Em You're Perfect

Good Morning Barbie

After preparing for my interview, I calmed myself with a cup of green tea and breakfast. Because our housemaid left after my sister died, we have had to fend for ourself in terms of preparing meals. My mom wants a home chef. Even though I like the rustic feel of washing your own fruit, preparing a big meal, and enjoying it afterwards. Too bad that she doesn't care. My mom is trying to put me on a diet to make sure that I stay new Hanna and not go back to old Hanna. It's a bit ridiculous. Have you ever wondered why skinny people go on diets and count calories? They do it so that they never become fat and stay the way people have always seen them.

Crazy, but true. Unfortunately, it's a reality.

*On the way to ABC studios*

My mom grunted at the streamline of cars blocking the exit as we hurried to get there in time.

"You know Emily, if you didn't take forever to get ready, we would be on time."

I rolled my eyes towards the window and stared down at my phone. She has this way of making her problems seem like everybody else's fault. Most of the time she is the cause of her own misery and stress. I really do feel bad for her. In public she acts like Veronica Hastings in a way: successful, content, and better than everyone else. Maybe this sort of thing runs in the family, acting perfect to impress, or maybe it's just how things have changed.

When I was little, my grandpa was always straight forward and never bit his tongue. My grandma was very proper and often made everyone laugh. Sometimes she would fake a thing or two and put on a face, but she wasn't as bad as my mom now. Maybe it was something as she was growing up that changed her entire approach to life and other people in general.

My inbox filled with messages and job requests while my Instagram filled with mixed comments and fans trying to DM me. As much as I say this no one understands, it gets tiring trying so hard for another person's uncertain reaction.

You can either be called a wannabe or the person people want to be.

After another 15-20 minutes, we finally arrived at the studio. Of course, rain poured heavily between the big tan building and our black Porsche. It took forever to get my hair right this morning and I can't give up.

You see, some people would have a "the hair stylist will fix it" mind set and not freak out. While I have the "they'll laugh at me cold if I walk in there like Medusa and no one will help me" mind set. There's always someone there, but usually a strange thought behind it.

My mom forcefully pushed a black umbrella out of the car door and motioned for me to hurry. I shuffled around for my white umbrella in the car and soon got it out.

*ring-ring ring-ring*

I slid my phone's screen to answer the call to a blocked number.

"Hello?"
"Hi Amelia."

Nobody has called me that in years, because when I was in 3rd grade I permanently declared Amelia a dog name and demanded that I use my middle name Emily for the rest of my life.

"Who is this?"
"Someone who can get Lucy back."
"You have Lucy?!"
"Maybe, it's all up to you."
"Wai-"

The other line hung up.

My mom signaled for me to hurry towards the building as she closed her umbrella.

I shuffled towards her as my Prada shoes clicked against the concrete and my phone moved loosely in my hand. When I got to the door there were at least 5 people with headpieces and clipboards awaiting my arrival. I stepped through the double doors and followed the people with clipboards to my dressing room.