Theodora Twist by Melissa Senate Page B

but the producers said I should stick to good old American home cooking.” She steps back and stares into one of the cameras and breaks into a pasted-on smile. “Theodora, I hope you like roast beef and baked potatoes.”
    As if I eat meat or white food? “Nothing like meat and potatoes!” I say.
    Emily’s stepfather beams. “Emily, why don’t you show Theodora to your room. That’s the collective your,” he adds, laughing. “If you need anything that’s not there, you just let us know.”
    Mrs. Stewarts nods. “Dinner’s in a half hour. Why don’t you two go off and get reacquainted, and then come on down.”
    Emily doesn’t move.
    Deep endless sigh. “I’ll lead the way,” I tell her. My suitcases were sent days ago, so there’s nothing to lug up the steep flight of stairs. There are photographs lining the stairwell. I almost expect to see myself and my mom and dad in the frames. But the pictures are of Emily, and a couple of the baby. Emily trails behind me, silent. God, am I going to have to do all the talking for an entire month? A cameraman is ahead of us and a camerawoman is behind us, so I guess I could cut her some slack. The first time I looked into a camera, I froze.
    I pass the master bedroom, then the guest bedroom, which is probably now the nursery. At the end of the hall is my old room. I wonder if it’s still orange. My dad painted a rainbow mural on the big wall a few years before he died, and afterward, I couldn’t bear to look at it, so I bought the loudest paint I could find and painted over it. My mom freaked. I hated it too, but at least I could be in my own room without crying.
    The door is open. The room is painted a very pale pink. There are two full-size beds with matching white iron headboards separated by a bedside table. A mural of pastel fairies is on the wall where the rainbow was. There are two white desks, one large, one small, which I suppose is the one they bought for me. A fluffy pink throw rug with fluffy pink and white pillows lines the floor under the window. It’s a really girlie room. I’m surprised I like it. It reminds me of my bedroom on the set of Family.
    “Which is your bed?” I ask Emily, who’s standing in the doorway of her own room as though she’s not entitled to come in.
    She points, but I have no idea which one she’s pointing to. I assume it’s the one with the half-dead Winnie-the -Pooh on the pillow. “And the one by the window is your desk. My dad recently upgraded my computer because he got a free one from work, so my old one is all yours. It has Internet access and everything.” Her cheeks turn red. “From mute to rambling. Sorry. I’m just really, really nervous.”
    I smile at her. “You’ll get used to me. I’m just a regular teen, remember?”
    She laughs, then clamps her hand over her mouth. “Not that that’s funny,” she says. “Funny ha-ha, I mean. Oh God. Shut up, Emily.” She turns bright red.
    I’d better give her something to do before she passes out. “Why don’t you put on some music?”
    “Bellini Brothers?” she asks; then the hand clamps over her mouth again and she stares at the two camerapeople in the room.
    “It’s okay,” I tell Emily. “I’m a big fan of theirs.” I suddenly feel a camera in my face. “Can you back off a little?” I ask the guy. “I’m not about to launch into a story about threesomes.”
    Emily whirls around, Bo and Brandon’s new CD in hand, her cheeks bright red.
    This is either going to be a really amusing month or a really, really boring one. So far, it’s a fifty-fifty split.

Emily
    Theodora Twist is sitting at the dinner table, chatting away about how one of her costars in Family stayed in character during the entire shoot—when he took smoking breaks, when he got his makeup done, when he pigged out at the craft service table. Every few minutes I do forget about the camera pointing at me, but then one of the camerapeople sneezes or something and we all freeze. And