The Gorgeous One.

STARSTRUCK (adj);

Captivated by famous people or fame itself.



The rodent is staring at my sister Georgina.

In the rodent’s defense, it’s hard not to stare at Georgina. Actually, it’s a phenomenon similar to rubbernecking; only in this case people don’t stare at my sister because she looks like a car wreck. Men, women, children, animals and zygotes (I’m guessing) can’t take their eyes off Georgina because she is absolutely, undeniably perfect. Like airbrushed “men’s interest” magazine kind of perfect.

“Herbert?” I say, since his real name is Herbert Rodale and I only refer to him as the rodent behind his back.

The rodent doesn’t answer. He’s either ignoring me or so deep in fantasyland he doesn’t hear me.

“Herbert!” I shout.

This is not only gets Georgina’s attention, but the attention of the techie geeks who, like me and the rodent, have gathered to help Georgina turn the Gym into a “magic apple orchard” for the fall festival. We attend Chesapeake School of Performing Arts in New Jersey (otherwise known as CSPA), and the fall festival is the school’s lame imitation of homecoming dance. But unlike in a real High School (where I’ve heard everyone goes to the dances regardless of their position in the High School popularity hierarchy), only the drama, dance, music, and art majors (well, about half of the art majors) attend the fall festival. Us techies stay home and watch Mythbusters on the Discovery Channel.

“Herbert,” Georgina says sweetly as she puts her thumbs in her belt loops and hikes up her low-rise Sevens.

“Abby wants you.” She sweetly blurted.

The rodent looks as if someone has just slapped him out of a trance.

“What?” he says, wrinkling up his long, pointed nose as his little beady eyes dart around the room.

“This needs to be hung from right there,” I say, shaking a “magic apple” (also known as a red-sequined Styrofoam ball) and pointing to a spot on the wall behind him.

“Yeah, okay,” he mumbles. And then he goes back to staring at my sister again.

I should be used to guys ogling my older sister as if she were a Victoria’s Secret model holding the newest Sony PlayStation. It happens no matter where we go.

Georgina and I are the only kids in our family and she’s the oldest, born eleven months before me. Since Georgina is tall (think model), gorgeous (think bathing suit edition of Sports Illustrated), and brunette (think bathing suit edition of Sports Illustrated model with brown golden flax hair spun by silver-winged fairies), I like to joke that she used up all our Mom’s Scandinavian genes, leaving me with Dad’s Mediterranean ones (think bushy-eyebrowed president of some country you’ve never heard of). But although my heritage may explain my stature, thick dark hair, and olive complexion, it’s not responsible for my oversized hooked nose, my nonexistent cheekbones, my oversized chin, and last, but definitely not least, my buck teeth.

Life is so unfair. Which is why I toss rodent the ball, hitting him in the head.

“Ouch,” he says, rubbing the place of impact.

“Sorry,” I grumble.

My aggressive behavior and sour expression have not escaped the notice of my sister, who takes me by the arm and leads me away from the group.

“What are you doing?” she whispers.

Even her voice is melodic. Jesus.

“It was an accident,” I say defensively.

Georgina peers into my eyes (brown with a little hazel mixed in, my one and only reasonably good facial feature), and I can tell she’s trying to read my mind. In spite of our physical differences, we grew up as twins: wearing the same blue pinafore dresses Aunt Edna sent us every year for Christmas, getting our pictures taken together at Jersey Photo Studio, and being toted around in a double stroller. As a result, we have a brain connect that is sometimes downright eerie, if not bordering on psychic. (Or psychotic.)

“I know you weren’t crazy about this whole decorating thing,” she says finally. “But I appreciate your help.”

“No problemo.” I turn away and begin chewing on my right thumbnail.

I don’t want Georgina to see inside my head, mainly because I’m not exactly proud of what’s going on in there. I love my sister, I do, but this idol worship gets to me sometimes. I really shouldn’t care that my fellow tech majors have spent the past three hours decorating for a dance that none of them have any intention of attending, all the while acting as if Georgina is doing downright delirious with happy-tude that my sister is getting what she wants, even if she always seems to get what she wants without putting in any real effort. But deep down, I just wave that proverbial white flag of surrender.

“I didn’t have anything else to do anyway,” I add, commending myself on my graciousness.

“That’s true,” Georgina says absentmindedly, pulling the proverbial flag right out of my hands.

“I could’ve gone to Spoons,” Nick announces, not even bothering to look away from his illustration.

Nick is an excellent artist who has been given the task of painting the giant backdrop for the dance floor, a life-size illustration of an apple tree. As my official best friend, Nick is the only one of my peers who’s actually here because of me. Nick is cute and skinny, but with his brown eyes and ruffled fro brown hair, he’s definitely one of the best-looking techs. Not many people realize this though, because they’re too distracted by his fro hair; his black, paint spattered T-shirts; his boots and his skinny jeans.

“I could be drinking an iced mocha cappuccino right now,” Nick says, referring to my favorite beverage, as he uses his paintbrush to sweep a brown line across the canvas.

“Or I could’ve gone to see that new Jennifer Aniston movie.”

I smile widely. Nick hates iced mocha cappuccinos about as much as he hates chick flicks, maybe even more (I caught him looking at a Sandra Bullock DVD at the mall once). The message is clear: he would prefer either of those to decorating the gym. Not that I haven’t been thinking the same thing myself, but I can’t help but feel protective of Georgina, and I don’t want Nick to hurt her feelings. I narrow my eyes and flash him a look that sends a message equally as clear: put a lid on it.

But it’s too late. Georgina is on to us.

“Why don’t we call it quits for today,” she says, reaching toward me and pulling my thumb out of my mouth the way a mother would.

I wipe my thumb on my corduroys, embarrassed to have been hacking away at my nail like an eager puppy attacking a furry slipper. As a kid, I sucked my thumb, which is why my two front teeth resemble those found on walrus. Somewhere near my eighth year, I made the transition to just chewing on my nail and cuticles, but it hadn’t seemed to help my teeth much. My sister never had that problem, of course. She was gifted with two rows of straight white piano-key teeth and entered puberty looking like a poster child for Ultrabright toothpaste.

“This looks great, George.” Catherine says, as if Georgina not me, were responsible for the floor design. Nearly six feet tall and with an almost constant scowl on her face, Catherine Bellows is an intimidating figure. And the flannel shirts and overalls she is so fond of only make her seem more intimidating, in a Paul Bunyan lumberjack kind of way.

“Thanks, but you really should be complimenting Abby,” Georgina says. “It was her design, and you guys are the ones who provided all the elbow grease. Bravo!”

Bravo, Nick mouths with a roll of his eyes. Mocking Georgina isn’t a very nice thing to do, but Nick is an ornery guy. It’s just one of the reasons I like him so much.

“It does look great,” I say to Nick. “In fact, it doesn’t even look like a gym in here.”

What I really mean is: Even though it still looks like a gym, it looks a lot better than it did three hours ago when we walked in.

Our school was built as a private Christian school. Even though its two stories have been remade to accommodate the CPSA (complete dance studio, an art gallery, a theater, an a production room for us techs), some remnants still remain: the giant, stained-glass window behind the old sweeping marble staircase small, dark classrooms; a bunch of lockers that look like they’re from the Druid period; and a dark, windowless gym.

“I think we should celebrate,” Georgina says. “I’m treating everyone to Slurpees at the Seven-Eleven.”

“Slurpees?” Catherine says excitedly. It was if Georgina just offered her a new blade for the four-hundred-and-fifty-dollar table saw she got as a gift from her parents last Christmas.

“You’re sister’s great!” she says to me.

“I’ll meet you at home,” I tell Georgina, obviously underwhelmed by her greatness.

“You don’t want a Slurpee?” Georgina asks nonchalantly, pulling her sleek black sunglasses out of the quilted leather purse that she paid two hundred dollars for on eBay.

Georgina always dresses for the occasion, and today she looks like she’s dressed for a glamorous hayride: a skin-tight jeans, her new combat trooper boots, and a red T-shirt accessorized with a red-plaid scarf that is looped casually around her neck. Georgina has the looks of pre-Chris Martin, a movie star-era Gwyneth Paltrow, but that’s not what she wants to be.

Although more than one teacher has suggested she become a model or do some commercial work, Georgina is a total theater snob. She claims she might eventually consider doing some “film work,” but only after she’s established herself as a serious actress. And no one doubts that she will. She’s that good. Georgina’s refusal to “sell-out” and cash in on her beauty only added to her goddess-like status at school. And for me, key-grip status is as good as it gets.

“No thanks,” I say.

The truth of the matter is that I want a Slurpee more than the rodent wants two minutes with Georgina in the backseat of his ’97 Honda Accord. But I don’t think I can stand watching him and the rest of the techies fawn over my sister and longer. There’s only so much my diplomatic, bushy-eyebrowed heritage can take.

“Nick and I will stay and finish up. I’ll meet you at home.”

I watch as Georgina tosses her silky hair and heads out of the gym like she’s working the red carpet in front of adoring fans and hungry paparazzi. I look over at Nick, who’s still diligently painting away.

“What was that?” I ask Nick.

“What?”

“I looooove Slurpeeeeeees,” I say in a really low voice as soon as everyone is out of earshot.

“I didn’t think Catherine loves anything except that table saw she keeps bragging about.”

Nick half-shrugs. “Yeah, well, Georgina’s popular and nice to everybody.”

“Too nice.” I sit down and my cords feel tighter than they had last week.

“Did you see the way the rodent was looking at her? If I were Georgina, I would’ve…”

Nick raises an eyebrow. “Would’ve what?”

I try to imagine what it would be like to have someone staring at me in awe, or at just a part of me, like my boobs for instance. In fact, my boobs are twice as big as Georgina’s. Unfortunately, so is everything else.

“I would’ve told him to keep his perverted little eyes to himself.” I say adamantly.

“Please, it’s pathetic,” Nick says. “He’s obsessed with Georgina, and the closest he’ll ever get to scoring is helping her hang sequined balls.”

As soon as Nick says the word obsessed, my kind flashes to Joseph Jonas, the guy/divine being I’ve been secretly in love with since I saw him with Nick on the first day of my freshman year. I was looking for the production studio and had wandered down the wrong hall, which was crammed full of drama majors, laughing and sauntering along in a cool, because-I-said-so manner. As I stood outside the door to the auditorium, I tried to get up the nerve to ask someone where the production studio was, but I was too intimidated to approach even the lesser-known drama kings and queens. I was praying that Georgina would suddenly appear when I heard a deep voice say, “Lost?”

He was by himself, sitting on a window ledge away from the crowd, an open book in his hands. He had long side swept, black licorice colored hair, sparkling brown eyes and was wearing a black combat boots, washed-out skinny jeans and a black T-shirt. He looked older than the rest of the kids, more sophisticated (don’t tell Nick I said that), like he’d traveled in Europe for two years. Immediately, it felt as though there was a knot tightening in the center of my chest.

Ever since Joe pointed me in the right direction, the mere glimpse of him is enough to make my heart beat faster and my hands shake. Even though I know a divine being like Joe will never be interested in someone like me, there’s not a doubt in my mind that if he asked for volunteers to scrape old gum off the bottom of the gym bleachers for the fall dance, I’d be the first in line, even if I had to challenge the entire drama queen population in a kickboxing match in order to get there.

The realization that I might have something in common with the rodent depresses me so much that I heave a big sigh. And I sigh even harder when I notice that some of my flab is hanging over the front of my cords. And the sides. And possibly even the back.

“Nick,” I say, as I start chewing on my nails again. “Do you ever think about changing majors?”

“No.”

“You could get into the music program.”

Most of us are techies because we wanted to attend CSPA and production is the only major that doesn’t require a grueling audition. But Nick has taken music lessons for years and he not only has a great singing voice, he can play the guitar, drums as well as the piano. He was even in the chorus of The Music Man last year (because the director begged him to do it).

“Why would I want to change majors?” Nick asks.

I’m not surprised by Nick’s response. I’ve always thought Nick enrolled theater production major just to tick off his parents because he has chosen the same major like Joe, his older brother.

“I don’t know,” I say. “Don’t you ever get tired of the way everybody around here treats us? We’re second-class citizens.”

Nick puts down his brush and eyes me intently.

“Are you thinking about changing majors? I bet you could get into the visual arts program.”

In fact, I would love to change majors-but not to visual arts. No, there is only one major I want, and that’s theater. I fantasize all the time about what it would be like to be Georgina, the star of the show, the beautiful ingénue. I dream about a world where Joe not only notices me, but likes me.

But instead of saying this to Nick, I decide to give him a little demonstration of my (albeit limited) talent. I clear my throat as I get up and walk to the front of the gym, which has been roped off as a make-do dance floor.

“If you cared about me,” I begin; melodramatically reciting the monologue my sister is doing in the senior productions. I have run Georgina’s lines with her so often that I know them by heart. “You would’ve remembered him, remembered how he used to smile at us.” I look to Nick for approval and see him trying to hold back a grin as he pretends to ignore me.

“Remember the way he used to tousle his hair?” I continue, only louder. “The way he would run his fingers through it when he was tired or upset? Alas, no! You don’t! You’ve forgotten!” I close my hands and hug my chest, just like Georgina does when she says the line. I’m so in the moment (as Mr. Ted, my drama instructor would say) that I’m close to tears. “I lost myself and my soul a year ago today.” I place a hand on my forehead and swoon. “When God carried away our son.”

And then I hear it.

Clap, clap, clap.

I open my eyes slowly and look at Nick. But he’s not clapping. The applause is coming from the back of the gym. It’s coming from Joseph Jonas.

“That was great,” Joe says.

Oh my God. OH MY GOD!

How long has Joe been standing there? I glance at Nick, the only person in the world to whom I’ve confessed my undying love for his brother. Nick has stopped painting and giving me a look that can only be described as pure sympathy with a dash of cringe worthy embarrassment thrown in for kicks.

“Thanks.” Suddenly I let out a giggle that sounds like an AK-47 machine gun. Nick smirked.

“You should try out for a play,” Joe says. A devastating smile follows, which renders me totally powerless.

So I just stand there and gawk at him like a techie geek as he and Nick engage in some brotherly conversation.

“Have you guys seen Georgina?” Joe asks when he realizes that I’m so mentally challenged, I can only utter the word thanks. “I was wondering if she wanted to go over this script.”

Joe, like Georgina, is starring in the senior productions, a total coup for a junior.

“She’s at the Seven-Eleven buying Slurpees for the common folk,” Nick pipes up and rescues me.

Joe lets out a chuckle and scratches the back of his neck. I practically gasp when the bottom of this shirt creeps up.

“There’s a Seven-Eleven around here?”

“There’s one on Cross Street,” I blurted out.

Okay, this is one for the journal. It has already been established that Georgina is not around, so why is Joe still here? Any other guy in his league would have been long gone. It’s especially surprising because Joe isn’t exactly the chatty type. Although he’s respected by everyone for his talent, and all the girls think he’s really good-looking, he pretty much keeps to himself-but not in that creepy neighbor who’s secretly a child predator kind of way. Anything but, actually.

I sigh and make a deal with God, listing the things I would be willing to give up forever if I could kiss him. Just once. Brownies…Oreos…Coke Slurpees..extra spicy Polish sausage.

“Wow,” he says, admiring Nick’s work in progress. “Bro, this is incredible. It looks so…real.”

Twizzlers, Twinkies, Doritos…sweet Italian sausage.

“Thanks,” Nick says. I can tell from the glint in his eye that he’s proud of himself. As he should be.

Joe continues to wander around as though he was in a gallery. I think about what it might be like to walk hand in hand with him through the American Visionary Art Museum, gazing at paintings and photographs and talking about the difference between the imagined and real.

“You guys are doing all this for the fall festival?” he asks.

“Yep. I’m going t be painting the apples,” I announce proudly, as if that tidbit will so impress him that he’ll ask me to marry him and have his children.

“Abby can draw a great apple,” Nick says a little too loudly, obviously trying to help me score some points from his brother; other than the pity ones, of course.

“Are you guys going?” Joe asks as he puts his hands in his pockets.

I’m looking at his eyes, even though his gaze keeps shifting around the room.

“You mean to Seven-Eleven?” I mutter.

“To the Fall Festival,” Nick says in a labored tone that translates into: Snap out of it, dork! This is your big break! You’re talking to Joe. Don’t blow it.

“No we’re not,” Nick once again responds for me.

A curious expression emerges from Joe’s face. So freaking adorable.

“Why not?”

Nick picks his paintbrush back up and twirls it in his left hand.

“We owe it to the techies who have wandered these halls before us to stay home and watch out Battlestar Galactica DVDs.”

Joe laughs. It’s not a sarcastic laugh, but a nice, relaxed, hey-you’re-funny laugh.

Any other teenage girl, including my sister, would think that Joe’s laugh is a giant red flag. His looks are very appealing, his voice and everything is mixed in perfection…But I don’t see this as a bad sign at all. In fact, I want to take out my trusty proverbial white flag and surrender to Joe over and over again. But then I remembered something.

Georgina already took it from me.