Let me tell you about the worst day of my life.
I was sound asleep, having one of those clichéd teen nightmares (my crush sweeping me onto a white stallion and covering me with kisses), when my iPhone began ringing. Although the call was one every young author dreams of receiving (I had just won the Pulitzer for my novel Breakups and Makeup: A Tween Murder Mystery), it was totally irritating because I’d been up super late last night winning the Young Pianists of America Sonata Competition with a never-before-heard rendition of Beethoven’s posthumous Ninety-Ninth Sonata in All the Flats and All the Sharps. So I was, like, totally exhausted and when the Pulitzer people tried to get me to say something witty that they could use for my Wikipedia page, I just screamed “YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW ME!” and went back to sleep.
I woke to the smell of my favorite breakfast: waffles, caviar, and crème brûlée. It was really hard for me to eat, though, because I was so nervous about the Miss Teen USA finals happening that afternoon. After my daily massage, I locked myself in the bathroom and sobbed out all the black angst in my soul. I just want to be normal, I thought. Being thirteen was really hard for me, because all my friends were covered in oozing pimples and inflamed pustules and my own skin was clear, pink, and glowed like the inner heart of a seashell. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be the prettiest girl in your class? IT’S AWFUL. Boys always want to kiss you and teachers do, too!
After mourning my perfect complexion, and desperately tugging at my thick, chestnut locks in order to make them a little frizzier (all my friends had frizzy hair! Why couldn’t I?), I rubbed a little Crème de la Mer into my cheeks and slumped downstairs. My mother/personal chef/trainer called from the hot tub, “Tori, there’s a man here to see you!” and when I opened the front door, clad in my Oscar de la Renta silk robe, Hugh Jackman was standing there with a dozen roses. I whispered, violently, “Hugh, I told you never to speak to me again!” and a look of such devastation crossed his face that I thought my heart would never be whole again. He held out the roses as a single, perfect tear trickled through his five-o’clock shadow. I took them and gently shut the door in his face. I never date movie stars; they’re so emotionally needy.
The Miss Teen USA competition went fairly well, and after I accepted the crown and underwent a grueling round of publicity photos, like, the worst thing EVER happened. I saw my boyfriend holding hands with another woman! I stormed up to him and shrieked, “PRINCE WILLIAM! LET GO OF THE QUEEN OF ENGLAND’S HAND IMMEDIATELY!” and he was like “But she’s my grandmo—” and I said in this really sweet, murderous voice, “Willikins, what’s the number one rule for dating me?” and he bowed his head and murmured, “You are first above all, m’lady,” and he looked so totally cute that I forgave him immediately and let him buy me an island to make it up to me. But there were all these people in loincloths on the island and they totally freaked me out so I had them shipped to Mississippi.
And then my personal architect came to me with the worst news OF ALL TIME. He said my dream bedroom would be impossible to build. I was like, “Um, talk to the hand!” and he was like, “Tori, your design literally defies the laws of physics,” and I started crying because how was I supposed to pass physics? I was thirteen! All I wanted was a master bedroom suspended from a hot air balloon over a volcanic lake with easy access to the mall. It’s like nobody had anything to do that day except make my life difficult.
So I was really upset, obv, even when my mom poured me a glass of champagne to calm me down. There was only one thing that could make me feel better, and that was my Number Two Boo. (Don’t judge me for dating around—I was thirteen! What, did you think I was going to marry Prince William? Hello!). So I called up Mark Zuckerberg—hey, he was super cute at fourteen—and we walked around the block holding hands and it was SO romantic. When we got to our favorite park bench, I snuggled up next to him and whispered in his ear, “Marky, I wish there was a website where I could friend you and then put “in a relationship” with you and write cute things on your wall every two seconds and make my profile picture a really flattering one of us where I look just a little cuter than you, like not too much cuter because I want my friends to be jealous of how cute my boyfriend is but obviously I don’t want anyone to think you’re the hotter one because, awkward. Wouldn’t that be so romantic?” He nodded, and maybe this is just hindsight, but I swear he had a glint in his eye.
That night, as I splashed my face with Evian, I couldn’t help writing a poem that described my feelings about the terrible day. It was later picked up by the New Yorker but I mean, ugh!