By Meg Cabot
EM WATTS IS GONE.
Emerson Watts didn’t even are looking to visit the recent SoHo Stark Megastore grand beginning. yet somebody had to glance out for her sister, Frida, whose overwhelm, British heartthrob Gabriel Luna, will be making a song and signing autographs there—along with the newly appointed Face of Stark, youngster twiglet sensation Nikki Howard.
How was once Em to grasp that catastrophe could strike, altering her,and existence as she’d recognized it, eternally?
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Did I? How could I be seeing Christopher’s hair underwater if I wasn’t wet? Maybe my eyes weren’t open. Were my eyes closed or open? Why couldn’t I lift up my hand to feel my face and see? My hand felt so heavy . . I couldn’t even lift it . . Why was I so tired? So tired . . I heard voices. The voices were saying things. What were they saying? I couldn’t tell. I couldn’t understand them. I was too tired to understand them. Who kept talking? Why wouldn’t they let me sleep? Wait. That was Mom’s voice.
And OK, mostly because I peeked into the box marked Chris’s Video Games as it sat next to the freight elevator, and saw that we liked all the same role-playing games. But whatever. I guess because we hang out so much, people think we’re dating, but nothing could be further from the truth (alas). Still, even though we’re not dating – however much I might wish that we were – I resented Frida’s implication that Christopher isn’t cute. He isn’t, under the standard Walking Dead definition of hottie, of course.
People who are in the media all the time, but they’re only Famous For Being Famous,’ I explained to him. ‘They’ve never done anything to get famous – because they don’t have any talent? ’ I was in a good mood, on account of the fine remark, so I lowered my voice to sound like a television news announcer: ‘Nineteen-year-old son of billionaire Stark Enterprises owner Robert Stark. Or celebutantes, like Tim Collins’s seventeen-year-old daughter, Lulu. The Tim Collins,’ I went on. ’ Christopher’s jaw dropped.
Airhead by Meg Cabot