Goodbye Yellow Brick Road ✔︎

25 | Socialite Barbie

|photo by Tara Winstead from Pexels|

My aunt has a gentleman guest—at 2:45 on a Wednesday?

Interesting.

"Thea, darling, come and meet Bobby Caldwell," she says, her arm extended, fingers waving me in like this is all just so fabulous.

Oh no. Oh crap. It's been two weeks since the Wicked Witch threatened me with dialect coaching, but I'll never forget her words: "If Bobby can teach Gwyneth Paltrow to speak with a twang, then surely he can teach you to speak without one."

I clear my throat and say, "Nice to meet ya, Bobby," with the heaviest accent I can muster.

"I prefer Bob," he says, casting a reprimanding glance at dear Auntie Em.

He offers his hand. I pump it enthusiastically. My aunt glares. "Thea has an interesting sense of humor," she tells Bob. "I'll let the two of you get to know each other."

She turns away, struts to her office and closes the door. "I don't want to get rid of my twang, Mr. Caldwell," I say in my normal voice.

"So I've been told."

"But you took the job anyway?"

"I agreed to a consultation because your aunt is very persuasive."

"So I hear."

I'd like to ask Conner to find out if Paige knows anything about my aunt and all of her string pulling, but our friendship hasn't fully recovered. Things have been better this week, though. The anticipation of the Tinsley's Annual Halloween Bash has us all kind of hyped.

"Miss Allen, I have no intention of ridding you of your accent—which, by the way is not as marked as your aunt has implied."

"Welcome to my world," I say and Bob smiles.

"When I teach a British actress to speak with an American accent, I am merely providing her with a tool. It's really no different from learning a foreign language. Do you speak a foreign language, Miss Allen?"

"Do we have to be so formal?"

"I believe it was you who set the standard."

Touché. "I speak French, Bob."

"Would you speak French for me now, Thea?"

"Je ne veux pas de parler français pour vous," I say, which equals, I don't want to speak French for you.

"And yet, you speak it so well and without the merest hint of a twang."

Okay, I kind of like Bob Caldwell.

"In a very short time, I could give you the tools to sound accent neutral whenever you'd like—say if you needed to get a certain annoying relative off your back?"

* * *

Friday morning is crisp and cool, and as I slip into the adorable navy cardigan my aunt bought for me, I connect with that very small soft spot I have for her and I seriously consider Bob's offer.

I talk this over with my lunch buddy while we eat brick oven pizza at a tiny glass table for two on the sidewalk-slash-patio in front of the restaurant. "It sounds like you've already made up your mind," Chase says.

"I don't know," I say, shrugging. "It still feels like I'm giving a piece of myself away—or worse, like I'm giving in to The Transformation."

Chase smiles and it could be interpreted as one of those Thea-is-being-clueless smiles I seem to get from everyone I know. "What?" I ask and he shakes his head. "You do know you're the only real friend I have in this city, right?"