Immaculate

Chapter One

Perfect. Handsome. Stunning. Gorgeous.

These are a few words that describe, well, me.

And it's not easy being all those nice adjectives. Before I describe my life, I'll describe myself.

My name is Immaculate. I have dark green or brown eyes depending on which direction you look at me from, because I have heterochromia. I have caramel colored hair that has a natural wave. My skin is perfect. No zits. I have a few freckles on my face in what the press used to call the "cutest" pattern when I was littler, but now they're "hot." Really nice nails (for a guy). Perfect jawline. Tall. Muscular, but not to the point where I look like a meaty farm animal. Slight tan. I have abs.

I absolutely loathe the way I look.

"Why?" you'll ask.

Well, you don't have famous parents.

My parents were 13 and 14 when they married. They were 15 and 16 when I was born. My mother is a reality TV star, and my dad is some scruffy young dude in an alternative rock band. Lead singer. Lead guitarist. I barely see my parents, they're always on tour or hiding from me somewhere in our huge mansion. Practicing or avoiding me.

Thank god for Barry.

Barry's real name is Beryllium Carbonate III, but when I was little, I couldn't say Beryllium Carbonate III.

So he told me to call him Barry. I still do.

Barry is the household butler, but he's more of my handler than anything. He started working for our family at 19, but became my principal caregiver when I was born, two years later.

Thanks, mother.

Barry takes care of me. I don't think he quite fits the role of mother to me, but he tries his best and I think of him as one of the homies. He had played tennis with me and taught me how to deal cards and egged one of my Mother's cars with me. He gave me rough pats on the back and told me to man up when I was sad. He showed me how to set my leg when I got hurt.

My own mother barely knows me.

All she cares about is fame and publicity.

As for me, I could care less. Here's last night's conversation.

"Oh, Immy! You will be a WONDERFUL model when you're older!" she says.

"Oh god, not this again. I don't know how many times I've told you this already, I don't want to be a model!" I grumble.

"But, Immaculate! Of course you do. You're HOT."

"I know, jeez! But, I just wanna be...you know..."

"You want to be what? A...reality TV star? Like me? You basically already are, we had three seasons focusing just on you."

"NO."

"Aw, sweetie! Think of all the wealthy older women you could date. Like...Emma Watson, for instance," she replies.

"MOTHER! Please, nooo," I manage, my face burning with embarrassment.

"A singer? Like your dad? There's always Britney Spe–"

"NO Mother! Not a singer!" I shoot back, before things get complicated.

"Then, WHAT? What do you want to be?" she asks.

"I just want...to be, um, normal," I say in a whisper and stare into my glass of pop. I think of picking it up and taking a sip, but I'm afraid I'll clench it too tightly and shatter it.

"What, dearest Ims-Ims?" Mother asks.

"I...I want to go to a public school. And make friends that aren't just children of your colleagues. And maybe wear stuff that isn't Gucci? It's all hideous. I just want to live life my way for once."

"And what's your way?" my mother asks obliviously.

"I want to be normal," I say clearly.

My Mother says "WHAT?!?!" and faints in her chair.

I glance over at Barry. "Am I excused?"

He looks like he's hiding a smile, but nods curtly and begins to gather the plates.

"Sir, she just wants you to be a...well, she wants a famous son," Barry explains.

"Barry, you know I'm not into that stuff. Why can't Mother understand that? I mean, seriously!" I say.

Then I storm upstairs to my room, slam the door, and lay on my bed face up.

I fall asleep that way.