t w e n t y - t w o
“Gossip, as usual, was one-third right and two-thirds wrong.”
—L.M. Montgomery
I’m standing between Mom and Rich outside Dad’s office. He’s wrapped up in an exclusive interview with KTLA, verbally performing this high-wire act where he both praises and bashes the other candidates in the race for governor.
It’s the usual spiel. Pete Zhang may have made $100 million via online marketing, but that doesn’t transfer to balancing state budget woes. Julianne Summerlin was raised in a small town in the Central Valley, then became mayor of Stanislaus, but so what? That doesn’t compare with being a congressman and especially the Speaker of the House during a time of terror and war. He goes on and on about his qualifications while I’m standing, smiling at the other journalists interviewing Mom.
Only I feel the smile wanting to slip off my face.
So I try to think of happy childhood moments. This is difficult because the cameraman is aiming right in my direction and I know millions of people will not only have access while they’re at home, in doctor’s offices and in every sports bar in LA, this stuff is going to be online too. And that’s what truly horrifies me. My face. Everywhere.
It’s not like anyone is reading about my accomplishments. To them, I’m just one of Dad’s pretty accessories, someone to be shown off as a testament to his wonderful parenting skills. I have to think about something else.
I force remembrances of amusement parks and chasing our old cat, Zoe, around when she was a kitten to help me retain my smile. That lasts five seconds. Maybe ten. The negativity creeps back in.
Rich is standing next to me, making sure everything goes as planned. His cologne smells awful. It’s so strong I want to gag, but I can’t because of the cameras.
“You’re wilting,” Rich whispers under his breath.
“I’m trying,” I say through my teeth.
“Imitate your mother,” he says, gesturing to her as she effortlessly charms the journalist who’s interviewing her. “Learn from her. She’s perfection.”
“Why do I have to be here? No one’s looking at me.”
“No complaining at public events.” Rich waves his hand like he’s batting my comment away. “You’ll seem ungrateful. And don’t wear that color next time,” he says, looking me up and down. “Yellow does not work for you. Try blue.”
Why do I have to deal with public appearances when Royce and Mason never have to? I’m still in high school. I don’t need a control freak politician wrangler micromanaging my life. I need to be at home studying, drawing, thinking about Zach.
Dad decided this would be a good time for me to help with the campaign. What did he call it? A “low-stress opportunity” to show off the Blakely family to the public.
I don’t have to say or do anything. Just show up, look nice, or at least try to, because the polls say that having a beautiful family somehow makes a candidate trustworthy. Even though I won’t be interviewed, videos or photos of me will show up everywhere. That means I have to trust hundreds of strangers, these people who are hungry for drama, to make me look good. This is why I have to appear cheerful. This is why I, apparently, should not wear yellow.
I can’t trust them. Any of them.
Any of these media people might be a spin doctor just waiting to pounce on the headline, Olivia Blakely Seen Making Faces at Congressman’s Campaign Interview. Or something worse like, Daughter Hates Father, Her Face Says It All.
Did I mention this kind of stuff shows up in Politico, Buzzfeed and the New York Times all the time? President’s Daughter Gives Dad the Side-Eye During Annual White House Turkey Pardon. Politician’s Daughter Twerks on Stage at Coachella. I think every daughter of every politician in America goes through these feelings.
Maybe some are more confident than others. Maybe some don’t care. But we all think about it. How we’re just there to represent that our parents are just like the people who vote for them. Instead of Stars—Just Like Us! it’s a game of Politicians—Just Like Us! I can imagine the campaign ad now: Dad pointing at me, saying, “Look! I have a daughter and I didn’t screw her up too bad. Vote for me!”
Let’s start with the article on SFGate.com when I went with Dad and Mom to Golden Gate Park for the Bay Area Brain Tumor Walk last week after the campaign announcement. I won’t even get into how boring the article was, or the video, and how the wind was blowing my hair everywhere as I was standing behind Dad giving his speech at the podium.
You can just sit there and watch it from the comfort of your own smartphone and see me constantly wrestle with pushing my hair out of my face while trying to look like I don’t actually care about what my hair is doing. You can even slo-mo it if you want to. Their site has that feature. Stupid, isn’t it? I hope nobody notices it but me.
Anyway, there’s a comment section and people say the most idiotic things about Dad, about politics, about their know-it-all whatever, about space aliens, about how Dad secretly has twice as much campaign funds as he says he does. It goes on.
But what I scroll for are all the words about me. The ones I obsess over because no matter how much I try to ignore them, I can’t. All I can think about lately is how much some creepy trolls—SFWilliam79 and 49erfan4life5000—comment on every article about how they love the way I touch my hair, and how they want to touch my hair, or how other commenters say how I look like a fake girl with no feelings.
Then there’s the GIF someone made of me last week wrestling with my hair like I’m a modern-day Cousin It moshing around at a heavy metal concert.
It went viral.
Sure. It was funny. But it was me.
One showed me trying to deal with the wind flipping my hair around in slow motion, except I’m surrounded by dragons. Then there’s the one with unicorns frolicking around me. It showed up with captions like SLAY and WHEN YOU JUST CAN’T.
And of course all the endless cruel tweets:
What’s wrong with her hair? Bride of FRANKENSTEIN. #livblakelyhair.
Blakelys are all fakes. #livblakelyhair.
She’s the worst. Rich people suck. WHTVR. #livblakelyhair.
100% FREAK. I HATE HER HAIR. RAT’S NEST. #livblakelyhair.
She’s out of control too. #livblakelyhair.
His politics, her hair, one giant mess. #livblakelyhair.
Now I’m basically the poster girl for BHD—Bad Hair Day. So, yeah, I’m done with these interviews. I’m done with Rich. I’m done with this entire campaign.
“I have to go,” I quietly say to Rich. “I need some water.”
“Fine,” he says.
When I’m at an event, I can’t do anything without getting Rich’s permission first. I’ll get an earful otherwise. I walk over to the office kitchen and grab a bottle of water.
I pour the water down my throat and hope the twirling, whirling weirdness in my stomach disappears. I wish I could disappear. I feel like I’m the little wooden manikin I use as a model. Position me any way you like. Then sketch whatever you want on my face. Probably a smile. You know the one. The one that other girls look at and say, Fake.
After a few minutes, Rich pops his head into the kitchen. “Let’s have a talk,” Rich says. He gestures to me to sit down in one of the folding chairs next to us.
Sit. Stay. Roll over.
“I know you’re young and this is probably hard to understand,” he says with a look of mock concern on his face. He pulls up a chair next to me.
I want to smack him for acting like I’m a stupid child, but I fake interest because I’m trying not to be terrible to Dad. Fighting Rich is pointless. Dad will back him up.
“There are repercussions to this campaign. Not just political. They’re personal too. I know this is a sensitive subject, but I’m worried about your appearance.”
“I saw the GIFs,” I say. “Did Mom put you up to this?”
“It’s more than the GIFs, Liv. Frankly, I don’t think you have a strong perception of how you appear to the public.”
“You think I can’t handle it? If you think I can’t handle it, then quit putting me behind Dad during his speeches.”
“Social media is only going to get more cruel,” Rich says. “Even people you know in person will say things. I’m just trying to prepare you—”
“What about my appearance is damaging the campaign now? Am I not wearing the right color lipstick? Will cutting my hair a certain way boost the polls a couple of points?”
Rich sighs. “Your mother doesn’t want me to show you this, but I think you ought to see. You ought to know what’s being said about you. It came out today.”
He pulls out his phone and taps a few times. Then he hands the phone to me. It’s an article on the front page of TMZ that reads, OLIVIA BLAKELY: IS THIS PROOF SHE’S SUFFERING FROM BULIMIA?
This is not happening right now. I scroll down to read the article.
Olivia Blakely is battling a secret eating disorder—as the stick-thin teen compulsively forces herself to throw up after every meal! She is the daughter of Representative Colin Blakely, who’s currently running a tight gubernatorial race against Pete Zhang and Julianne Summerlin. Rumors of Blakely’s possible eating disorder circulated earlier this year from when she was caught binge drinking with friends at Silver Lake Lounge. Though Blakely has kept a low profile since the incident, the public remains fascinated with the House Speaker’s daughter. TMZ has obtained photographs from Eastlake Prep’s yearbook showing Blakely’s startling descent into bulimia.
Then the article shows my yearbook photo from the eighth grade—when I was still chubby—compared to my junior year photo. The captions claim that my current yearbook photo shows telltale signs of bulimia. Puffy cheeks. Red eyes. Yellowing skin.
I shove the phone back at Rich.
“The second one is obviously Photoshopped,” I say. “These tabloids are trash. I’m sure they trolled their commenters’ theories for a completely fake story then bribed some stupid kid who works on the yearbook staff to give them a copy...”
“I agree,” Rich surprisingly says. “These types of publications will do anything to turn you into a story. But they have to start with some semblance of truth.”
“What are you saying?” I snap back.
“Shhhh. You’re getting too loud,” Rich says, watching Mom and Dad gab with the radio host. “I’m in no position to diagnose that sort of thing. That’s a family matter.” He slips his phone back into his pocket. “Remember that image promotion plan we talked about? We need our own story to counter their story.”
There are so many questions swirling in my mind. What are Mom and Dad going to say about this article? They’ve told me they’ve been concerned about my health, but they meant normal things like sleeping or taking lunch to school. Am I being too obvious? Will they take the article seriously? Or dismiss it as tabloid trash?
I’ve been eating in front of them so that they won’t think I’m restricting, and I’m careful to not let them hear me purge. This is the last thing I need to deal with right now.
I’m so upset I can barely think straight, but I can’t miss the opportunity to run my plan about Zach with Rich. Maybe I can get him to help me.
“What were you thinking?” I ask. “Did you have something in mind?”
“We need to show that you’re a normal teenager. That you go to school, eat lunch with friends, go shopping with your mother. That kind of thing...”
“I thought Dad was all about keeping me out of the spotlight,” I say.
Rich squints his eyes. He knows what I’m doing.
“I stand by our decision to keep a low profile for you after that first catastrophe. But I’ve asked him to reconsider. I think you need to project a healthy image.”
I want to laugh.
Rich doesn’t want me to actually be healthy.
Then I think for a second. Maybe I do want to be healthy.
Maybe I can get better.
“I’ll go with your plan,” I say, lowering my voice. “On one condition.”
Rich leans in to listen.
“Get Dad to let me go out with Zach Park.”