Chapter 1 #2
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 read What’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—the one question 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 a what but a who—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, Elena would be the new Karen.
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 the Vogue article, 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 term guys anymore.
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 English teacher 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 that guys is 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 plural you. ”
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!”
Before I take my first step, my phone rings. I normally wouldn’t pick it up, but it’s my brand manager, Kiki Klineman. And I always pick up her calls.
“El, hon. I saw photos of you at dinner,” she says in her usual no-nonsense monotone.
“Already?” I don’t know why I’m surprised when she always seems to know the news before it goes to print. It’s why I hired her.
“Don’t worry. You look incredible,” she says flatly. “Nothing urgent now, but call me in the morning. I’ve got a bunch of requests coming in for the summer. Some of them overlap, so we need to prioritize the ones that matter most.”
“Fun! I can’t wait to go through them with you.”
“Me too,” she deadpans. “But tonight enjoy yourself. You’ve earned it!” Kiki is a straight shooter with no emotions. But this is the most she’s ever shown.
The second she hangs up, a champagne flute is handed to me. It’s no surprise I don’t listen to Gavin and I take the glass. Like Kiki said, I’ve earned a night of fun.
“Elena, over here.”
“Turn to the left.”
“Look to your right.”
With literally everyone calling for me at all angles, I do a three-sixty while holding the glass up, giving them exactly what they want.
The sound of the shutter click is music to my ears.
As soon as I turn the corner and before I walk through the doors into the club, I swiftly pour out the champagne in a planter.
When I get inside, an attendant takes the empty glass from me.
Smug satisfaction rises in me, knowing I’ve proven Gavin wrong not once but twice.
I do make responsible decisions, and I can be discreet… when I want to.
It isn’t long before the party really gets going.
The music is as intoxicating as the vibe, and my body can’t help but move to the rhythm of it.
Everywhere I go, I’m dancing. On the speakers, in the stairway…
even in the bathroom while I wash my hands, I’m dancing like I don’t have a care in the world. And why should I? Everyone loves me.
“Drink, drink, drink, drink!” a crowd chants at me the second they see me come out of the bathroom doors. So I do. Right after I take the shot, my phone vibrates in my hand. I answer without thinking.
“Ugh, what now?” I shout over the electronic music pulsing in the background.
“Someone’s live streaming in the club.” God, Gavin is so exhausting. Even on a Saturday night, he can’t take a day off. “Drinking out of someone’s belly button? Elena, have you no standards?” Of course Gavin notices the one time I slip up.
“I know who you are,” I say, wiping my mouth from the belly-button shot in question. “You’re Carlton.”
“Jesus, Elena, just how drunk are you? I’m Gavin,” he seethes. “Your older, much wiser, and much more responsible brother.”
“No, I mean, you’re Carlton from Fresh Prince,” I say, completely sober. “You know, the really uptight one who doesn’t know how to relax? You’re Asian Carlton!” I cackle at the spot-on comparison. “Don’t you have anything better to do than to stalk my socials? You need to get your own life, Gavin.”
“I do have a life. Sonya and I were watching a movie when—”
“Ew, stop flexing your relationship status.” Just because Dad is proud that Gavin’s dating Sonya, he acts like he’s cured cancer or something.
According to Dad, Sonya Sinclair is perfect for Gavin.
On paper that is. She’s the heiress to Bucky’s BBQ Sauce, which has been a staple in households across the US since her grandfather Bucky Sinclair trademarked and sold their family’s secret recipe in 1960.
Hailed as “The most American discovery since America itself,” her family’s business matches the caliber of success of our family’s, and they’re in the food industry, which ensures that our two families will never be in direct competition with each other.
Dad thinks Gavin and Sonya’s relationship elevates our status.
You know, like a birds-of-a-feather type of thing.
News flash: The only person who cares about Gavin’s relationship with Sonya, aside from Dad, is Gavin.
“You can’t make having a girlfriend your entire personality,” I say.
“You can’t make partying your entire personality,” Gavin counters.
“Actually I can, Gavin.” And because he won’t take my word for it, I hold my phone up for Gavin to hear for himself.
“Elena, Elena, Elena!” the crowd chants when I cup my hand around my ear.
Just because he—and my parents, for that matter—don’t think I’m worth their time, it doesn’t mean others feel that way too.
And as long as people keep saying “What’s that?
” and are paying me to attend their parties, I don’t see that changing anytime soon.