Theodora Twist by Melissa Senate Page A

and study.
    As I walk up the stone path to the house, I realize everything is the same. The pink and red flowers lining the walk. The white stone chair on the porch. I see my dad on the hammock between the two trees on the side of the house, napping. I see a kid version of me snuggled beside him, my little hand in his big hand. “Dad?” I say, looking up at the cloudless sky, my eyes stinging.
    I see the curtains moving in the living room window and a face dart out of view. I glance at the hammock. My father’s gone. I’m gone.
    I walk up the steps to the porch, my legs rubbery. Showtime, I say to myself as I ring the buzzer, which is my cue to forget. My cue to become.
    The entire family answers the door. No one speaks— or blinks, for that matter. “Hi, it’s me, Theodora,” I say. “In disguise, to ward off the paparazzi,” I add, tilting my head toward the line of cars. Three sets of eyes shift toward the street. They look confused.
    “Come in, come in,” says a woman holding a baby. Is this Emily’s mom? She looks totally different. She used to be a hot-shot attorney in the city. But now she looks like . . . a mom. Behind her is a man I’ve never seen before. Oh, that’s right. Ashley told me Emily’s mom remarried, Stew something. Emily is standing—hiding— behind Stew. I can barely see her. They’re all so nervous they don’t move. Then they all jump back at once. Three people—two men and a woman—are filming from various angles with tiny handheld TV cameras.
    I close the door and take off the glasses and my wig and unpin my hair. “See? It’s me.”
    They all just stare for a second. I’m used to it. You’ve gotta always give people a few minutes to realize you’re flesh and blood; then they calm down.
    “We’ll film a perfect arrival at another time,” I explain. “I’ll have an empty suitcase and everything. It’ll be more natural anyway, since we’ll all be used to each other, and you’ll be more used to the cameras.”
    They smile their frozen smiles. God, they’re stiff.
    “Welcome to Oak City!” Emily’s mom says, five beats too late. “We’re so happy to have you.”
    “Yes, delighted,” Stew Something says.
    I glance at Emily. I’m going to have to give her a minute; she looks like she’s going to faint. She also looks exactly the same as she did the last time I saw her. Thin, not too tall, hair of nondescript length and texture and color. She’s cute, though. She has really pretty hazel eyes.
    “And who’s this adorable sweetie?” I ask, shaking the baby’s tiny hand.
    Emily’s mom visibly relaxes. Her shoulders actually drop. “This is Sophie,” she says. “She’s almost a year old. And this is Sophie’s dad, Stew Stewarts,” she adds.
    Good thing I’m an actress and know how to hold back a laugh. Stew Stewarts? Cackle-worthy. “Thanks for hosting me,” I tell them. “I know it must feel really weird, having all these camerapeople around. If you ever need to take a break or want some privacy, just say the word and I’ll scare them out of the room.”
    Emily laughs, and I smile at her.
    From the foyer, where we’re all crowded together for no good reason, you can see the big kitchen and the living room and the dining room and the huge screened porch that leads to the backyard. Everything is the same from three years ago except for the furniture, of course, and the color of the kitchen walls. Now the kitchen is yellow. Before it was some hideous flowery wallpaper.
    “I really loved this house,” I say, looking around. “There are no houses like this in L.A.—big old Victorians with nooks and crannies.” They’re all still staring. If they don’t move out of my way soon, I’m going to get a cramp in my leg. “Yum, something smells delicious,” I lie, sniffing the air. “I’m starving.”
    “Wonderful!” Emily’s mom says, then looks nervous.
    She leans over to me and whispers, “I had an amazing menu planned for your first night,