“Um, no one asked you to, Gavin.”
“If only that were true. I’m only calling because Dad told me to. So don’t kid yourself.”
Ah yes. Therealreason for Gavin’s call.
Ever since Gavin started attending the University of Southern California last year, Dad has taken him under his wing to be his protégé. Now that Gavin’s been appointed the youngest executive in training at It’s Ok!, it’s been “Gavin, let me show you this” and “Gavin, let me show you that.” Meanwhile, no one asked me if I got home safely from the wedding of a dictator’s daughter in the world’s most secretive and isolated country. Or that time when I came backfrom a weekend on the yacht of the wealthiest drug cartel in the Southern Hemisphere—both paid appearances, thank you very much. You’ve heard of the heir and the spare? Well, it’s more like the heir and the…who cares? If I weren’t a year shy of becoming an adult myself, I would seriously seek out emancipating from my parents. Except, at the rate at which they’ve been steadily ignoring me, I’m sure I’d be doing them a favor.
“It’s the first week of summer break, Gavin. Don’t you ever take a day off from being…you?” As the world’s most unfun person, I imagine even Gavin gets bored of himself.
“Maybe you should try taking a day off from getting yourself in the tabloids by kissing someone else’s boyfriend, or getting into a fight with a politician, or talking to a controversially racist person,” he throws right back at me.
Admittedly, the aforementioned incidents were, on reflection, the results of poor decision-making under less-than-ideal circumstances. But aside from a few bruised egos, the media coverage did more good than harm, boosting my popularity even higher. I suspect that Gavin’s concern over my well-being, Dad-mandated or not, is more out of personal interest.
“Are you afraid of being upstaged by your younger sister?” There was a time when Gavin was the only one in the limelight. I’m sure it bothers him now that I’m the one who appears on the front covers while he’s buried deep in the back pages.
He lets out a humorless laugh. “Hardly. Being a public spectacle is a life no one aspires to.”
I don’t know why I bother. Gavin doesn’t get it, and maybe he never will. To him, I’m just a brainless heiress. But however incompetent he thinks I am, it takes a lot to single-handedly wield more power in my little finger than the AI-engineered filters in Facetune can.
To prove a point (literally to no one but myself), I glance at the photographers practically pressed against the restaurant windows. The light bulbs go crazy, and I can hear the shutter-click frenzy through the double-paned windows. When I have their full attention, I look up cluelessly and mouth,What’s that?, timing my finger to touch my lower lip at the same moment. The paparazzi predictably go nuts. The entire restaurant glances at the photographers outside, then back at me. Within seconds, everyone’s eyes are on me. Now that’s power.
So the story behind the catchphrase is from my first interview, when I was fourteen and It’s Ok! was quickly becoming a household name. Gavin was sixteen and an intern at the company. Back then I wanted to be like Gavin. Call it naivete or willful ignorance. So when Gavin started doing interviews, I wanted to too. As soon as my acne cleared up and my overbite was corrected, my parents finally scheduled one for me. And it was a big one.Vogue.It still surprises me how much time my parents put into my makeup and wardrobe but how little they actually prepped me for the interview itself.
Anyway, I don’t even remember saying it, but when I got an advanced copy of the issue, there it was: a full-page photo of me, doe-eyed, with my finger to my lip, and the caption readWhat’s that?A whole hour of interview questions about myself that I answered with perfectly respectable responses, and the one question about the fashion industry—theonequestion I didn’t know the answer to—happened to be the one they chose to focus the entire article on. Turns out the question wasn’t even about awhatbut awho—my dad’s number one competitor, Amancio Ortega, the founder of Zara. How in the fourteen-year-old hell was I supposed to know who that was?
With all eyes fresh on me, I knew if I wasn’t careful,Elenawouldbe the newKaren. So instead of seeing the press as my enemy, I made them my biggest asset. I figured, since my dad started his own business, so could I. Except instead of selling a product, I’d be selling my image. Three years later the joke’s on them, because I’ve trademarked the catchphrase and made a substantial living off it. Now, not only do I get paid every time someone says “What’s that?” in a movie, TV show, or song lyrics, but people pay me upwards of ten thousand dollars just to appear at clubs, parties, and in social media posts. For a seventeen-year-old, I’d say that’s not bad.
“Whatever, El. You’re on your own,” Gavin says, like it should be some kind of a threat.
“I know,” I say without a hint of irony before hanging up. It’s been three years since theVoguearticle, and I’ve been on my own since then.
At the rate I’m booking my appearances, I could make this a full-time career before I graduate from high school next year. I wouldn’t even have to go to college. Who needs college or a job at It’s Ok! when I can be my own CEO? I could move out on my own, and the best part is, I’d be making a lucrative career just by being me. Then my life could really start. Anyway, if Gavin thinks he’s doing me any favors, he’s the clueless one.
“Who was that on the phone? Not Liam, I hope.” Brynn makes a face.
I shake my head. “Guys, that was, like, two weeks ago.” They should know I don’t do long-term. Relationships only hold me back from maximizing my lifestyle brand.
“El, no. You shouldn’t use the termguysanymore. It’s a symbol of exclusion.” As an aspiring lawyer, Brynn often tries to emulate her mom. Like the time she tried to tell us she identified as a woman who didn’t have cellulite, or the time she claimed her Englishteacher made a verbal agreement to give her an A on a paper she hadn’t even written yet. I know it’s harmless, born out of admiration for her mom, but Brynn should seriously do her research before she opens her mouth.
Maybe it’s because my call with Gavin put me in a mood, but I can’t help myself from correcting Brynn. “Actually, I read thatguysis not considered gendered anymore and that it’s widely accepted as a colloquial alternative referring to a group of people regardless of gender due to the fact that the English language doesn’t have a designated gender-neutral form for the pluralyou.”
When I finish, it’s silent. Awkwardly so. The four of them stare at me as if I’ve spoken another language. As if I have three heads. As if they don’t know who I am anymore. Their interest is waning, turning to their empty plates and bubble-infused waters.
“Good evening, ladies. Are we dining omakase tonight?” the waiter asks, cutting into the silence.
In a knee-jerk reaction, I peer up at the waiter, bat my lash extensions, and put a finger to my lip. “Omakase?What’s that?” I say.
The entire table erupts in laughter, including the waiter. The paparazzi go nuts. And equilibrium is restored. I’m back to being the Elena everyone wants. The one everyone is familiar with. The one that says Elena Ok is okay.
—
Two hours later we pull up to the Palladium, and the vibe check is hot. I’m about to strut down the step-and-repeat with the logo of the brand we’re here to celebrate printed all over the backdrop. Although, by the way the press is shouting my name, you’d think this were a party held in my honor.
“You look amazing, Elena!”
“The Pilates is paying off!”
“Elena, the camera loves you!”
