..:Fourth Dimension:..
A/N: OMG, 13 Going On 30 looks so GOOD!!! But no, I've made a commitment, and I'm not going to see it until I'm done with this. Oh, have you guys read The Prophecy of the Stones by Flavia Bujor (the English version, not the French one)? It's really good! It was written by a fifteen-year-old, if you can believe that! I hardly can.
Be on the lookout for my new L/G one-shot... it's called The Lost One and it's going to be pretty sad, but I'm just going to post it soon (week-ish), so look for it!
---
I didn't remember getting home. I didn't remember lying down. I didn't remember falling asleep. And yet, I woke up and the sun was shining, and my body wasn't sprawled on Interstate 52.
My bed felt different. Not in a bad way, but it didn't seem like the usual queen sized mattress I had dozed on in the last few years. No, it seemed bigger. Bouncier. Fluffier. And the pillows were more regal. And my pajamas seemed to feel different. It wasn't my regular cotton outfit, but silk pajamas and a silk top.
Had I even come home the day before? If I had, how come I didn't recall a single thing that happened? Had I taken a shower? Did I cry myself to sleep? Had Gordo come out of the theater to apologize?
That's when I opened my eyes.
My instincts were right. It wasn't my regular bed, or my regular pillows, or my regular pajamas. The sheet was different, the quilt was different (there was a canopy!). The room was different. I was bewildered. Where on earth was I? Had an SUV ran me over and I was in the hospital? If so, this was some nice hospital.
I stepped out of bed and looked around. There were many pictures of people whom I couldn't identify, plus a wooden bookshelf that smelled of oak, and a few odd-looking lamps and other objects that seemed like modern art rather than home furnishings. I felt as if I were in another dimension. I walked toward the mirror perched rather delicately on the black-and-silver dresser and stopped along the way to curiously study the friendly but strange atmosphere around me.
I studied the photographs. They all were pictures of people smiling quite artificially, in small groups of five or six, or just sometimes two or three. They all contained a nice-looking woman wearing brightly-colored, festive clothing, an expensive looking hairstyle, and a very classy expression. That's whose room I was in, most likely. But why? Why wasn't I in my own apartment and my own room with my own photos of Miranda and Larry and Gordo and my family? Had a stranger found me and kindly brought me home?
I stopped gazing at the framed pictures and continued on my way to the dresser. I probably looked terrible. My hair was probably all in an unruly mess and muddy, not to mention my skin. Maybe I could straighten everything out and look acceptable, and then maybe find that woman in the pictures, the homeowner. I glanced at myself and did I double take.
And when I stared closely at my reflection in the mirror for the second time, I gasped, almost choking myself.
"I'm a Barbie!" I screeched, leaning closer.
I truly was. A slender, beautiful woman was looking back at me through the mirror. I was way prettier than Steph. I raised my hand and waved it in front of the mirror to make sure it was really my reflection and not someone else, and then screamed again.
My blond hair was perfectly cut into a layered style, just a few inches past my shoulders, shimmering with natural-looking highlights and an unbeatable shine. My eyes were still blue, but a deeper blue, a clearer blue. I was skinner than I had been the day before. I looked closer it seemed as if I had a nose job and a boob job and a who-knows-what job everywhere. I was perfect. A complete Barbie clone.
I touched my zit-free cheek and almost fainted.
I was beautiful.
I glanced down at the dresser and saw a magazine. Not too surprisingly, it had me on the cover, with large, vibrant letters screaming "Elle McGuire reveals her DEEPEST secrets!". I flipped to the page it said, and started reading.
Q. How does it feel to be crowned Miss America?
Elle: Oh, it's wonderful! I never even thought I'd be nominated, but one day my manager called me up and said "You're competing for Miss California. If you make it, you'll be Miss America!" And everything went from there.
Q. It is stressful to work so much?
Elle: All of that modeling and singing and acting I've done isn't for the money. I love it! And it can get exhausting sometimes, but then I remember, this is my DREAM. It's fun! I love it! The recording studio, the movie sets, the photo shoots... it's all so glamorous!
Q. Were you born a star, or did it take some work?
Elle: Well, yeah, before I was just a normal kid, but after I graduated from college, I decided I wanted to chase my dreams and I did so. I've made so many new friends and so many new habits along the way!
Q. How exciting is it to be American heartthrob Parker Mason's girlfriend?
Elle: It's awesome! He's so sweet, and he doesn't treat me like I'm royalty just because I'm famous. I love you, Parker!
Q. We heard he's going to propose soon! Is this true?
Elle: I don't know... I'll just have to wait!
I paused for a second. Was this really happening? Was I dreaming? Parker Mason? Who was that, anyway? Well, supposedly my boyfriend... my soon-to-be- fiancé, according to the magazine... but what about Gordo? And how did Lizzie become Elle? Elle-izabeth? That's odd.
This was most definitely a dream.
I was about to keep reading to find out more about me, but then my cellphone, which was on top of the dresser, started ringing. I hesitated to pick it up. I mean, I didn't know who was going to be on the line.
"Hey." I almost whispered, still recovering from the shock of my overnight transformation.
"Hey, honey, it's me." A male voice said. "How's my Miss America?"
Me? Me who? Well he had called me honey, so it was probably...
"P—Parker?" I asked, feeling like an idiot.
"Yeah." He said. "Are you busy tomorrow?"
I made a face. How should I know? "Kinda." I replied, just in case I was. I'd have to go look for my calendar.
"Oh, well, I heard from Jordan that he was going to ask you to schedule a photo shoot tomorrow."
"A photo shoot for what?" I asked, curious.
"Playboy magazine."
My eyes widened. Was he kidding? "Well, tell him no!" I exclaimed, shocked. I had no idea I did men's magazines!
"Why?" He seemed bewildered. "It's just one photo shoot."
"Yeah, just one for now." I scoffed. "But before you know it, it'll be two, and then three and soon enough everyone's going to be like 'Elle McGuire? Sorry, I didn't recognize you with your clothes on.'"
He chuckled. "Elle, honey, it's just one."
"No." I said firmly. "Tell him no." I hung up abruptly and sighed, falling into the bed. What in heaven's name was going on here? I was Lizzie... just Lizzie McGuire, recent college graduate, working as a co-secretary for Austin Redwall (professor), boyfriendless yet crushing, and now, magically, I had transformed into Elle McGuire, Miss America, movie star, singer, engaged to some parallel universe Brad Pitt-like hottie. Was this a dream? It certainly seemed real enough, and I kicked myself to prove my point.
Maybe I had a bad case of amnesia, and my whole life had just been a rather long dream I had conjured up while I was lying in bed, unconscious for weeks. That seemed pretty far-fetched, on account of I had absolutely no idea what or who anything was. Maybe I had gotten plastic surgery while I was on the side of the highway and someone rescued me and Elle McGuire was some other person, like a cousin. Yeah, that seemed believable. Elle was the long-lost cousin who rescued me from the highway, performed plastic surgery on me to change my ugly attributes so I looked exactly like her and Parker had thought I was her and—and... okay, so maybe that wasn't so believable.
I bit my lip, got up, and threw open my (her?) closet. I grinned in satisfaction. This Elle McGuire had good taste, even if she didn't fully exist. If this was a dream, it was pretty cool. A hot boyfriend (although I had never seen him, so I wasn't one to judge), an awesome job, the hottest wardrobe, and to top it all off, a having-it-all-lifestyle that was better than any amount of free shopping sprees at the mall.
I ran my hands over clothes from brands I couldn't believe I owned, examined several pairs of strappy sandals and swanky high-heels that looked as if they were about to fall apart at any second. Silks and furs, dresses and skirts, sweaters and blouses, purses and shoes, I had it all. In every sort of color imaginable.
My accessory table was amazing, full of not all that costume jewelry, fake- sterling silver, and dress-up charms that were as real as talking ducks, but gold and white gold, silver and bronze, diamonds and sapphires, emeralds and rubies. It wasn't as fancy as the Queen of England's loot, but so amazing indeed. I tried on a pair of dangly diamond earrings and a necklace and bracelet to match, and admired myself for several minutes before I realized that this expensive and heart-stopping jewelry was strewn all over the place, as if it had no value. I treated my metal charm bracelet better. Wow, did these rich people have it good or what!?
I noticed several rings of diamond and gold that were tucked away safely in little velvet boxes, and couldn't resist the urge to take a quick peek at them. They were technically mine, after all. I shouldn't be feeling guilty about touching my own jewelry, that was as stupid as feeling bad while eating your own food.
I smiled to myself and left the room, diamonds still glinting off the walls and onto my pajamas, ready to find that schedule book thing these sort of people had. Or maybe it was on her palm pilot or computer or something. Who knew, which this kind of life, it could be on the microwave for all I knew.
---
I found the schedule. Turns out I was pretty busy today, with a photo shoot at eleven and lunch with actress Leona Jenkins, who was supposed to be some big A-list star. After that was filming a commercial for NBC at three, and calling in on TRL for a fan-chat on the phone. Then dinner with Parker. God, how was I going to do this?
Knowing how models ate, I decided to scarf down a big breakfast so I didn't humiliate myself by ordering a huge meal instead of a dry, calorie-free, carb-free, fat-free salad with no olives or tomatoes or dressing or even probably salt.
I searched the refrigerator for anything close to Tropicana orange juice (or whatever they rich and famous drank) and some frozen waffles. Nothing. I found lettuce, cucumbers, onions, soybean milk... the works. Completely organic, completely healthy, completely boring. The freezer held some frozen blueberries which I gobbled up in a second, and lonely old piece of pie, which I could tell she was debating whether to eat or not. I ate that too. There were some frozen peas, but I ditched that and went straight to the cupboards, hoping she had some cereal or pancake mix or even flavored oatmeal, but nothing. Some tea bags and not even a grain of sugar.
I was about to give up and order a dozen Krispy Kreme donuts or so when I spotted a little cupboard under the sink, next to the trash can, that was labeled "emergency food". I grinned mischieviously and viciously tore open the cupboard, like a hungry dog unfed for weeks. And there lie heaven to a girl whose best friends had become Ben and Jerry, a sanctuary of chocolate, and ode to sugar, caffeine, carbs, and fat, boxes of cakes and donuts and melted ice cream (Well, Elle McGuire was supposedly dumb. Who else would put ice cream in a cupboard?) and cans of whipped cream and chips, so much oil and butter and rich chocolate and frosting.
I blinked and finished half of the stash off in about twenty minutes. Gordo and I had days like these, especially now that I was on a little something of a diet, every time I lost three pounds, we would go out and buy hundreds of bad-for-you things and have a little eating festival, to celebrate my weight loss. I usually ended up gaining it all back, but it was so much fun. Especially with Gordo there, the guy who doesn't inch away from your farts (I had too many jelly beans...), laughs at every burp, and pays for all of the food. He'd urge me to eat when I started feeling remorseful, reminding me to forget stupid diets and live for a while, even if it resulted in another four-week session of eating less and exercising more.
And there I was, surrounded by boxes of Oreos and pudding cakes, cans of frosting and chocolate chips, practically in a junk-food eater's paradise, when a tear stung my eye. I had known this was too good to last, there had been something missing, and that was a Gordo to share it all with. What good was enjoying the big bed or trying on the slinky clothes or even eating without him? If only he's see me now... a big wide-brimmed hat on my head, a feathered boa tied gracefully around myself, big diamonds shimmering away in the sunlight, pigging out on snack foods. He'd laugh his head off, start stuffing chips into my mouth and we'd both end up on the floor in fits of uncontrollable laughter and then I'd tumble on top of him and he'd kiss me ever so lightly...
"Keep dreaming," I scoffed, and started to stuff all of the non-empty boxes into the cupboard while throwing the empty ones away. I had a photo shoot to get to, there was no way I was going to cry about Gordo now. I had to take a shower, and dress up, and... I blinked again. I picked up my phone and dialed the number listed for the photo shoot people.
"So sorry." I said elegantly. "I'm... busy today."
I made another appointment for a week later and got off the phone, smiling. It was amazing what kind of powers a super-diva had.
I looked eagerly at the bathroom. I had the whole morning clear for pampering. Bubble-bath, here I come!
A/N: Sorry it took so long. No excuse, once again, just plain laziness. And so sorry it wasn't very L/G, if so, then just barely, but she needed to get used to her environment, right? Next chapter will be more L/G-ish, more crying and stuff. Review if the server works. If not, then make it. Love you all!
xoxo,
PersonY2K
A/N: OMG, 13 Going On 30 looks so GOOD!!! But no, I've made a commitment, and I'm not going to see it until I'm done with this. Oh, have you guys read The Prophecy of the Stones by Flavia Bujor (the English version, not the French one)? It's really good! It was written by a fifteen-year-old, if you can believe that! I hardly can.
Be on the lookout for my new L/G one-shot... it's called The Lost One and it's going to be pretty sad, but I'm just going to post it soon (week-ish), so look for it!
---
I didn't remember getting home. I didn't remember lying down. I didn't remember falling asleep. And yet, I woke up and the sun was shining, and my body wasn't sprawled on Interstate 52.
My bed felt different. Not in a bad way, but it didn't seem like the usual queen sized mattress I had dozed on in the last few years. No, it seemed bigger. Bouncier. Fluffier. And the pillows were more regal. And my pajamas seemed to feel different. It wasn't my regular cotton outfit, but silk pajamas and a silk top.
Had I even come home the day before? If I had, how come I didn't recall a single thing that happened? Had I taken a shower? Did I cry myself to sleep? Had Gordo come out of the theater to apologize?
That's when I opened my eyes.
My instincts were right. It wasn't my regular bed, or my regular pillows, or my regular pajamas. The sheet was different, the quilt was different (there was a canopy!). The room was different. I was bewildered. Where on earth was I? Had an SUV ran me over and I was in the hospital? If so, this was some nice hospital.
I stepped out of bed and looked around. There were many pictures of people whom I couldn't identify, plus a wooden bookshelf that smelled of oak, and a few odd-looking lamps and other objects that seemed like modern art rather than home furnishings. I felt as if I were in another dimension. I walked toward the mirror perched rather delicately on the black-and-silver dresser and stopped along the way to curiously study the friendly but strange atmosphere around me.
I studied the photographs. They all were pictures of people smiling quite artificially, in small groups of five or six, or just sometimes two or three. They all contained a nice-looking woman wearing brightly-colored, festive clothing, an expensive looking hairstyle, and a very classy expression. That's whose room I was in, most likely. But why? Why wasn't I in my own apartment and my own room with my own photos of Miranda and Larry and Gordo and my family? Had a stranger found me and kindly brought me home?
I stopped gazing at the framed pictures and continued on my way to the dresser. I probably looked terrible. My hair was probably all in an unruly mess and muddy, not to mention my skin. Maybe I could straighten everything out and look acceptable, and then maybe find that woman in the pictures, the homeowner. I glanced at myself and did I double take.
And when I stared closely at my reflection in the mirror for the second time, I gasped, almost choking myself.
"I'm a Barbie!" I screeched, leaning closer.
I truly was. A slender, beautiful woman was looking back at me through the mirror. I was way prettier than Steph. I raised my hand and waved it in front of the mirror to make sure it was really my reflection and not someone else, and then screamed again.
My blond hair was perfectly cut into a layered style, just a few inches past my shoulders, shimmering with natural-looking highlights and an unbeatable shine. My eyes were still blue, but a deeper blue, a clearer blue. I was skinner than I had been the day before. I looked closer it seemed as if I had a nose job and a boob job and a who-knows-what job everywhere. I was perfect. A complete Barbie clone.
I touched my zit-free cheek and almost fainted.
I was beautiful.
I glanced down at the dresser and saw a magazine. Not too surprisingly, it had me on the cover, with large, vibrant letters screaming "Elle McGuire reveals her DEEPEST secrets!". I flipped to the page it said, and started reading.
Q. How does it feel to be crowned Miss America?
Elle: Oh, it's wonderful! I never even thought I'd be nominated, but one day my manager called me up and said "You're competing for Miss California. If you make it, you'll be Miss America!" And everything went from there.
Q. It is stressful to work so much?
Elle: All of that modeling and singing and acting I've done isn't for the money. I love it! And it can get exhausting sometimes, but then I remember, this is my DREAM. It's fun! I love it! The recording studio, the movie sets, the photo shoots... it's all so glamorous!
Q. Were you born a star, or did it take some work?
Elle: Well, yeah, before I was just a normal kid, but after I graduated from college, I decided I wanted to chase my dreams and I did so. I've made so many new friends and so many new habits along the way!
Q. How exciting is it to be American heartthrob Parker Mason's girlfriend?
Elle: It's awesome! He's so sweet, and he doesn't treat me like I'm royalty just because I'm famous. I love you, Parker!
Q. We heard he's going to propose soon! Is this true?
Elle: I don't know... I'll just have to wait!
I paused for a second. Was this really happening? Was I dreaming? Parker Mason? Who was that, anyway? Well, supposedly my boyfriend... my soon-to-be- fiancé, according to the magazine... but what about Gordo? And how did Lizzie become Elle? Elle-izabeth? That's odd.
This was most definitely a dream.
I was about to keep reading to find out more about me, but then my cellphone, which was on top of the dresser, started ringing. I hesitated to pick it up. I mean, I didn't know who was going to be on the line.
"Hey." I almost whispered, still recovering from the shock of my overnight transformation.
"Hey, honey, it's me." A male voice said. "How's my Miss America?"
Me? Me who? Well he had called me honey, so it was probably...
"P—Parker?" I asked, feeling like an idiot.
"Yeah." He said. "Are you busy tomorrow?"
I made a face. How should I know? "Kinda." I replied, just in case I was. I'd have to go look for my calendar.
"Oh, well, I heard from Jordan that he was going to ask you to schedule a photo shoot tomorrow."
"A photo shoot for what?" I asked, curious.
"Playboy magazine."
My eyes widened. Was he kidding? "Well, tell him no!" I exclaimed, shocked. I had no idea I did men's magazines!
"Why?" He seemed bewildered. "It's just one photo shoot."
"Yeah, just one for now." I scoffed. "But before you know it, it'll be two, and then three and soon enough everyone's going to be like 'Elle McGuire? Sorry, I didn't recognize you with your clothes on.'"
He chuckled. "Elle, honey, it's just one."
"No." I said firmly. "Tell him no." I hung up abruptly and sighed, falling into the bed. What in heaven's name was going on here? I was Lizzie... just Lizzie McGuire, recent college graduate, working as a co-secretary for Austin Redwall (professor), boyfriendless yet crushing, and now, magically, I had transformed into Elle McGuire, Miss America, movie star, singer, engaged to some parallel universe Brad Pitt-like hottie. Was this a dream? It certainly seemed real enough, and I kicked myself to prove my point.
Maybe I had a bad case of amnesia, and my whole life had just been a rather long dream I had conjured up while I was lying in bed, unconscious for weeks. That seemed pretty far-fetched, on account of I had absolutely no idea what or who anything was. Maybe I had gotten plastic surgery while I was on the side of the highway and someone rescued me and Elle McGuire was some other person, like a cousin. Yeah, that seemed believable. Elle was the long-lost cousin who rescued me from the highway, performed plastic surgery on me to change my ugly attributes so I looked exactly like her and Parker had thought I was her and—and... okay, so maybe that wasn't so believable.
I bit my lip, got up, and threw open my (her?) closet. I grinned in satisfaction. This Elle McGuire had good taste, even if she didn't fully exist. If this was a dream, it was pretty cool. A hot boyfriend (although I had never seen him, so I wasn't one to judge), an awesome job, the hottest wardrobe, and to top it all off, a having-it-all-lifestyle that was better than any amount of free shopping sprees at the mall.
I ran my hands over clothes from brands I couldn't believe I owned, examined several pairs of strappy sandals and swanky high-heels that looked as if they were about to fall apart at any second. Silks and furs, dresses and skirts, sweaters and blouses, purses and shoes, I had it all. In every sort of color imaginable.
My accessory table was amazing, full of not all that costume jewelry, fake- sterling silver, and dress-up charms that were as real as talking ducks, but gold and white gold, silver and bronze, diamonds and sapphires, emeralds and rubies. It wasn't as fancy as the Queen of England's loot, but so amazing indeed. I tried on a pair of dangly diamond earrings and a necklace and bracelet to match, and admired myself for several minutes before I realized that this expensive and heart-stopping jewelry was strewn all over the place, as if it had no value. I treated my metal charm bracelet better. Wow, did these rich people have it good or what!?
I noticed several rings of diamond and gold that were tucked away safely in little velvet boxes, and couldn't resist the urge to take a quick peek at them. They were technically mine, after all. I shouldn't be feeling guilty about touching my own jewelry, that was as stupid as feeling bad while eating your own food.
I smiled to myself and left the room, diamonds still glinting off the walls and onto my pajamas, ready to find that schedule book thing these sort of people had. Or maybe it was on her palm pilot or computer or something. Who knew, which this kind of life, it could be on the microwave for all I knew.
---
I found the schedule. Turns out I was pretty busy today, with a photo shoot at eleven and lunch with actress Leona Jenkins, who was supposed to be some big A-list star. After that was filming a commercial for NBC at three, and calling in on TRL for a fan-chat on the phone. Then dinner with Parker. God, how was I going to do this?
Knowing how models ate, I decided to scarf down a big breakfast so I didn't humiliate myself by ordering a huge meal instead of a dry, calorie-free, carb-free, fat-free salad with no olives or tomatoes or dressing or even probably salt.
I searched the refrigerator for anything close to Tropicana orange juice (or whatever they rich and famous drank) and some frozen waffles. Nothing. I found lettuce, cucumbers, onions, soybean milk... the works. Completely organic, completely healthy, completely boring. The freezer held some frozen blueberries which I gobbled up in a second, and lonely old piece of pie, which I could tell she was debating whether to eat or not. I ate that too. There were some frozen peas, but I ditched that and went straight to the cupboards, hoping she had some cereal or pancake mix or even flavored oatmeal, but nothing. Some tea bags and not even a grain of sugar.
I was about to give up and order a dozen Krispy Kreme donuts or so when I spotted a little cupboard under the sink, next to the trash can, that was labeled "emergency food". I grinned mischieviously and viciously tore open the cupboard, like a hungry dog unfed for weeks. And there lie heaven to a girl whose best friends had become Ben and Jerry, a sanctuary of chocolate, and ode to sugar, caffeine, carbs, and fat, boxes of cakes and donuts and melted ice cream (Well, Elle McGuire was supposedly dumb. Who else would put ice cream in a cupboard?) and cans of whipped cream and chips, so much oil and butter and rich chocolate and frosting.
I blinked and finished half of the stash off in about twenty minutes. Gordo and I had days like these, especially now that I was on a little something of a diet, every time I lost three pounds, we would go out and buy hundreds of bad-for-you things and have a little eating festival, to celebrate my weight loss. I usually ended up gaining it all back, but it was so much fun. Especially with Gordo there, the guy who doesn't inch away from your farts (I had too many jelly beans...), laughs at every burp, and pays for all of the food. He'd urge me to eat when I started feeling remorseful, reminding me to forget stupid diets and live for a while, even if it resulted in another four-week session of eating less and exercising more.
And there I was, surrounded by boxes of Oreos and pudding cakes, cans of frosting and chocolate chips, practically in a junk-food eater's paradise, when a tear stung my eye. I had known this was too good to last, there had been something missing, and that was a Gordo to share it all with. What good was enjoying the big bed or trying on the slinky clothes or even eating without him? If only he's see me now... a big wide-brimmed hat on my head, a feathered boa tied gracefully around myself, big diamonds shimmering away in the sunlight, pigging out on snack foods. He'd laugh his head off, start stuffing chips into my mouth and we'd both end up on the floor in fits of uncontrollable laughter and then I'd tumble on top of him and he'd kiss me ever so lightly...
"Keep dreaming," I scoffed, and started to stuff all of the non-empty boxes into the cupboard while throwing the empty ones away. I had a photo shoot to get to, there was no way I was going to cry about Gordo now. I had to take a shower, and dress up, and... I blinked again. I picked up my phone and dialed the number listed for the photo shoot people.
"So sorry." I said elegantly. "I'm... busy today."
I made another appointment for a week later and got off the phone, smiling. It was amazing what kind of powers a super-diva had.
I looked eagerly at the bathroom. I had the whole morning clear for pampering. Bubble-bath, here I come!
A/N: Sorry it took so long. No excuse, once again, just plain laziness. And so sorry it wasn't very L/G, if so, then just barely, but she needed to get used to her environment, right? Next chapter will be more L/G-ish, more crying and stuff. Review if the server works. If not, then make it. Love you all!
xoxo,
PersonY2K