What? What is this? Am I actually updating before the year *COUGH* I mean, week is out?
Yes, yes I am, and don't get used to it because then I'll screw up. Luckily, I'm writing out a plot map, so things should be speedier.
I really, really hate writing Sam being a celebrity, under the thumb of stereotypes and unneeded pressure and just being forced to not be her. It just….ugh. Let's just say I can't wait til the escape plan is put into action.
"Sammy-kins!"
I brought my pillow to cover my ears. That voice was entirely too bright for eight in the morning, honestly. But Pamela Manson, my mother, was quite the bright character and had been so for the sixteen years of my life. That wasn't about to change.
Unfortunately.
"Oh, Samantha dearie, wake up already."
Grumbling, I punched my pillow and sat up, giving her my death glare. Despite the fact that I've refined it to a nearly perfect state, she was not affected. That might be because she was the one I got to practice on. What'd I'd give to sleep 'til three.
I let her drag me upright into a standing position (because I would certainly not do it voluntarily), closing my eyes when the curtains were opened into my dark room. I wish I could say the sun was entirely too bright for eight in the morning, but I can't really go against nature.
Just, did it have to be so bright in my room?
I got a glance of my wardrobe for the day and my lips set into a tight line. I used to put up a fight when she picked out what I was going to wear for the day. Which doesn't happen exactly often, but too often for my liking. Besides, I kind of promised not to make such a big deal about it as long as the circumstances had all of the following three requirements.
One, the outfit picked could not be too revealing. Too revealing at my definition. Two, absolutely no shade of pink, or combination of two or more bright colors. And three, she would not pick my outfits more than six times a month (though I had to let her do it those six times). Luckily, it's a written and legal agreement, so she can't disregard any of the terms. Unluckily, it's a written agreement, so I can't, either.
My mother bustled around, already on the phone, making use of the Bluetooth feature. I tuned her babble out, going to change out of my pajamas and into the red and blue striped dress, slipping on the strappy red platform shoes.
I have way too many of these.
Suddenly my mom was behind me, still talking incessantly as she put on a gaudy necklace. You know the type. Long chain and an excessively large, colorful pendant. Some like jewelry like that. I don't.
I suddenly felt kind of…disheartened. There had to be something I liked about my life. Right?
Danielle Fenton is a go-getter type of girl. She knows what she wants, short-sighted she may be (at fourteen years old), but nonetheless she knows how to get it. The girl is stubborn, smart, incredibly curious and maybe just the least bit whiny. One way or another Danielle can usually get her way, either by wheedling, pouting, or even cunning scheming.
Just...not this time.
"Please, Jazz, please," Danielle begged, quite literally on her knees in front of the redhead, who had an eyebrow raised. "They won't let me move out of the attic unless a responsible older girl rooms with me, and I know that they mean you! It's so stuffy in the attic, and Danny's so loud at night – either because of his nightmares or just his snoring – and I've saved up to help pay for the apartment I picked out and I'll even continue to do stuff around the neighborhood to pay for my part of it! Please!"
Jazz nearly fell over when Danielle lunged for her leg, clinging to it, having no concern for the lack of dignity the motion bestowed as she looked endearingly up at her surrogate older sister. "Please," Danielle pouted. "I've thought it all through logically. Your parents are all for it, they'd have more storage room with both of us out of the house, and with you going to college in a few months when school starts again, it's like taking a step ahead of the game!"
Jazz sighed, shaking her leg lightly. "No offense, Danielle, but it's hard to take someone's 'logic' seriously when that someone is holding your leg like it's their only lifeline."
Danielle sighed, letting go and standing up as Jazz continued. "I swear, with Danny it's the horribly written puns and with you it's the drama. You really know how to go over the top." Jazz then put her hands on her hips in true nagging fashion and Danielle just grumbled.
"It usually works," she muttered under her breath, folding her arms in a neutral gesture as she waited for Jazz to give her completely logical, thought through rejection.
"I really don't think it's a good idea," Jazz said gently but firmly and Danielle slumped. "Yes, I will be going off to college, but us in close quarters – close living quarters – is nowhere near a good idea. I'd drive you crazy with my studying, and my need for everything to be perfect and routine. You'd drive me crazy with the nightly patrols and your natural messiness and disorganization." The eighteen year old shuddered. "You could not pay me, Danielle, I'm sorry. I love you, but –" Jazz nearly said "It's like asking me and Danny to live in the same room" but decided against it and instead continued with, "It just sounds like an absolute nightmare. You've thought quite a lot of it through, and I commend you for that, but just not…all of it."
Danielle, nodded, looking dejected, and Jazz gave her a hug. It was times like these, times when Danielle had tried just about everything she could do to do something and still fail, that she would reflect on a constant, positive thought that had been put in action since her thirteenth birthday.
At least I'm legal.
I went to breakfast with my mother and agent at a diner after a stressful ten minutes of getting my blue color contacts in. It wasn't a busy morning; only two other customers were there, a lady and her daughter, and judging by their lack of reaction they don't know me.
For which I'm thankful for. Not only would I hear my celebrity name "Sammy Manson", but I hate having to ask for privacy or any kind of V.I.P. treatment for my personal comfort. Although…
I looked at the little girl. She looked ecstatic as the waiter gave her hot chocolate, using the spoon at the table for to eat the whipped cream as the beverage cooled off. Maybe…maybe I wouldn't have minded being in a picture with her, if she had asked. It's not like this kid had done me any wrong…unlike my cousins. Good thing I don't have to babysit. I wrinkled my nose at thoughts of using my celebrity status like that. Of being like that. Yeah, it's normal. It just feels…so…not me. Almost egotistical.
Actually, it is egotistical. I'm thinking that I'd give this kid a picture or autograph if she wanted one and she hasn't even spared me a second glance.
My head hurts.
"Pamela, the greatest opportunity just popped up less than a week ago –"
"No, Simon, no, we already went over this two hours ago on the phone –"
Back and forth. On and on. I'm only here to mediate and with them cutting each other off every sentence it's not like I'd get a word in edgewise, which is just fine with me.
So far.
I looked across the restaurant at the little girl again. She and her mother were sharing a small cake. Well, a mildly sized cake; they'll probably be taking a little home. It looks pretty good….it looks really good. It looks like a really deep chocolate, with a pink filling – strawberry, I suppose. That frosting looks perfectly applied to the dessert, not spread thin nor layered upon layer.
I do believe I just spied an Oreo cookie atop that cake. Screw it.
As the same waiter from earlier passed by, I waved a little to get his attention and he came over. "Yes, miss?"
"I'd like what they're having, please?" I said politely, pointing to the mother and daughter.
He glanced over and nodded. "Yes. Should I…" He glanced at my mom and Simon, who were so busy conversing they hadn't even noticed I had moved. "Inform her that the slice is being added to the check?"
I shook my head. "It's fine. And…" I hesitated. I'd never done this before. "Instead of the slice, can we have the whole cake? Like that girl?"
"Samantha!"
I cringed as I turned toward her. Her tone was entirely offended, which meant either she was about to have a reason to pitch a fit, or I was. "Mom…"
"Oh no you don't! Samantha, the notion is absolutely ridiculous. A whole cake?"
I sighed. The waiter was still there, waiting to see if the order was going to happen or not. "Mom –"
"Even a slice is questionable, you silly girl." Even Simon was looking at me in an almost disapproving way. "No. Absolutely not. It doesn't befit your image." And she turned back to Simon, continuing whatever they had been talking about.
I fumed, and this time I interrupted her. "Excuse me? It doesn't befit my image? It's just a freaking cake, and it's not even that big! You can't tell me what to eat and not eat every single time I want to indulge myself! It's not like I'd eat it all at once, I just want to taste it, and therefore I will."
My mom once again turned to me and this time she looked thoroughly amused as though she were talking to a very young child. "Samantha, don't be spoiled. No need to be cranky. It's just a cake."
I immediately shrank at that.
The waiter walked away, a smile on his face as though he completely understood what my mom was going through. I could practically hear his thoughts. 'Teenage divas, I swear they're all the same…'
This…I cannot believe this. The one time I stand up for myself, in public, no less, I'm made out to be a spoiled brat. My mom runs a lot of my life…is it too much to ask that I get some of the reins?
The anger resurfaced in my head. Not just some. I should be able to choose the parts I act. I should be able to choose what I wear, every time. I should be able to choose where I want to go and where I don't want to go.
And you know what, if I want to eat a whole cake, I should be able to!
I glanced once more at the table across the diner and the anger left me when I saw that little girl looking at me with a small frown. Every little trace of indignity I felt disappeared when this little girl, this little girl I don't even know, looked at me as though she was disappointed. As though I should know better.
Then I faintly heard her say, watched her mouth form the words, "Mommy, is that Sammy Manson?"
I jerked my head away, feeling sick to my stomach. Suddenly I don't want any cake. What an example to set for the younger generation I am.
I really need that vacation. Maybe…a permanent one. Whatever I like about this life: the thrill of acting, fame, money, convenience, none of it is worth this. Valerie was thinking of something last night, something to get me that vacation, and I'm going to go talk to her about it.
I just really hope it works.
