“What the hell was that?” Arlene says, standing over Chelsea as Sienna moves to take her place at the door with a disapproving frown. Not as disapproving as Arlene’s frown, though.
No point in playing dumb. They both know what she did. And they both know it wasn’t TJ’s doing, which is why he’s tearing off his mask and digging for an iced Gatorade in the cooler instead of sitting in this plastic chair like a kid in trouble with the teacher.
“My fault,” Chelsea manages to wheeze, just now realizing she’s out of breath. “My daughter.”
She doesn’t have to say anything else—Arlene understands immediately.
“Couldn’t let her see you lose, huh? Of course TJ was down for that. I swear, y’all got to learn to do what you’re told. Harlan knows best.”
Chelsea raises an eyebrow. “Gonna fire me?”
Arlene’s mouth twists.
They can’t fire her. She’s hugely popular; she lost count of the Florida Woman shirts she saw out there, but there must be hundreds of shirts, hundreds of posters, thousands of fans. Even if they managed to find a woman who looked exactly like her and was willing to live on the road with no real resources, they couldn’t get her trained in time for the next event. And Chelsea has gathered up enough self-esteem to believe that no one else could do exactly what she does.
“I’m not gonna fire you, no. Harlan will definitely have thoughts, though.”
Chelsea grins, knows it’s lopsided and smeared with cheap red lipstick after the fight.
“Sorry not sorry?”
Arlene rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “That’s between you, the boss, and your accomplice. Go get some Gatorade.” She tries to look stern as she waves Chelsea away and turns to find whoever is up next.
Over at the cooler, TJ hands her a red Gatorade, the sides sweating down his hand. He’s got his fluffy robe back on, his mask turned inside out on a nearby prop table.
“So that was interesting,” he says.
“I owe you one.”
He doesn’t acknowledge that. “So where’s your daughter?” He looks around the greenroom like someone is hiding a teenager here, and Chelsea heaves a sigh.
“I don’t know. We made contact right before the match, but I gave Arlene my phone.” Her heart revs up as she remembers there could already be another message. She scans the room, but Arlene must’ve stepped out to direct someone in the ring or fix something for Harlan. Sienna is at the door with Matt, her hand on his wrist as she whispers in his ear. He’s shaking, but that’s just how he is before matches, like a greyhound ready to run.
Chelsea jogs over and waits until Sienna looks up.
“You all good?” she asks, eyebrows drawn down a bit in acknowledgment of Chelsea’s earlier blunder.
“Did Arlene give you my phone?” she asks. “Or do you know where it is?”
Sienna shakes her head. “No, but she said to tell you that when your kid shows up, everyone knows to send her to the tour bus.”
“So I’m good to go?”
Sienna, like Arlene, can’t help smiling at her, even though she’s in trouble. After all they’ve been through, everyone knows little pieces of her story, and she suspects the management team openly discusses such things. “Go on, honey. You did well. As long as Harlan’s not too mad, I think the results will be worth it.”
Chelsea bobs a nod and heads to the mirror. No time to wipe off the layers of makeup. Her daughter will recognize her, even under the paint. She jogs out the back door and down the hall toward the tour buses, feeling lighter than air, her heart singing.
Finally.
Finally.
53.
Patricia hates forking over twenty dollars for parking, but what are they going to do, park in the cheap field a mile away and walk? Not on her leg, not with the skin around her stitches gone red and puffy, weeping pus.
She pulls in beside an El Camino, and Brooklyn bounces in her seat.
“It’s like Disney World, Nana!” she burbles. “Do they have balloons?”
“I do not think they have balloons,” she says grimly, softening it with, “but they might have candy.”
Brooklyn doesn’t entirely understand what’s going on, but then again, she doesn’t really have to. Patricia knows her granddaughter is the key to finding Chelsea, and so here they are in this great throng of burly men and fierce women, the child’s small, sticky hand clutched in hers. She couldn’t afford tickets, but she didn’t know what else to do. They’re sold out, the cheapest scalped tickets still up in the hundreds. This is not a place where she can offer a diamond ring in exchange for a seat like they’re the plucky protagonists in some old, sepia-toned musical.
At the gates, she hunts for the most sympathetic-looking ticket taker, an older woman whose eyes are creased with smile lines. “I’m looking for my daughter,” she tells her, pulling Brooklyn close. “Chelsea Martin. She’s Florida Woman. This is her daughter, my granddaughter. We lost track of Mommy. Can you help us?”
The woman’s face crinkles up like a prune, and she shakes her head. “Sorry, honey, we’re by the hour. I don’t know nobody with the crew. Maybe try Security? Or go around back to the buses?”
Patricia nods and thanks her, feeling like some filthy groupie as she drags Brooklyn away. She doesn’t like anything that smacks of official authority these days, so she leads her granddaughter around the side of the large building toward a long line of fans with signs standing in the puddle of light around some RVs and tour buses. Not the newest and shiniest of vehicles, but not too shabby. She tries to make her way through the crowd, to edge closer to the buses, but every time she tries to slide past with a murmured, “Pardon me,” someone hip-checks her or turns and frowns in a menacing fashion. Her head is pounding, and the heat is making her feel dizzy, and all the shoving isn’t helping. Good Lord, do these people think they’re lining up for Mick Jagger?
“Nana, what’s wrong?” Brooklyn asks. “Where’s Mommy?”
Patricia looks up ahead at the thirty people blocking her from reaching her goal. She looks down at this tiny, adorable child dressed all in pink with her chipped plastic tiara.
“She’s on the other side of these people,” Patricia says, leaning over so her lips are right near Brooklyn’s ear. “I’m too big to get past. Are you ready for your adventure?”
Brooklyn takes the question very seriously. “I…I think so.”
Patricia nods. “That’s because you have a hero’s heart. Do you think you can dance past all these people using your vampire ballet?”
Brooklyn’s face lights up. “Oh yes! Like a vampire! Or a ghost! What do I do?”
Patricia smiles, her heart breaking.
Why is her role as an authority figure always to push these tender souls away?