And then here comes me, Rose, and Scott. Rose looks mildly pissed off, her eyes ablaze—which is normal. But she’s turnedtowards me, our bodies pulled together by something magnetically strong, and as I lean in to whisper in her ear, her face ignites.
I can’t even remember what I said. I could have easily disagreed with one of her favorite feminists or I could have told her that her hair was pretty.
In the video, she shoves my arm. Twice. Waiting for me to get angry like her. Wanting to provoke me.
I just grin.
The wordSmartassquickly hits my body onscreen.
On the couch, right here, I hold in a laugh that no one will appreciate. But I find this so fucking amusing. And what are they going to call Scott—a womanizer? No, that’s far too kind. Maybe something like—Scumbag Motherfucking Producer (see also: Liar).
Beside her, in the commercial, Scott’s eyes fall to her breasts.
I didn’t notice that before, and any sort of amusement I felt suddenly flits away. How could I have missed that? I also didn’t notice Rose…
She glances at Scott, ever so briefly. The attention is enough for him to tilt his head and sigh.
Please, this is a load of?—
And then his caption appears.Heartthrob.
I choke on a laugh. That’s five levels of ridiculous. So he’s the white knight knocking on her tower. The hero. And I’m what the one who locked her there. It’s wrong. But it’s not necessarily backwards—I’m not the hero.
I’m the king to Rose’s queen.
And then the camera begins to slowly zoom in on Rose while both Scott and I stare down at her, painting the love triangle he so desperately wanted.
Her caption pops up in big bold letters on her body.
Virgin.
I frown. Why would this upset her? Since we were fourteen, she’s never been ashamed of being a virgin. She’s never wanted other women to feel as though theyhaveto lose it in their twenties—that holding onto your virginity post-college makes you unwanted. She’s been proud of the fact that she’s waited. Being ashamed of this now makes no sense to me. Unless she’s more pissed by being labeled something at all.
That seems right.
The promo ends with the title logo for Princesses of Philly, and below, a tagline scrolls:
Get inside the Calloway sisters this February.
It was short. Only thirty-seconds. And it’s enough to resurface hostile emotions. So I stand calmly before anyone starts screaming.
Lily shifts on Loren’s lap and says, “I wasn’t the only one who thought the tagline was dirty, right?”
She’s completely serious. And it almost lightens the mood.
Lo nods to Rose. “Good thing you don’t give two shits about being a twenty-three-year-old virgin.”
“That’s not the problem,” she says. I know her well. She meets my gaze while I stand in front of the television that’s mounted above the fireplace. “Hestereotyped all of us withoneword, as though we’re caricatures.” She’s afraid of beingmade to look like a fool. But people have been stereotyping the Calloway girls on gossip blogs for months. This isn’t any different.
“So?” I say to her.
Her mouth falls. She thought I’d be on her side. When she’s wrong, I’m not afraid to disagree.
“People label you the moment they meet you,” I tell her. “You’re an ice cold bitch. You’re a man-hating prude, a rich stuck-up brat. They only tell a fraction of the truth, and if you let them hurt you, you let them win.”
Everyone settles down. No one wants to feed their stereotype either, and I think they’re beginning to understand that if they throw tantrums, they’re each going to look as two-dimensional as Scott wants them to be. They’d each fill the “rich kid snobbery” part well. That image would hurt many of them.
Rose’s lips tighten at the “man-hating” line. That one did sting her. I almost regret adding it in my explanation. “You’re a conceited asshole,” she tells me.
