The Oks are Not OK

Chapter 1

Before the car comes to a full stop, my friends and I can hear the paparazzi. Everywhere I go, it’s always the same:

“Elena! Over here!”

“Elena, are you wearing an original?”

“Elena, is it true about [insert latest gossip here]?”

I’m only seventeen, and yet, everywhere I go, my fame precedes me.

It comes with the territory when your family owns It’s Ok!

, one of the fastest-growing clothing brands.

It’s a play on our last name, Ok, which is spelled like okay but sounds like oak.

My haters say that as a soon-to-be senior in high school, I haven’t done anything to merit this amount of attention, but take it from me: Being in my family is work.

Since my friends and I are early for our seven o’clock dinner reservation, we aren’t prepared for the photographers in front of Koi when the car pulls up to the entrance.

Not that it matters. With high-profile families like ours, we’re always red-carpet ready.

Faith’s dad is a theater director, Melody’s dad is a record producer, and Brynn’s mom is a celebrity attorney.

Willow’s parents are prominent plastic surgeons, but she has aspirations for the silver screen.

Aside from being classmates at Brenthaven Prep, we all have hopes to one day follow in the glittery footsteps of our successful parents.

And yet as we step out of the car, it’s obvious the paparazzi are here for one of us more than the others.

“Elena, who designed your outfit?”

“Elena, are you excited about the event tonight?”

“Elena, who was that guy you were with last week?”

Not only am I known for my family’s successful business, I get paid to make appearances at parties—I’m the ultimate influencer.

Tonight Steve Aoki is DJ-ing at an event to launch his collaboration with Billie Banks at the Hollywood Palladium.

Something to do with sportswear or sporting goods?

I don’t know and frankly don’t care, because the events aren’t really about the products, are they?

They’re about drawing attention. And I’m good at that.

We barely get through the tunnel o’ paparazzi unscathed. In the restaurant, as the ma?tre d’ swiftly ushers us to our usual table, we overhear the restaurant manager in a slight altercation. The five of us casually glance over.

“Who’s that?” Brynn points to a disheveled guy with unkempt hair. He’s talking to the waitstaff, gesturing wildly with his hands. “He’s giving serial killer energy.”

“He’s looking straight at you, Elena. Do you know him?” Faith has her hands to her mouth like she’s horrified. She takes after her father’s dramatic flair.

“As if I’d know someone dressed in head-to-toe vinyl.” I chuff. Pleather, maybe. But his jacket looks like a straight-up trash bag.

“Ew, I think he’s trying to sit with us.” Melody points as the guy takes two steps in our direction.

“If some rando thinks he can walk over to you like you’re just some regular person, he’ll have to get through the four of us first.” Willow pretends to roll up her sleeves.

Ever since I introduced her to the producer who offered her the lead role in Parks and Trailers, a new sitcom about teens living in a mobile home community, Willow has professed her undying loyalty to me.

Before the guy gets any closer, the manager swiftly steps in and ushers the unwanted guest out. When the door to the restaurant opens, it’s like someone turns the volume up on the street noise. “Elena! Elena! Elena!” Then the door swings shut, and the sound becomes muted again.

Okay, so I know I’m not, like, supposed to admit this, but I love hearing the sound of my name being called out. Can’t get enough of it. I’m obsessed with it.

“This is how it started with Kim K. My mom told me about it when she was representing her in the lawsuit against her stalker,” Brynn says. “First they show up in public places. Then it’s only a matter of time before they appear in your private home.” She tsks, shaking her head.

Melody gasps. “God, I can’t imagine what you have to endure.

You poor thing,” she says with an expression that’s half sincere, half envious.

She’s doing voice-overs for animations in an attempt at becoming a pop star, and with her stardom not yet on the rise, who can blame her?

Our friendships with one another boost our already high degree of social cachet, but it’s no secret that I am by far the most established in my own right.

Brynn, Willow, and Faith nod at me sympathetically with Melody.

“Aw, you guys. I don’t know what I’d do without you,” I say, touched by their concern even though I’m far from concerned. I have enough sense to know it’s not particularly en vogue to admit my excitement over reaching stalker status. But, wow. Talk about milestones.

“Love you, ladies.” I blow air-kisses at them.

“Love you more,” they squawk back in unison.

I take it all in. My friends, the fans, the press—with all eyes on me, it’s not an exaggeration, by any means, when I say I’m the envy of everyone.

My phone rings, and when I see who it is, my mood takes a complete nosedive. It’s the one outlier who does not, in any way, want to be me.

“What?” I say in my usual greeting to my brother.

“Just because it’s a club doesn’t mean you have to drink,” Gavin says, bypassing any form of a greeting.

“Or at least be discreet about it. And because I know you don’t know the meaning of the word, I’ll tell you.

It’s to do something quietly without drawing attention to yourself.

Oh, wait, you don’t know what that means either. ”

The eye roll comes at once. “Okay, Mom.” Which is kind of a funny thing to say, considering our mom doesn’t get involved in my influencer business. In fact, she hasn’t had an opinion about my life for as long as I can remember.

“Don’t you take anything seriously?” Gavin sighs loudly into the phone. “You’re going to have to grow up one day, and I’m not always going to clean up your messes.”

“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. The real reason 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 back from 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.