The Pretty App (7 page)

T
he last time I was up before seven on a Saturday morning was during eighth grade, when Audrey’s dad won tickets to a Notre Dame football game. ND was playing Boston College that day, and Audrey’s dad wanted to walk the campus at sunrise for good luck. We were eating steak sandwiches by eight a.m., and drinking root beer in the student center at nine. It was one of the best days of my life, just being with Audrey and her dad, watching them share Notre Dame together: the campus, the football, the mass after the game. And now that she was going to Notre Dame next year for school, too, I wondered what it would be like going to the same college as her, something we used to dream about when we were younger. I wondered if there was any way to get us back to where we used to be, or even just a little closer.

I checked Public Party, like I always did when I woke
up. The site was announcing deliberation at Public headquarters to choose the twelve Public Pretty App Reality Show contestants from among the thousands of high school Pretty App winners. They were calling the show
The Pretty App Live
, and Pia Alvarez was the host.

Pia Alvarez got her start on a reality singing contest years ago, and ever since she’s been hosting television shows and covering news on
Entertainment Tonight
. I got a fluttery feeling just thinking about meeting her and being able to see her host live.

I tapped my mouse pad and imagined what it would be like to be a TV host. I’d meet so many new people. And it wouldn’t be like school, where I was bad at the whole point of it, which was getting good grades. If you’re really book smart, you don’t get what it feels like to have to go to school every single day and suck at it. It’s exhausting. I couldn’t even imagine what it would feel like to wake up and spend the day doing something I was actually good at.

I clicked on the button marked
DETAILS
and a video came to life. Photographs of former Miss America winners flashed with the caption:
A CONTEST UNLIKE ANY OTHER.
Then the video cut to Victoria’s Secret–style models stomping down the runway wearing underwear. The video freeze-framed on one of the models with glittery silver wings blowing a kiss to the audience. A caption slapped over her midsection read:
BORED BY BEAUTY? NOT ANYMORE.

The screen flashed new photos of gorgeous teenage girls that I guessed were the Public Pretty high school winners.
I got nervous, like maybe they’d show my picture, but of course they didn’t. Danny Beaton’s disembodied face appeared, hovering over the photos. His fauxhawk was extra-gelled, and he smiled as his face floated like a goldfish over the screen.
“Twelve among thousands will be handpicked as the most beautiful girls in America,”
he said.
“They will compete for the title of Prettiest, but the winner will become more than just a pretty face.”
Some kind of drumroll sounded, and Danny Beaton played air drums and made a rock-and-roll face that looked like he’d practiced it in a mirror.

When the drumroll ended, he said,
“She’ll become the United Nations’ Citizen Ambassador of Health and Beauty, and she’ll secure a modeling contract with top makeup brand Adore.”
Danny shook his head with a smirk like he had a secret.
“The Public Pretty winner will be a spokesperson for an entire generation. So ask yourselves: Are you ready for
The Pretty App Live
?”
He stared into the camera with his doe-like brown eyes blinking.
“Tune in this Friday for the live premiere of
The Pretty App Live.
Check your local listings for showtimes.”

The screen went black and I sat there in a daze. It wasn’t like I had a real chance; there were thousands of high schools in the contest. But now I wanted it even more than before I’d seen the ad.
More than a pretty face? Citizen Ambassador? Modeling contract with one of the best makeup brands in the world? Spokesperson?
That would mean a bunch of television appearances. It could be my big break into the world of TV. It could be my big break out of my parents’ house.

My dad dropped something in the kitchen that sounded
like glass, yanking me from my daydream. I heard him call for my mom and I froze—bracing for them to argue—but there were only the sounds of her voice comforting him in placating, high-pitched tones like she was talking to an infant. I’d told them both last night that I was heading to Starbucks with a classmate to study this morning. They seemed fine with it, even a little proud, but I was worried they’d see Leo and get the idea that it was a date and change their minds.

I slipped into jeans and a long-sleeved, tissue-thin gray T-shirt. I didn’t want to look like I was trying too hard, but I still spent extra time on my makeup, experimenting with a smudgy new Tarte liner and applying two coats of mascara. You have to be aggressive with mascara; it looks the best if you attack your lashes at a horizontal angle, the way violinists act when they get really into a solo.

Just before eight, I tiptoed downstairs and stared through the light blue pane of glass that bordered the front door. If I ran out right when Leo pulled in, I could avoid a conversation with my parents.

I checked my watch for the thousandth time. I heard my dad curse again in the kitchen, and my nerves went haywire. My dad was obviously in some kind of foul mood, and it was already 8:01, and what if Leo wasn’t coming at all? I started to open the door, figuring I’d just wait outside on the porch, when a mustard-yellow vintage Mustang curved around the bend of our street. I watched in disbelief as it pulled into our driveway.

Leo opened the door and stepped out of the car carrying
a bouquet of wildflowers. He wore olive-colored chinos and a crisp blue oxford shirt.

I tried to breathe as he walked toward me cradling the flowers in one arm, and I was so taken aback that I forgot about needing to get going before my parents saw him. Leo was halfway up the driveway before I could think straight. “No, no, no,” I said. I moved across the lawn, waving my arms in the universally understood gesture for
STOP
, but he didn’t. He kept moving toward me with his massive white grin, his dimples like pinpricks of sunshine, his free arm waving like he had no cares in the world.

“Leo, we should go, we should really—”

“Nonsense,” Leo said as he strode toward me. Unlike the untailored, lopsided way that most guys wore button-downs, Leo’s fit him perfectly. It nipped in at all the right places, and you could see how built he was beneath the fabric. The sun was glinting on his thick blond hair, and the whole thing was like an Abercrombie and Fitch ad. I went weak in the knees, which I’d always thought was a made-up expression, but which turned out to be a perfect description for how he was making me feel.

“I have to meet your parents,” Leo said, still smiling that wide sunshine grin. “It would be rude not to.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but then his arm went around my waist. We’d never been that close. His arm felt heavy and strong and warm and perfect. He pulled me a little closer and kissed my cheek. Was this really happening?

“You look surprised,” Leo said as he pulled away.

“I—I am,” I said, staring him up and down and trying
to get myself together. He usually wore his Levi’s in school, and I’d never seen him dressed up like this. “I thought we were just going to get brunch or something,” I said.

“We are,” Leo said, guiding me gently toward our front porch. He rang the doorbell and said, “In Chicago.”

“What? Leo—no, no, no, you don’t understand.” My heart was racing. Chicago was almost two hours away. “My parents will never go for that, they’re not—”

The door swung open. It was both of my parents.

“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Dawkins,” Leo said smoothly, like he didn’t have an ounce of nervousness in his entire being. “I’m Leo Bauer.” He stretched out his hand.

I looked at Leo and then at my parents. My mother was fake-smiling, but my dad had the oddest expression on his face. His eyes went wide with the kind of look you’d give someone you were surprised to run into. He was probably just startled by Leo and his fancy car. I was, too.

“These are for you,” Leo said, passing the wildflowers into my mother’s hands. Then he looked at my father as my mom gushed over the bouquet. “I was thinking I’d take Blake to Chicago today for an afternoon together,” he said.

My heart pounded against my ribs. My mother’s mouth dropped an inch, but my father’s face went still, just like it always did before he lashed out. I wanted to jump in and say Leo was only joking, but the look on my father’s face was so severe it stopped me from saying anything. I just stood there, waiting for the moment when everything crashed.

“That sounds wonderful,” my father said in a monotone.

What?

“Blake could use some city culture,” my dad went on, running a hand self-consciously through his hair. I was so shocked he was letting me go that I barely registered his insult.

“I imagine Blake will fit right in with city life,” Leo said, and even though he was smiling, it was like he was also standing up to my dad’s insult. It made me want to kiss him.

My mother glanced from Leo to my dad, holding her flowers and beaming like Miss America. I think a part of her always wanted to be more laid-back—to let me do the things she never got to as a teenager, like go on a date to Chicago with a hot boy. She’d married my father so young; her entire life had been ruled by him. And now he scared her just like he did the rest of us, and I got the feeling from stories her old high school friends told me that she wasn’t who she used to be. “It sounds lovely,” she said. I felt a wave of sadness watching her mauve lipstick crack when she smiled.

“Indeed,” my father said, putting his hand on the door like he was going to shut it in our faces. “And we don’t want to keep you.” He looked at Leo. “Blake’s weekend curfew is midnight and we expect her home by then.”

“I plan to have her back by eleven,” Leo said, like he made the rules. He slipped his arm through mine, and as composed as my father had been up until that moment, I saw him bristle at Leo’s touch. I carefully extracted myself
from the embrace, and Leo didn’t push it.

I waved to my parents as we walked toward the car. Leo opened my door, and I thought about Audrey and how we used to make fun of the ridiculous, over-the-top dates the couples took together on
The Bachelor
. I had the fleeting desire to text her and tell her that being the girl on the over-the-top date didn’t feel so ridiculous. Now that it was actually happening, it felt kind of amazing.

I slid onto the tan leather seat. There were two steaming cups of coffee in between us, and when Leo climbed in on the opposite side, he said, “I figured you were a milk-and-sugar kind of girl.”

I smiled. “Skim?” I asked.

“Obviously,” he said.

I thanked him as he backed down our driveway and zoomed down the street. I considered my jeans and flats and then turned to Leo, who was smiling so deviously that for a second I worried he’d say this was all a trick—just a joke that I’d fallen for. But instead, he said, “You look nice,” which felt oddly date-like, and even though I knew that was the definition of what we were doing, it didn’t really feel like it yet. Or maybe I just didn’t want to let myself hope that it was something romantic. I couldn’t get a read on this guy: What if this was just more of his typical showmanship? This could all be about doing something cool, not about doing something cool with me.

“I should’ve changed,” I said, gesturing to my T-shirt and then to his oxford and chinos.

“I think you look great,” Leo said, turning on the radio.
A DJ announced a Mariah Carey song as the first one in a Top Ten Songs of the Nineties countdown.

“How did you do that with my parents?” I asked. The DJ started singing along with Mariah, missing her high notes by an octave. “That was like a magic show.”

Leo adjusted the radio until a DEVI song came on. “Parents aren’t that complicated,” he said, as moody guitar chords filled the car.

“I’m pretty sure mine are.”

He shrugged. “I find that if you just treat adults like you’re all on the same playing field, it goes well.”

I drummed my fingers on my thigh. “You’re pretty confident,” I said.

Leo laughed. “Not always,” he said, glancing at the manicured lawns racing by. “So do you like Chicago?” he asked.

“I love it,” I said.

“Good,” Leo said, smiling. He rolled down the car’s windows. “I hoped so.” The wind attacked us as we picked up speed, and my hair flew behind me like Beyoncé’s does in concert. “Have you been to California?” Leo asked, his fingers tapping along with the hard bass of the song.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “But I want to go to LA. Just to see it.”

“You’d like it there,” he said. He turned to me and grinned. “I can see you in LA.”

He sounded genuine, and it made me so happy to hear him say that. “I want to be a TV host,” I blurted.

Leo cocked an eyebrow, and for a second I thought he’d
have a reaction like my dad. I’d only ever told my parents, Nic, and Audrey about wanting to do TV. Audrey and Nic both said it was a natural fit.

“Like, your own show?” Leo asked.

“Maybe,” I said, feeling less nervous now that he hadn’t laughed, or acted weird. “Or just reporting news for stations like MTV or the other ones that do entertainment news. I don’t know yet. I haven’t really been able to try it. Except for in my bedroom mirror and when I can convince Xander to film me.”

“Xander films you in your bedroom?” Leo asked, and I could hear the effort it took to keep his voice neutral.

I tried to hide my smile. “Trust me,” I said. “There’s nothing sexy about it. I practically have to beg him to do it.”

Leo’s shoulders relaxed a little. “Maybe I could help you sometime,” he said. “I used to do commercials in LA when I was a kid.”

“Really?” I asked.

“Really,” he said.

“Like for what kind of stuff?” I asked, imagining a little version of Leo singing about toys.

“Soup, cereal, brownie mix,” Leo said. “Mostly food. I was a skinny kid. I think I made people want to go out and eat.”