Apple's Angst Read online

  It was a fact that Happy was the most beautiful and well-dressed student at Cactus High, just as it was a fact that there were seven days in a week. Happy’s nickname had always been “the Onion” because she was so beautiful you wanted to cry just looking at her.

  “You should really be going to this meeting,” Apple said to Happy, getting off her bed and peeling her eyes away from the photograph of Lyon. “You’d be much better giving out advice than me. And you’d know what to wear! You’d fit right in.”

  “I wish! I’d kill for a job at Angst. But you’ll get me in. I know it. And you are good at giving out advice. Well, you were for the school newspaper. So it’s not like you have no experience. Plus, they don’t want just any teenager giving out advice to readers. You may not appreciate being the daughter of one of television’s most-watched talk-show hosts, but admit it, it opens doors,” Happy said, looking at a royal blue sweater briefly before tossing it dismissively into the Absolutely Not pile.

  “Unfortunately,” Happy continued, “my mother isn’t famous. My mother is not the one and only Dr. Bee Bee Berg.”

  “Oh my God, Happy! I’m so glad you said that. I keep thinking they want me just because I’m the daughter of Dr. Bee Bee Berg! You think so too, right?” Apple asked. “That’s the real reason they want me.”

  “Of course,” Happy said matter-of-factly. “Do you actually think Rumer Willis gets acting jobs because she has talent? No, it’s because of who her parents are. But who cares how you get in the door, as long as you do? Then you can prove yourself. And I NEED you to prove yourself so you can then get me in. Or at least get me some press so people know who I am and I can get an acting job somewhere!”

  “I’ll do my best,” Apple said sincerely. “And you will get an acting job. You were destined to be famous.”

  “Duh!” Happy said, opening another one of Apple’s drawers. “I’m a clothes whore, but my God, Apple, how many pair of jeans do you own?”

  Apple glanced at the clock on the wall. It was shaped like an apple, one of those unfortunate things that came along with being named after a fruit (Apple couldn’t even count how many items shaped like apples she had received as gifts in her life). The apple-shaped clock was a gift from one of her dad’s colleagues for her ninth birthday. She had been meaning to throw it out forever.

  “The meeting is in less than an hour. We’ve got to figure something out, like, now,” Apple moaned, “or I’m going to be late.”

  As if a director of a film had just called out “Action!” Apple’s mother walked into the room. Apple breathed in deeply, counting to ten in her head, as Brooklyn had advised her to do to remain calm in stressful situations. Apple found being around her mother very stressful. She loved her mother, but her presence, even at home, was just so big and overwhelming, it exhausted Apple. She tried not to be annoyed that her mother didn’t have the decency to knock, especially since it was her bedroom.

  “Have you ever heard of privacy?” Apple asked her, already knowing what the answer would be.

  There was no such thing as privacy in Dr. Bee Bee Berg’s world—the world of talk-show television, where everyone shared every little dirty secret just to get their fifteen minutes of fame. Apple’s mother’s career relied on people’s airing their dirty laundry. She lived and breathed it, like oxygen.

  Her mother may be an expert in the etiquette of love and relationships, thought Apple sullenly, but she was clearly not an expert in any other aspects of etiquette—like knocking before entering.

  “My goodness! Have we been broken into?” Dr. Berg asked, appalled, her wide eyes sweeping the room. “Your room is a disaster! What happened?”

  “Hi, Dr. Berg,” Happy chimed chirpily. “We’re trying to find something for Apple to wear for her meeting. Help me convince her that she can’t wear jeans.”

  “Of course she can’t wear jeans,” her mother huffed, heading into Apple’s walk-in closet. Her mother, as always, was immaculately dressed in a white pantsuit with a string of pearls around her neck. Her hair was in its usual updo. Not a strand was out of place. Her mother had had the same hairstyle for as long as Apple could remember. And those pearls around her neck? Apple wondered if she even took them off to shower.

  Happy shot Apple a “See? I told you so!” look.

  Happy adored Apple’s mother and had never quite understood why Dr. Berg annoyed Apple so much. Likewise, Apple had never understood why Happy got annoyed with her own parents. They were never around, spending most of their time traveling the world on exotic vacations. Apple could only dream of what it would be like to have a mother who wasn’t ever around, never barged in uninvited, never asked personally questions, and especially a mother people didn’t know. Happy had no idea how lucky she was!

  “How is it,” her mother asked, walking out of Apple’s closet empty-handed, “that you own no dress pants? We should really get you some professional-looking clothes. If you want to be treated like a professional, you must dress the part. You want them to know that you’re serious, that you want this job, that you’ll do anything to get it! How do you think I have the number-one television show in my time slot? It’s not because I dress like a slob, I can tell you that much. You have to dress for success!”

  “Hear, hear!” chimed Happy, wrapping an arm around Dr. Berg’s waist. “I was just telling Apple the same thing.”

  Dr. Berg beamed and patted Happy on the back. Apple turned away and rolled her eyes.

  Happy always seemed to be way more in tune with Apple’s mother than Apple ever was. It was Happy who always told Apple’s mother what was going on at school or in her life. Happy treated her mother like she was a friend!

  “Mom! Please!” Apple moaned. “You don’t need to constantly remind us. We know about your popular show. We know about the ten self-help books you published. We know, we know, we know!”

  Dr. Berg shot Apple a warning look. Apple looked away. She was trying to be nicer to her mother these days, but her mother made it difficult. While Apple was trying to be nicer, her mother didn’t seem to be trying to be less annoying.

  “Excuse me, Dr. Berg, let me in there,” Happy said, pushing her way into Apple’s walk-in closet for the umpteenth time. “There’s got to be something in here,” she yelled out. “A closet full of clothes and nothing to wear.”

  “Isn’t that always the case for all women?” laughed Dr. Berg.

  Apple tried to laugh too and get into the spirit but she couldn’t quite get up for it. She thought about how unsure she felt about being the teen advice columnist at Angst. Or giving advice anywhere, for that matter. She had yet to admit this to anyone except Lyon.

  “Just check it out and see if you like it. If you don’t, then just don’t do it,” he had told her supportively when she mentioned her hesitation the other night.

  He was so sweet, but Lyon didn’t completely understand.

  How could Apple complain about the opportunity to work at Angst magazine when everyone was so thrilled for her, even envious? It’s not that she didn’t see the need for a teenage advice columnist. Even Apple had needed relationship advice when she was trying to win Zen’s affection, and especially when she was caught.

  Everyone Apple had told about the phone call from the editor of Angst couldn’t believe how lucky she was to land herself a gig at a magazine where people actually worked for free answering phones and fetching coffee, just to be able to say they worked at Angst magazine.

  But Apple had fought her entire life against being her mother’s daughter, and following in her mother’s footsteps was like admitting she actually was proud of what her mother did for a living. She just didn’t get why her mother was so interested in people’s private lives. It was almost as if she was using the guests for ratings. Then again, the guests on the Queen of Hearts weren’t forced to appear. They seemed to really want to tell the world about their straying husbands. They seemed to genuinely want everyone in the world to know that they cheated on their fiancés right
before the wedding.

  Apple had spent her life fighting hard to be the exact opposite of her outspoken, never-at-a-loss-for-words mother. So the fact the people at Angst more likely than not wanted Apple only because she was the daughter of someone famous, or worse, thought she might actually be like her mother, was off-putting to say the least.

  Apple inhaled deeply again and watched her mother critically scour her clothes alongside Happy.

  Did Apple really want to follow in her mother’s footsteps in the advice-giving market? Wouldn’t she then always be compared to her mother? Being perceived as a mini Dr. Bee Bee Berg was one of her worst nightmares. And what if she was bad at giving advice? Then people would surely make fun of her, thinking that she was trying to be a mini Dr. Bee Bee Berg and failing! Apple already felt the need to scream out, “They called me! I didn’t ask for this!”

  Apple had no idea what she wanted to be in the future—she just knew she didn’t want to end up like her mother. Apple, as always, kind of just wanted to be unnoticed. She didn’t want to bring any attention to herself, and attention was the one thing her mother couldn’t seem to get enough of. Her mother loved signing autographs, accepting awards, and being asked to pose for magazines. Apple didn’t understand why anyone, including Happy, would want to be famous.

  “I’m not sure why you guys care so much,” threw in Brooklyn suddenly. “I’m kind of with Apple on this. It’s what’s on the inside that matters.” Apple, Happy, and Dr. Berg were so startled to hear Brooklyn’s voice, they all stopped mid-movement. Brooklyn, apparently, was ready to rejoin the real world.

  “Oh, dear God! You almost gave me a heart attack, Brooklyn,” Dr. Berg fluttered, putting her hand to her heart. “I didn’t even see you there. I’m not as young as I used to be. You can’t just go surprising people like that! And what are you doing, my dear? How long have you been sitting like that?”

  “Sorry, Dr. Berg. I didn’t mean to scare you. I’ve been sitting like this for, I don’t know, maybe an hour? You know, you should try meditation. It really calms you. I feel so much calmer since I’ve started meditating,” said Brooklyn, before letting out a loud yawn.

  “Yeah, so much calmer that you’re always falling asleep in class,” Happy said.

  Brooklyn shrugged. She didn’t care about school or grades. She had always planned on going to India when she graduated, and she didn’t see how learning calculus or science could ever help her find her inner peace or get her on a plane to India.

  “Thank you, dear,” Dr. Berg replied. “But I am much too busy to sit around and do nothing. Have you also been helping destroy my daughter’s room?”

  “Yeah, Brooklyn’s been about as much help as that desk. I even forgot she was here,” said Happy, “and I drove her here.”

  “That’s the point of meditating. The point is to find silence within,” said Brooklyn, uncrossing her legs and standing up to stretch her arms above her head. “Anyway, like I said, I think people will see the beauty in Apple no matter what she wears.”

  “Thank you, Brooklyn,” Apple said, pointedly looking at her mother and Happy. “At least someone here understands me,”

  Happy wasn’t having any of Brooklyn’s free-spirited nature right now.

  “Brooklyn! You know I love you, but we don’t have time for your mantras on life. Can you please start helping us pick out something fabulous for Apple to wear to her interview?”

  “I thought you already had the job. Why do you care what you wear?” Brooklyn asked, rolling over on her head, gearing up to get into a handstand position.

  “I don’t. But they do,” Apple said, eyeing her mother and Happy. “I guess I should look presentable. I’m meeting the editor-in-chief. I think they just want to see that I can talk without crying or something. They just want to see that I’m not a total whack job in person. I mean, the one time they saw me, I was blubbering like an idiot.”

  Apple waited for someone to say, “You still looked great!” but nobody did. Again she wished Lyon were around. He would tell her how great she looked. He would make her feel like she was the most important person in the room. He didn’t care if she got the job or not.

  “Try this. You look amazing in red!” Happy said, throwing a piece of clothing across the room. It hit Apple in the face.

  Apple looked at the red T-shirt dress Happy had tossed over. She couldn’t remember where or when she had bought it. “I found it on the floor under a pile of shoe boxes,” Happy said, as if she could read Apple’s mind. “It’s not too wrinkled. I like it,” she added, pleased. “I wish you had some knee-high black boots to go with it. Now that would look hot. Oh. My. God. You can wear mine! We’re practically the same size.”

  “My feet are, like, two sizes bigger than yours,” said Apple, looking at Happy as if she had lost her mind.

  “Who cares? I can’t think of one guy who wouldn’t want to see you in these boots,” she said, winking. “Friggin’ hot hot hot! These are my come-get-me boots!”

  “Happy, dear,” interrupted Dr. Berg. “Is that how you girls talk today? It’s foul! Remember, you should always talk like a lady. I mean, of course we all want to feel good-looking and confident, but we don’t need boots to woo men, do we?”

  “Sorry, Dr. Berg,” Happy said, facing Apple and Brooklyn, who was still upside down, and rolling her eyes. They had to turn away from each other so as to not burst out laughing. Dr. Berg was old-fashioned, to say the least, when it came to love, language, and apparently, clothing. According to the bloggers’ and critics’ reviews of Queen of Hearts that Happy had read to Apple, her mother’s old-fashioned nature was part of her appeal and charm.

  “Brooklyn, please don’t hurt yourself,” said Dr. Bee Bee Berg, glancing at Brooklyn. “I’m worried that all the blood rushing to your brain is going to make you faint.”

  “Don’t worry. I could stay like this for hours,” said Brooklyn.

  “Go! Go! Get dressed,” screamed Happy, hopping on one foot as she took a boot off. “Take them!”

  “Are you sure, Happy?” Apple asked.

  “I’m sure! I’m so sure! My best friend is going to be the editor of Angst one day. The least I can do is lend her my boots!”

  “Happy, I’m not going to be the editor. It’s, like, an intern position,” Apple muttered.

  “Whatever! Just get changed already!” Happy said, shooing Apple into the bathroom.

  “If you believe in yourself, it will be,” called out Brooklyn.

  Apple took the red dress and Happy’s knee-length Prada boots into her bathroom. She slipped off her faded blue jeans and her tank top and threw the red dress over her head. Then she sat on the toilet and tried to yank the two-sizes-too-small boots over her feet.

  “Oh, my God,” she screamed out. “These boots will never fit! Help!”

  Brooklyn and Happy burst into the bathroom. Happy looked like she meant business. Brooklyn was flushed from her handstand.

  “Stay seated. Now stick your legs out,” Happy demanded. “Brooklyn, use those strong yoga arms of yours and help me pull them on.”

  “These will never fit!” Apple moaned again. “This is ridiculous!”

  “Shut up, Apple!” Happy groaned. “These boots cost $400. You should be honored that I’m letting you stretch them out. They’re on! See?”

  Amazingly, the boots were on her feet, although Apple could feel her toes curl under. The pain was instant and intense as she stood up.

  “Oh, my God,” Apple groaned. “My toes are killing and I haven’t even taken one step.”

  “Here,” Happy said, opening the medicine cabinet. “Take these.”

  She handed Apple over two Advils, turned on the tap, and filled a glass of water, which she also handed her. “It will help. Trust me. Sailor does it all the time when she goes out in heels. She takes two Advils and swears she can last four hours longer on her feet.” Sailor was Happy’s older sister. They definitely had a love/hate relationship, but Apple knew that they were as close
as twins. Apple was often jealous that Happy had a sibling, even if they often fought like it was World War III. Sailor, next to Apple and Brooklyn, was definitely Happy’s best friend. While Happy often complained about her sister, if anyone else said something even slightly negative about her, they would have to deal with the wrath of Happy. No one wanted to cross that line.

  Brooklyn and Happy threaded their arms through Apple’s and walked her out of the bathroom into the bedroom.

  Guy, her mother’s flamboyant assistant and best friend, had appeared in Apple’s bedroom and was checking out his hair in her full-length mirror.

  “Guy should never have gotten highlights,” he moaned, running his fingers through his hair. “This is why I’ll never meet a man. Who would want to be seen with Guy and his awful highlights?”

  Then Guy noticed Apple. “Sweetie! Oh, my God! You look amazing! You look like a model! Honestly, red is so your color. Guy never sees you in a dress. Guy thinks you should totally wear more red and more dresses. You have a nice little body. Who knew?” he giggled. “And those boots? Can you say fabulous? Guy thinks you look fab-u-lous!”

  He was practically screeching now, getting more excited each second. He grabbed Apple’s hand and started jumping up and down, like a little boy who had to use the bathroom ASAP. “Guy is so excited for you! The boots make the outfit!”

  “I know!” said Happy. “Aren’t they fierce?”

  “Fiercely fabulous,” responded Guy. “Guy wishes he had a pair.”

  He laughed his infectious laugh. Even Apple couldn’t help but laugh.

  Apple loved Guy, who was practically a part of the Berg family. He had worked for Apple’s mother for more than fifteen years, since Apple’s birth. Apple couldn’t help but smile when he was around. He was just one of those people who was almost never in a bad mood, kind of like Lyon. Even when Guy was in a bad mood, like Lyon he managed to hide it.