Revealed by Amanda Valentino Read Free Book Online Page A

character-illogical)—last year, when we re-did our kitchen, she jokingly asked the contractor if instead of a stove we could just get a phone with all the local take-out restaurants on speed dial. I saw a menu from John’s Pizzeria open on the counter and had the feeling the doorbell would be ringing shortly.
    As I set the table, my mom opened a bag of salad and tossed in some olive oil and vinegar, muttering something about “band practice” and being “too big a star to call your own mother.” I realized she thought I’d been out with these sophomores who’d approached me a couple of weeks ago about playing with them in the upcoming talent show. At the idea that I’d spent my afternoon hanging out and playing Dylan riffs on my guitar, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. If only my life were that . . . normal.
    I grabbed some silverware from the drawer and put my arms around my mom, kissing her on the cheek. “Mom, I promise. No matter how big a star I become, I’ll never forget about you.” I gave her a hug and she let me do it, which meant she was almost over being mad.
    â€œYou should feel free to forget about me,” Cornelia said without looking up from her notebook.
    â€œWho are you again?” I asked.
    â€œHardy har har.” Cornelia tightened her ponytail, still studying the book in front of her.
    People say my mom, Cornelia, and I look alike, probably because we all have blue eyes and pale skin. If you ask me, I’m not nearly as good-looking as the two of them—you’re not supposed to say things like this about your mom, but when she was younger she was a total betty, as Amanda would have said (I’ve seen the photos). When Cornelia was a baby, people would literally stop on the street to say how pretty she was, and even though she’s too young to be a hottie or anything, all signs point to her being gorgeous when she’s older—not that I’d ever tell her that. She’s already taller than a lot of the girls in her grade and her hair is the same excellent red as my mom’s.
    I’ve never really cared much about how I look, but this summer my mom’s friend from her junior year abroad in France came to visit with her husband and daughter, Charlotte, who’s sixteen. Charlotte was cool and everything, but she made a whole big deal about how I had to dress better and change my hair because (and I quote), “Hal, you are dee-licious .” It was way embarrassing, but I let her take me shopping for new clothes, and we went to this salon in town where she told the woman how to cut my hair, which, apparently, was not delicious so much as it was a “ dee-sastaire! ”
    Sitting in the salon covered in gunky hair gel while a woman wearing spandex demonstrated how I was supposed to “ shake the shape into it, just shake the shape into it,” I thought about all the great artists I admire. Picasso. Rembrandt. Giotto. The hairstylist said I should seriously consider getting something called lowlights (the opposite, apparently, of highlights).
    It was hard to picture Michelangelo getting lowlights.
    â€œI’m telling you, a lot of my customers are getting them these days.” She fussed with my hair, pulling it against my cheek. “It would really bring out this gorgeous skin tone.”
    I told her I’d think about it just to get Charlotte to let me leave the salon. Then I was so pissed off I marched into a jewelry store right across the street from the salon and got my ear pierced. I don’t know why exactly—I just felt like after a day spent with other people telling me what to buy and what to wear and how to shake my head I needed to make a decision for myself. The truth is, it hurt like hell, and my mom practically had a stroke when she saw what I’d done. I’m glad I did it, though. Partly because I kind of like how the little gold hoop looks, but mostly because it