp edges and black eyeliner. With her mid-torso white blonde hair, thick plastic glasses and giant fur vest, D looked like a woodland creature. A giant one.

“Ohm’go-!” she squealed, lifting me off my feet. “Is it okay if I’m obsessed with you? Hey, do you like my glasses?” she dropped me back down. “Not everybody gets them, you know?”

“Too sweet,” cooed Jade. “Already starting on your girl talk.”

Cat rolled her eyes. “D will be your stylist,” she explained. I gave a slow, controlled nod. “Pam and Sue, will take care of all nail, waxing, and skincare needs. Cosmetic treatments will all be off camera, this isn’t Emergency Rhinoplasty: Nose Jobs with the Stars.

“It’ll make your new look feel natural,” Jade added. “It’s revolutionary.”

I guess I couldn’t think of any behind-the-camera makeovers either, except -“What about the finale of--”

“Nobody cares about that,” Cat pointed me towards a salon chair.

“Thanks, Kitty Cat,” oozed D. It looked as if Jade and D’s lumbering reflections would crush Cat’s tiny body, if it wasn’t for the look on her face.   

“I’m so excited that you’re into school,” proclaimed D. “I’m all about that look lately,” she pointed to her glasses. “I know! Such a nerd! But Zack, from the glasses store, thinks I’m a hot nerd. Like the sexy Halloween costume kind. You know the ones with the knee-highs?” I scrunched down my knee socks with my feet. “So embarrassing!” I think she was giggling but it sounded like terrible hiccups.

She was still doing it as she snipped a lock of my hair and as Pam swept it away. Everything D did seemed to be on full volume. I liked to watch her as the words bounced from her mouth. She does this thing where she opens her mouth all the way and throws back her head, like a dancing puppet. But mainly, I think I liked just nice to have someone at Realiteen who actually seemed to enjoy spending time with me.

“Want something to read? I’m obsessed with reading. It’s so good for you. But I know!” D bursted. “So embarrassing!”she handed me an issue of Stars: In-Touch People Like Us, Ok? featuring the second and third hottest Kasherly sisters, Kiki and KayKay from Kiki and KayKay Take NYC/Miami/All The Best Leather Pants. Hey, once your hair is lightened, we’re going to look like sisters too!”

“Lightened?” I choked. “You’re dying my hair?”

“Don’t worry, sweetie,” D gigg-cupped as Pam swooped a black smock over my uniform. “Eyebrows too. Obviously,” She tossed a second smock over a mirror. Jade had explained that this technique helps the client learn to trust the stylist.

“Cat? Jade?” I turned my camera down to the marble tiles. “I’m sorry but I thought you liked my hair.”

 “Now Ruby,” he clapped. “You know I’m pro-ginger. That’s part of what made you stand out in your audition. But actually, your look received unexpectedly high ratings with test audiences. Even,” he lit up, “The CEO himself was impressed.”

My stomach fluttered, “People liked me?’” I looked up.

“Likability isn’t enough,” Cat looked right at me. Right through my camera, like she just got me. For a second, I felt like I got her, too. “It isn’t interesting,” she blinked away. “These people aren’t looking for a friend. They’re looking for an excuse to change the channel.”

“And that’s exactly why we have to tone it down,” Jade patted my head. “If viewers are intimidated by such an aggressive color, then how will they see sweet, relatable Ruby? It’s overpowering. You understand.”

I guess I did. People have been misunderstanding redheads forever. The ancient Greeks believed that we were resurrected as vampires. But that was disproven during the European Witch Hunts, when many redheaded women were burned at the stake. Spoiler alert: They just died.

He motioned to D through the mirror, never breaking eye contact with his own reflection. “Good luck taking care of those freckles.”

“Take care?” I asked. “Like the spray tan tattoo that Vintage got on Rich Kids Hanging Out: The Trendy Part of Brooklyn?”

“Listen,” he leaned towards me. “Your freckles are technically cute. But you probably should have outgrown them by now. People might think that something’s wrong with your face.”

I turned to my reflection. The truth was, that my hair and my freckles, I’ve always liked them.

“Ruby, sweetie,” he smiled. “We’d never ask you to do anything unless it was completely necessary. Don’t you trust me?”

“I do,” I swallowed hard. These people are experts. What did I know? Just some stories about magical red hair that I’d been telling myself long enough to believe.

“Cat, what do you think?” I asked.   

“About that?” she asked, without looking up. “Nothing.”

“What Cat is trying to say is that lots of people start out as ‘Befores,’” Jade smiled at her. “Some people spend their whole lives trying to escape it. Many never do.” Then I heard the echo of heels clicking against the marble floor and Cat slamming the door shut.

“Where- Jade, did I say something wrong?” I asked. What happened?”

“You really don’t know, do you?”

“Um, no. Should I?”

“Oh, no,” he smiled right into the camera. “You’re doing just fine. You know, Cat was wrong about you.”

“What?” I asked. “What did she--”

“Don’t worry about anything she says,” he shook his head. “You’re perfect. Well, you’re about to be.”

“Thanks,” I exhaled. “And I’m really excited about this. I guess I just didn’t realize that I needed so many- changes.”

“Oh, Ruby Bear, don’t be silly,” he smiled. “We’re not changing anything.”

“You’re not?”

“We’re just improving. Me, D, the whole team,” he motioned around. “Don’t you want to be the best you?”

“I do. I really do. And I’m sorry,” my lip quivered. “But the show starts tomorrow- and I’m still nothing like those girls on your shows.”

“Now,” he ran some clear goop through his hair. “It used to be that all you needed to get on television was the right dominant genes. But today, every tart with a trust-fund has been nipped, tucked and airbrushed onto her own show. This hotness inflation has affected us all,” he shook his head.  “Do You Even Know Who My Dad Is? and You’re Wearing That To Brunch? are both tanking. Hot is just no longer hot. But that doesn't matter anymore.”

“Really?” I asked. “Why not?”

“Because we're done showing teens world’s out of their reach. We are reaching downward, down to the depths of the Deep South. We’re introducing them to the girl that they never noticed living next door or maybe even in their own mirror,” he explained. “The one with body dysmorphia, a mild case of A.D.D. and way too much homework. But what she really wants,” he took a breath, sucking all the air from the room. “Is to belong. She’s the average American underdog stress eating alone in the food court. You may not see her, you may not even want to. But you can relate to her. You, Ruby Jones, are the next big thing.”

“Wait,” hope tickled my entire body. “You really think so?”   

“Not yet. But that’s why you have us; we’re here to make you a star. The star of The Real Live Life of Ruby Jones.” I smiled.

“Ready?” D had returned with one last smock.

“I think so,” I told my reflection as I watched it disappear.

“Let’s get to it,” she sang. “Now tell me everything.”

The next few hours were a blur of sugar-scented bleach, shiny folded foils and not writing my History essay because I was talking to D. My dad’s neuroscience journals talk about how this bonding hormone, oxytocin, is released when women share romance-related secrets. That totally happened; it was so thera-cute-ic. Oh, Cooper would love that one. Anyways, I told D about Max and about Zooey and Lela, and I started to tell her about my Seminar video project idea, but what she really wanted to hear about was Max. So I told her stories until my head was full of foil.

And she listened. Really listened. Not like Zooey who would’ve gone on about wasting my episodic memory on Max, even though that’s not even how memory works. Or friendship, because Zooey wasn’t there. She didn’t even want to be. Jade told me that she turned down his invitation and was totally rude about it.

I love Zooey but lately, she’s been just so, so Zooey, I guess. I wanted to tell Cat and Jade about my ideas to include her on the show but D told me that I needed a Zooey break. I guess she was right.

D told me that she’s really happy that we’re friends because she’s not friends with a lot of girls, that girls just don’t get her. I’m really glad that D likes me. She’s really fun and cultured and gives honest advice. Like, that my eyes won’t look too big if we find the right brow shape. Hers used to be all wrong too and she swears they were the only thing holding her back from finding love.

She also told me that I need to really listen to Jade’s direction. We finished an entire bottle of cucumber water as she gushed about how Jade is up for this giant promotion and when he gets it, he’s going to make me a star. The only issue is a certain skinny, frigid bitch. D made me swear not to tell anyone that she called her that. I promised. I had no idea what she was talking about, anyway.

While the dye set, I was changed into a towel and instructed to stop scratching so much. Then I was handed over to Pam and Sue.

I learned a lot during my makeover. Like, that I have Neanderthal cuticles. I learned that I’m no longer allowed to wear bright or sparkly nail polish, just my new signature color, It’s Pink, I Think. Oh Right, It’s White.

I learned that I had enough blackheads to populate a poppy seed bagel. I never really knew that a part of you that seems so tiny could hurt so badly when you’re getting rid of it. Jade told me about how the network is still testing the show out so the first season will run for just four episodes. “But,” he had assured me. “That doesn’t mean that we’re going to be short on story.” And I learned that social media is important. “But don’t worry,” he shook his head. “I’m going to have to makeover your online presence even before we air.”

“I don’t know?” I clutched my phone. “I’ve never been a big poster.”

“Don’t you want to get ‘likes’?”

“Likes?” I swallowed a giggle as Pam massaged my hands.  

“More than you can imagine,” his eyes widened. “And too many messages and comments to even respond to.”

“You think so?” Connecting to people sounded nice. I follow all the Realiteen stars. Except for Catherine, I could never find her anywhere. I didn’t stop Jade as he picked up my phone. Anyways, my hands were soaking in rose-scented goo.  

The toughest lesson of the day by far was that learning that waxing will rip you right out of your fairytale makeover fantasy.

“How about keeping it down?” Jade’s voice thundered through the door. “Soon you’ll be a pro like me. I’ve had places waxed that you have yet to learn about in health class.”

I breathed in, inhaling a scent that I knew was supposed to relax me. I wondered how much more I’d have to endure until I was beautiful. But with the foils and bleaching and ripping and tickling, all I was feeling was raw and pink and embarrassed and ugly. Really, the only thing I was absolutely certain of was the pain. It was starting to seep through my skin into my insides.

“You’re no good at this,” Pam threw up her hands. I was left cold and alone and the most naked I’ve ever been outside of a shower. Tears trickled down my cheeks in time to an acoustic cover of the rain.     

Then I heard quick, clicky scratches. Cat was back. Maybe she’d come to comfort me. Or maybe just to hold my hand. Maybe this was our moment. It wasn’t.

“My hair removal procedures have raised my pain tolerance so much that I had a kidney stone and I thought it was my period,” she said. “This is a tickle.” Then she yanked off the last strip herself.

I guess the real lesson was: although I thought I’d spent my whole life attempting to be beautiful, I still had so much to learn. However, after being trimmed, highlighted, blow-dried, exfoliated, extracted, cleansed, filed, moisturized, polished and waxed and D finally swept away the last smock, I had to zoom in to believe it. In the mirror shot stood a straight-haired strawberry blonde and glowing skin free of freckles. I had no idea what I did before the Beauty Team, but I was definitely a ‘Before.’

But that life was over. It all felt so surreal. I felt like a whole new me, except that I didn’t look that much like the original, more like her hot, older cousin or her celebrity doppelgänger staring gawkwardly at me.

“I almost forgot.” Jade joined me in the mirror. Then everything turned blurry as I felt cold plastic curling around my ears.

“But I don’t wear glasses.”

“Not yet. But in Reality, anything is possible. Can’t you see it?”

“No. I can’t see anything.”