Life Uploaded Page 6

  Anyway, I’ve got four hours and fifteen minutes to get ready, which means I must start literally now.

  First I take a bath. This is how I unwind and get rid of butter­flies and nerves. The tub in my private basement lair is not that big, nor does it have an exciting view (it is in a basement), but I have lined about four million candles up along the porcelain rim for ultimate relaxation. I rest my iPhone on the sink and have it play Enya’s album Shepherd Moons. When I was a baby, this was the album my mom played to get me to sleep, so my mind is basically programmed to find it soothing. I shave my legs and scrub myself down with a salt and coconut exfoliant, then rest my head against the tile and could easily just fall asleep—but I can’t, of course; I have very important things to do!

  Once scrubbed and shampooed and conditioned, I dry myself off, slip into a bubblegum-pink fleece robe, and tackle the first grooming task: hair. I blow it dry and then choose a cone curler with a large barrel to create loose, casual easy-breezy curls that say, Hey, I’m fun and fancy! But mostly fun. It’s that classically effortless look that actually requires quite a bit of effort. In the good old days, that would be it for hair, but now because of this stupid gum fiasco I have to make sure to cover up the awkward spot. I choose to create two braids that cross behind my head, strategically passing over the dreaded choppy area, before lacing a ribbon through it for some extra flare.

  I’m in the middle of choosing a ribbon color when there’s a knock on my door.

  “It’s Mom. Can I come in?”

  “Of course!” I call up. “It should be open.”

  Mom comes down into my lair with a cup of hot tea. “I made tea, thought you might like some.”

  “Mmm, yes! Thanks, Mom. You da best.”

  “Where are you headed, honey? Somewhere fancy?”

  “Yes, actually,” I say, choosing a muted coral ribbon. “I’m going on a date at the Magic Castle.”

  “Ooh la la! A date with whom, may I ask?”

  “Okay, fine, you were right. Remember the other night when you asked if I met a boy and I changed the subject? His name is Dalton and he’s . . . well, he’s Dalton James, the actor.”

  “The movie star?” Her mouth drops open. She sits on my bed as if suddenly unable to stand on her own two feet.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You have a date with a movie star. I can’t believe this. I mean, I can believe this, I always thought you’d end up with someone famous, I just can’t believe I was right.”

  “No one said anything about me ending up with him. It’s just one date. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

  “Well? So? Are you excited?”

  “Sure, kind of . . . but I’m almost too nervous to be excited.”

  “Why, honey?”

  “Well, it’s my first date, and—”

  “Your first date ever? Didn’t you go on a date with Jack?”

  “No. That was the whole point of the Jack Fiasco. He didn’t want to date me.”

  “Oh my god, I can’t believe my baby is going on her first date! I have to get your father in here!”

  “Please don’t.” I panic for a second, thinking she might actually call my dad in to join us and then we’d have to have one of those awkward talks I’ve been dreading. And besides, when I’m feeling jittery, the last thing I need is more attention on me.

  “Why not? He’s your dad. He’ll want to see you off on your first date! When will Dalton be here to pick you up?”

  “He’s not, I’m meeting him there, and it’s really not a big deal. Forget I used the word ‘date.’ Think of this more as a casual ­meet-up.”

  “Why are you trying to play this down? It’s exciting!”

  “I dunno.” I lace the ribbon into a braid. “I guess just, like . . . well, you know, he’s this super famous actor and I’m just kind of . . . well, you know.”

  “I don’t know, actually.” She laughed. “Sure, you’re not a movie star, but—”

  “I’m a YouTube star! That’s like the least bright of all the stars. I’m basically the bottom rung of the fame totem pole.”

  “Honey! Don’t talk about yourself like that. You’re the brightest shining star in the world, and you know it. And that has nothing to do with how many people know who you are.”

  “I know you think so, but you’re my mom. You don’t see me like the rest of the world does.”

  “The rest of the world loves you too, angel. And if they don’t, they’re the ones missing out.”

  I finish with my braids and go to sit next to her on my bed. “I guess. It’s just, the thing is, my online personality is bubbly and breezy, and yeah, people like that, but that’s not the real me. The real me is clumsy and awkward and insanely shy. The real me gets rejected. Guys don’t like the real me. Pair that with the fact that I’m not a serious actor, and Dalton’s just going to think I’m this silly kid.”

  “Oh, Harper. Just because Jack Walsh couldn’t see what a lucky guy he’d be to date you does not mean you’re anything other than incredible and beautiful and amazing, okay? He’s just one guy. What did I tell you that day after school?”

  “You’re not a teenager until you’ve gotten your heart broken at least once.”

  “Correct. Everyone needs to go through it. It doesn’t make you any less lovable, it just makes you human.”

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  “I’m definitely right. And another thing, this Dalton guy isn’t any better than you just because he’s a movie star. Celebrities are flashy and exciting and our culture worships them, but that doesn’t mean they’re special gods. They are not, I repeat, not, any more worthy than anybody else. Okay?”

  “Okay.” I feel her words reach my brain and send calming vibes throughout my nervous system. “I hear ya, Mom.”

  “Good. Now go be your remarkable, delightful self, and remember: it isn’t your job to impress him. You’re Harper Jessica Ambrose. It’s his job to impress you.”

  She stands up and kisses me on the head just like she used to do when I was little and had a scraped knee. Sometimes I wish I could be off on my own in the world just doing my Harper thing, but I gotta admit, it feels good to have Mom and Dad on my team.

  * * *

  Hair is done and mom time is done, so that means it’s outfit time. I want to look nice but not like I’m trying too hard, so a few days ago with Ellie I picked out a red floral-patterned flare dress from Urban Outfitters with really cute double straps. I pair it with black patent-leather Mary Janes and a blazer from Topshop because I once read somewhere that the Magic Castle has a strict, sort of formal dress code. Outfit, check.

  Last but so, so far from least is makeup. I always have a lot of fun doing my makeup because there are so many different components to it, so much so that I end up feeling a little bit like an artist, which is awesome and actually pretty empowering. I’m a teenage girl, so naturally I don’t have the clearest skin in the whole world. There’s this idea in “girl world” that our skin has to be perfect, and that’s probably because everyone’s skin in magazines and on TV is picture-perfect flawless. But the truth is, most people struggle with some form of imperfection, and before they get photographed for a magazine they put on makeup. Then they get photoshopped later. And if that isn’t happening, the person being photographed is most likely Beyoncé, and we should all be bowing down to her majesty anyway.

  But what if Dalton doesn’t think I’m pretty? The thought flashes into my mind like a lightning bolt; I can’t help it. Adam Levine’s party was pretty dark. What if when he sees my skin in the light he thinks I’m a monster and changes his mind about me? Ugh, there’s no time for this self-sabotaging line of thinking! I stare myself down in the mirror and say, “Harper, you are a goddess. If Dalton doesn’t think you’re beautiful, skin and all, then he’s a shallow moron and you’ll move on. A guy’s opinion does not affect your self-worth.”

  Then, to be safe, I do my makeup exactly as I did the night of Adam Levine’s party (be
cause hey, it worked, didn’t it?), and add a layer of waterproof mascara in case Dalton does turn out to be a jerk. Knock on wood! Voilà, I’m makeup ready!

  Oh, wait, I’m not just makeup ready, I’m ready ready. I’ve actually run out of date-preparation tasks. And yep, just as I dreaded, it is seven-thirty and time for me to start driving, which suddenly feels extremely scary. I’ve prepared my look to a tee, and if I’m being honest, I look simply baller, gummed-out hair chunk and all. But now I actually have to go and talk to the guy, and I have no idea what I’m going to say. What kinds of things should I talk about? What if I act like a total spaz? Normally when I’m super nervous to go to an event, I just bring Ellie along with me, and she always does the greatest job at calming me down. But this is a date, I can’t just invite Ellie last minute. I mean, that would be ridiculous. Right? Right, Harper. You. Cannot. Bring. Ellie.

  Just then there’s an unexpected knock on the door at the top of the basement stairs.

  “Harper!” my mom calls down. “There’s someone here to see you!”

  Dammit. My heart skips a beat. Did I get it wrong? Is Dalton actually here to pick me up? No, of course not, how would he have gotten my address? Okay, Harper, take a breath, I tell myself, it’s all good. Just go see who it is. No reason to panic. I grab my keys and my black Balenciaga bag and head upstairs.

  “Who is it?” I ask my mom, who has a disconcerting little smirk on her face as she lingers by the basement door.

  “He’s in the living room,” she stage-whispers. “I told him you’d be right there.” She looks me up and down and lets out a little whistle. “You look fancy, honey.”

  “Tell me who it is, is it Dalton? Is Dalton here?”

  Before she gets a chance to answer, I hear a voice that is most definitely not Dalton.

  “Hey, Harper.”

  I turn around toward the doorway and standing there is Jack. Not my soon-to-be date, but Jack.

  “Jack. Hi? What’re you doing here?” He’s wearing a navy blue hoodie and a Nirvana T-shirt.

  His cheeks get a little red as he meets my gaze. “Wow, Harper, you look amazing.”

  “Thanks.” I’m super confused and a little stressed out—I ­always like to leave myself extra time when I’m going somewhere new, so I really should be in the car already en route to the Magic Castle. “So, what’s up?”

  “I got us tickets to see Ed Sheeran at the Troubadour. I was going to tell you today at school, but I thought it would be a cool surprise.”

  “That’s awesome, Jack. When is it?”

  “Tonight.”

  Tonight?

  I pause, not wanting to hurt his feelings. “Jack . . . I can’t go tonight. I have a date. That’s what I’m on my way to go do right now, actually.”

  “Ah, of course.” He’s disappointed, majorly. “That’s why you look so nice. I mean, you always look really nice, but you know what I mean. You look extra nice tonight.”

  “Thanks, Jack.” There’s an awkward silence and I can feel my mom hanging back, watching everything play out. This is too weird. I give her a wave and head out the front door, Jack trailing behind me. “I’m sorry, but I really gotta go. Let’s find another time to see a show, okay?” I use the clicker to open the car door and start to back away.

  “Ditch your date,” he blurts.

  “What?” I shake my head. “Don’t be ridiculous, I like this guy.”

  “Harper, please, don’t go. I hate the thought of you with some guy you barely even know.”

  “How do you know I barely know him? Look, Jack, you had your chance with me. This is all too little too late. I can’t just drop my life just because you suddenly decide you’re interested. And speaking of that, your interest feels very timely considering the fame I’ve found online. You never liked me when I was a nerdy nobody.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Right.”

  “No, really, how can you possibly think that? I’ve been ­trying to—”

  I check my phone: 7:42. Crap. “Jack, I’m sorry, but I really have to go. We’ll talk another time.”

  I give him a weak wave goodbye and roll up the window. I sit for a moment, mildly stunned, thinking, What the hell just happened? And why do I feel so awful about it? Then drive away.

  * * *

  During the drive I calm myself down and recenter myself for the night ahead. Like I said to Jack, it’s nice he’s decided he suddenly wants to be with me, but that ship has sailed. And it’s headed right toward Dalton James. He’s who I need to be focused on right now. I put on my best pump-up music and roll down the windows just a bit, not enough to mess with my hair but enough to feel wild and fancy-free. Let’s get this started.

  I parallel-park on a side street (without dinging any cars, thank you very much), and with slightly shaking legs begin walking ­toward the Magic Castle. I have never been more nervous in my whole life than when I am trudging up its majorly steep driveway (in heels, nonetheless). There are all these mega-fancy-looking people in tuxedoes and gowns, driving up in their Maseratis and Lamborghinis, and is it just me, or is everybody staring at me like I don’t belong here and did it suddenly just get ten degrees warmer out here? Yep, they’re definitely staring. If Ellie had been here, she’d grab me by the arm and say, “Babe, why you think the world revolves around you is beyond me. Nobody is even looking at you. Now for god’s sake, snap out of it.” Okay, I think, maybe I’ll just imagine she’s here with me. It’s all good, Harper, you’re blending right in; no one thinks you look out of place; no one thinks you’re a loser and that you should go home. You deserve to be here just as much as anybody else does. You got this.

  My heart is racing like a hummingbird’s by the time I get to the front door, where a gaggle of women in white dresses are smoking cigarettes and a big, bald doorman stands watch with his arms crossed. I get a text from Dalton that says:

  Tell the doorman you’re meeting Dalton James.

  I put my phone away and walk up to the doorman as confidently as I possibly can and say, “Hi, I’m meeting Dalton James.”

  Of course I’m expecting to be met with doubt and condescending laughter, but instead the doorman smiles and says, “Yes, Mr. James is expecting you. Right this way,” and unclips a red velvet rope to let me through.

  Next thing I know I’m in a dark room with bookcases from wall to wall and portraits of various famous magicians in big glass frames. There’s another doorperson, this time a woman with bright red lipstick, who directs me to one of the bookcases and says, “The password is open sesame.”

  “The password?”

  “Yes. You have to say it to get in.”

  “To get into the bookshelf?” I’m confused. And skeptical.

  The woman sighs, impatient. “Just say it, miss.”

  “Uh, okay. Open sesame.”

  At this, the bookcase begins to vibrate and slide open. What is this, Hogwarts? I think to myself. Impressive. Also: open sesame? Seriously?

  “Mr. James is just through the door. Enjoy your night.” And with that, I’m thrust into a vast room filled with circular red dining tables and elaborate candelabras and of course Dalton, sitting at a table with a group of people who are all very put together and proper looking, not to mention at least two or three years older than Dalton and me. Everyone at the table looks super at ease in their environment, as if they’ve been here a million times before. One girl (woman?) is actually wearing a fur coat and pearls. She might as well have a cigarette holder and monocle to complete the ensemble.

  “Harper!” Dalton hops up from his seat to meet me, leaning in for a cheek kiss. Are my legs shaking? I panic a little. Yep, I think my legs are actually shaking. I mean really, though, how could they not be at a time like this?

  “I am so happy you’re here. This is Jake, Roger, Diane, Angelica, and Lilly. Everyone, this is Harper.” He shows me off proudly to the group, and I am met with unenthusiastic salutations. “Here, why don’t you sit down and I’ll go grab you a
drink?”

  “Actually,” says the long-haired, British-accented one named Roger, whom I recognize as the lead singer of rock band the Wayward Donnellys, “the show starts five minutes from now, so let’s just head over to the stage.” Roger pushes his chair back and stands up, demonstrating how extremely tall and gangly he is.

  “But I’m so comfy here,” Angelica complains, brushing her curly blond hair away from her eyes. “Can’t we just keep lounging? The thought of standing up again in these heels is enough to make me cry.” Angelica is a model, I’ve seen her face in numerous Revlon ads.

  “So dramatic!” Diane swats at her playfully. All three women are wearing 1920s imitation flapper dresses, and it’s safe to say I don’t fit in.

  “Take those crazy shoes off, then. I told you not to wear them,” Roger mumbles.

  “Don’t be such a grouch!” Angelica laughs at him. “It’s your birthday, just relax. I’m only teasing anyway. I’m famished and totally ready for dinner. Let’s go, let’s go.”

  Dalton and I trail behind the group, following them down a hallway that is lined with a navy blue carpet and embroidered with golden moons. We enter a cavernous, antique-looking auditorium, where watery blue lights wash the audience chairs in an undersea glow. By the time we take our seats in the front row, my mouth is practically agape.

  “I’m so excited that I get to take you here for your first time. I had some second thoughts about this place as a good first date, but then I just thought what the hell, you know?” Dalton has an excited, almost mischievous look in his eyes. “I come here as often as possible because it truly, genuinely blows my mind. The magic is so impressive. Especially this guy we’re about to see. Bobby Bellar­mine.”

  “Oh, I’m sure. I’ve actually always wanted to come here. Every time I drive by I just can’t believe how . . . magical it looks. I mean, of course it looks magical, it’s the Magic Castle, but I mean I can’t believe a place so fantastical actually exists in Los Angeles. It looks like it should be in a fairy tale, not just like hanging out on Franklin Boulevard as if it’s a normal building.”