Chapter 3
Daniella
“Holy shit,D! You’re a total celeb now,” Emma emphatically announces as she unreservedly charges into mybedroom.
“Language. Watch your language young lady,” I nag, wondering what the hell she’s so wound-upabout.
Emma can be quite the drama queen, as is the case with most sixteen-year-old girls. Come to think of it, I’ve known her to be prone to dramatic tendencies since I became her nanny five yearsago.
“My language? Ha! You should talk.” She giggles, peering down at the tablet she’s holding. “At least I didn’t get called a potty mouth in front of a gazillionpeople.”
Emma plops down beside me on my bed, seeming to ignore the practically infinite amount of candy bar wrappers that are scatteredabout.
Ever since I returned home from that ill-fated train ride and equally ill-fated job interview, I’ve been dolefully feasting on a substantial assortment of junk food while binge-watchingPretty Little Liars. To think how promptly my day morphed into a Mt.-Everest-sized heap of crap. I mean honestly, from that bitchy breakup text, to a less-than-to-be-desired occurrence with the Rude Hottie Guy on the Metro, to an it’s-never-gonna-happen-job interview with said Rude Hottie Guy—without a single measure of doubt, today will go down in the history ofwhat-the-fuck?days.
By the time I got home, I wanted nothing more than to indulge in a pity-party-junk-food-fest in my bedroom, taking full advantage of Emma being at school and Stacy being atwork.
However, now Emma is home from school…calling for me to put on my nanny hat as her big brown eyes switch from gleaming up at me, to being engrossed in whatever the heck she finds so intriguing on hertablet.
Aiming the remote control toward the TV, I push the button to pausePretty Little Liarsand turn over to face Emma. “What on Earth are you talkingabout?”
Emma peers up at me with utter amusement darting from her eyes. She passes her tablet over to me. “Here. Take a look at what’s trending all over TMZ’s YouTube Channel rightnow.”
I grab the tablet, fully expecting something related to some band she’s into. Instead, it’s a video with the tagline:Bombshell Brunette “Miss Potty Mouth” andCraveMeCEO, Antonio Michaels, Have A Feudal Exchange On The Los AngelesMetro.
HolyShit.
No…
Emma lets out an ear-piercing squeal as she reaches over to press the play button on the video. “I want to watch it again,” she says. “It’s quitehilarious.”
I can feel my heart pounding in painstakinganticipation.
This trulycannotbehappening.
Seriously…
Avideo?
Aviralvideo.
Apparently, the daftstreamercaptured the whole-entire-incident—at least from the moment I can be seen and heard telling Antonio Michaels exactly what he was expertly portraying: A First-Class Jerk. And, of course, the now-viral video, that has over two-million views, ends with the High and Mighty Antonio Michaels referring to me as…Miss PottyMouth.
Emma cocks her head to the side, and even though I turn my head to shamefully avoid eye contact, I can literally feel her laser-beamed judgmental gaze upon me. “Miss Potty Mouth?” She laughs. “You must admit, D, this video is superblyepic.”
“Oh, you’re right. It is indeed epic. An epic fail,” I say, beginning to feel queazy from all of the junk food consumed. Or queazy from the viral video, perhaps. “And stop calling me D,” I demand, attempting to surreptitiously change thesubject.
“Fine. Shall I call you Miss Potty Mouth instead?” Emma laughs, and I pick up a pillow and playfully smack her across the head withit.
“You’ve gotta spill the details,D.”
“Believe me, Emma. There’s really nothing to spill. I had it out on the train this morning with another commuter. The guy just so happened to be the CEO with whom I had a scheduled interview.” I cover my face with a pillow and mumble, “So, you know, just another day in the life of DaniellaBelle.”
Emma removes the pillow from over my face, and her frivolous gaze meets my solemn one. “D…it was Antoniohe’s so hotMichaels. So, you’re a total fifteen-minute celeb,now.”
“A fifteen-minute celeb?” I look at Emma, feeling a littledazed.
“You know…fifteen minutes of fame?Duh.”
