When I saw my brothers' faces staring back at me from the glossy pages of the May issue my cheeks burned with the slap of fiction meeting fact.
Teen Vogue is no place for people like us. We belong in WalMart and Costco because we buy generic brand diapers and detergent in bulk and we never EVER buy Captain Crunch except that one time when Dad was sick and asked for it. We microwave our mixed vegetables, triple our recipes, burn through boxes of Mr. Clean Magic Erasers, and vacuum the floors more than twice a day everyday because a family of twelve leaves physical evidence of existence. We even weed our own garden. We weed our own garden.
But there they are on page 121 opposite ADELE on 120.
Lincoln wears a T/M shirt, $279. Riviera Club pants, $142. D&G belt, $140. John wears a Lacoste shirt, $85. Burberry Brit pants, $195. Hair, Michael Long at Frank reps; makeup, Dawn Broussard at Frank Reps; prop styling, Spencer Vrooman.
I doubt Michael Long knew that when he styled Johnny's hair into that obscenely trendy top-hawk it was the first time my little brother of 16 was given a haircut from someone other than my mother. I bet Lincoln felt strange when the woman named Dawn airbrushed his virgin skin and darkened his blond eyebrows and I bet that woman named Dawn was alluring in her low-cut shirt and couture perfume. I am sure Lincoln tried to charm her with small talk and John tried not to smile, the way he does when he is self-aware and I know, I know neither of them mentioned us.
When the May issue came out I bought it. I had never purchased a magazine but it was easy to find the one I was looking for next to the tabloids, the candy bars, sugar free gum and register number 5 at my neighborhood Smith's.
$2.99.
It made me sick to do it. To exchange cash for that trash of a publication was defeat. The past few months has been a hellish war of moral high ground and they knew I did not approve of their decision to sign the record deal.
Johnny, you guys are taking this way too far. Legal minors can't be autonomous. Take some advice and get a reality check.
Why do you care?
Lincoln, it's your senior year, college applications are due soon, you can't afford a distraction like this.
What do you know?
Truthfully, not much, but what I do know is how little you know about me. For example, you don't know that after the May issue came out it spent the rest of the semester displayed prominently on my coffee table. You don't know that when company came--any company came--I flipped to the dog-eared page and soiled the satin image with my oily fingers. You don't know that I played your hit song for anyone who'd listen. "California Sunrise". On repeat.
Johnny you don't know that when I scream at you I just want you to want to listen to me.
Lincoln you don't know that I wish you would call me for help on your college essays because it would be nice to be needed by you.
And you don't know that the sister who calls to harp and hound and grind her self-righteous heel into your helium filled dreams secretly wishes she could be like you If not like you, could I at least be like that woman named Dawn, the emblem of a world you want to be a part of and not the emblem of the world you are trying to leave?
