“Yeah,” Lo says, “Lily wants to hear you guys talk dirty in English.” He adds a smile to his girlfriend.
She turns beet-red at his admission. “You weren’t supposed to tell them that,” she whispers, still loud enough for us to hear. But she doesn’t seem to know that. “It was a secret.”
“Aw, love, it was too good to keep.” He kisses her on the lips, and he eyes the camera for a second while his hand slips up her muscle shirt, no bra underneath. Not that she’s particularly top-heavy. Rose has the biggest breasts of her sisters and a fuller ass, wider hips. I could stare at her all day and have no problem getting hard.
I rewind to the beginning of the promo spot and press play. Everyone goes quiet as the commercial begins with all of us standing in front of a white backdrop. We shot the footage at a studio in Philly not long ago.
We were told to just act like ourselves while the cameras were rolling, and after thirty minutes of being ignored by makeup artists and gaffers, we all naturally fell into our roles. No acting required. It was real—even from me.
The commercial starts by panning down the row of seven, Scott on the end. The footage cuts to close-ups, starting from the furthest person on the right.
On screen, Daisy does a handstand, her white T-shirt falling down to reveal her bare stomach and green lacy bra. She sticks out her tongue with a playful smile. A caption appears right over her breasts.
Daredevil.
And then Ryke pushes her legs from behind, and she falls over with a laugh. On his chest, the caption scrolls the word: Jackass.
So they’re labeling us.
The thought is silenced as the promo moves quickly. Next in line are Lo and Lily. He has her tangled in his arms, and his mouth meshes against hers as they kiss hungrily, passionately, a desire so intense that it’s almost hard to watch. It seems too intimate and too personal.
At the same time, the words Sex Addict and Alcoholic float across their bodies.
And then here comes me, Rose, and Scott. Rose looks mildly pissed off, her eyes ablaze—which is normal. But she’s turned towards me, our bodies pulled together by something magnetically strong, and as I lean in to whisper in her ear, her face ignites.
I can’t even remember what I said. I could have easily disagreed with one of her favorite feminists or I could have told her that her hair was pretty.
In the video, she shoves my arm. Twice. Waiting for me to get angry like her. Wanting to provoke me.
I just grin.
The word Smartass quickly hits my body onscreen.
On the couch, right here, I hold in a laugh that no one will appreciate. But I find this so fucking amusing. And what are they going to call Scott—a womanizer? No, that’s far too kind. Maybe something like—Scumbag Motherfucking Producer （see also: Liar）。
Beside her, in the commercial, Scott’s eyes fall to her breasts.
I didn’t notice that before, and any sort of amusement I felt suddenly flits away. How could I have missed that? I also didn’t notice Rose…
She glances at Scott, ever so briefly. The attention is enough for him to tilt his head and sigh.
Please, this is a load of—
And then his caption appears. Heartthrob.
I choke on a laugh. That’s five levels of ridiculous. So he’s the white knight knocking on her tower. The hero. And I’m what the one who locked her there. It’s wrong. But it’s not necessarily backwards—I’m not the hero.
I’m the king to Rose’s queen.
And then the camera begins to slowly zoom in on Rose while both Scott and I stare down at her, painting the love triangle he so desperately wanted.
Her caption pops up in big bold letters on her body.
Virgin.
I frown. Why would this upset her? Since we were fourteen, she’s never been ashamed of being a virgin. She’s never wanted other women to feel as though they have to lose it in their twenties—that holding onto your virginity post-college makes you unwanted. She’s been proud of the fact that she’s waited. Being ashamed of this now makes no sense to me. Unless she’s more pissed by being labeled something at all.
That seems right.
The promo ends with the title logo for Princesses of Philly, and below, a tagline scrolls:
Get inside the Calloway sisters this February.
It was short. Only thirty-seconds. And it’s enough to resurface hostile emotions. So I stand calmly before anyone starts screaming.
Lily shifts on Loren’s lap and says, “I wasn’t the only one who thought the tagline was dirty, right?”
She’s completely serious. And it almost lightens the mood.
Lo nods to Rose. “Good thing you don’t give two shits about being a twenty-three-year-old virgin.”
“That’s not the problem,” she says. I know her well. She meets my gaze while I stand in front of the television that’s mounted above the fireplace. “He stereotyped all of us with one word, as though we’re caricatures.” She’s afraid of being made to look like a fool. But people have been stereotyping the Calloway girls on gossip blogs for months. This isn’t any different.
“So?” I say to her.
Her mouth falls. She thought I’d be on her side. When she’s wrong, I’m not afraid to disagree.
“People label you the moment they meet you,” I tell her. “You’re an ice cold bitch. You’re a man-hating prude, a rich stuck-up brat. They only tell a fraction of the truth, and if you let them hurt you, you let them win.”
Everyone settles down. No one wants to feed their stereotype either, and I think they’re beginning to understand that if they throw tantrums, they’re each going to look as two-dimensional as Scott wants them to be. They’d each fill the “rich kid snobbery” part well. That image would hurt many of them.
Rose’s lips tighten at the “man-hating” line. That one did sting her. I almost regret adding it in my explanation. “You’re a conceited asshole,” she tells me.
“You love me.”
She shakes her head but her lips lift. “Stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Being right.” She groans and leans back against the couch in a huff. “I hate that we’re all so worked up over it and you say a few words, and now everything makes sense again.”
Lo rises with Lily in his arms. “He has a gift.”
“Given by me,” I say. I forget the cameras are even in the room until I hear the zoom of Savannah’s Canon as she focuses on me while Brett’s camera is on Scott. The blond-haired producer remains by the wall, glaring.
I came in and did exactly what he didn’t want.
I calmed every single fucking person.
I flicked over his rook, his bishop, and protected my queen.
I mouth, Don’t fuck with me. These five people mean more to me than words can express. I’ve never once felt like I had a real family.
But with them—I know I do.
CHAPTER 17
ROSE CALLOWAY
My parents have rented out the loft to a ritzy hotel in New York City, complete with thirty sprawling flat screens, hors d'oeuvres and two hundred of their closest friends. They call it a screening party for the first episode.
I call it a nightmare.
Let’s be clear. This is a reality show. We’re not going to look like proper, upstanding ladies of Philadelphia. I reiterated these sentiments to my mother and she waved me off. “I know what a reality show is, Rose,” she said. “But this way, we’ll be laughing with you and not at you.”