Mom sees right through my lie. “What some of those national networks are offering . . . it’s substantial. It could set you up for the rest of your life.”
I’ve heard the numbers. They’ve been in the seven-figure range. Instead of making the interviews more appealing, it makes them less. Almost like I’m ready to announce the exact price for whatever is left of my soul. “Mom, I don’t even know what my life is right now. I’m not exactly worried about financial planning for whatever it is.”
She wants to say more—her thoughts are that loud—but she keeps her words to herself and forces a smile. “Then let’s not worry about any of that. Let’s just enjoy tonight, okay?”
Somehow we’ve ended up in front of the ballroom doors. They’re closed still, but the noise is almost deafening. It sounds like I’ve just stuck my head into a beehive.
“Ready?” Mom’s hand drops to the handle of the door.
I take in a breath. It doesn’t reach my lungs. “Ready.”
As she opens the door, I wonder how much longer I’ll have to lie about being ready. I’m starting to believe I’ll always have to lie.
She opens the door slowly, noiselessly, like she knows I don’t want a grand entrance but a secret one. She waves me inside with a careful smile. I focus on her face as I move inside because the buzz that had been coming from in here a moment ago is fading. Fast.
The secret entrance is turning into the other kind.
This is confirmed when I make myself look around the room. It’s swollen with bodies, brimming with people dressed in nice clothes, holding their drinks as closely as they’re holding their expressions.
I feel like everyone has noticed me. Some are doing a better job of hiding it, but everyone’s stolen a glance. The noise continues to dull in volume.
Behind me, the door whispers closed as Mom steps up beside me. She waves at a few people who are motioning us over, but she stays at my side.
Smile, I tell myself. Just smile.
At least that’s a start.
I don’t recognize a single face in the sea of them rolling over me. Strangers are everywhere I look. The ones who hadn’t been outright staring are now. It isn’t my face they’re staring at though.
My fingers curl together. I wish I’d taken the scarf from Mom.
I feel it grappling at me again—that feeling of spinning out of control. The sensation of losing my grip on the weight I’m hanging onto.
This was a bad idea. The worst. If I lose it right here, all of these people won’t just have the external scars burned into their memories.
My breaths are coming harder and faster, but it isn’t oxygen I’m taking in—it’s something else. Something that cripples me instead of reviving me.
The sequins from cocktail dresses catch the overhead lights just right, bouncing lasers around the room. The smells coming from the food tables. The smells coming from the open bar. The heat pulsing over me from all of the bodies.
My vision blurs again, and just when the familiar flash of white starts to go off before I pass out, everything goes dark.
If it weren’t for the shrieks firing around the room joined with my mom’s gasp, I would assume I’d blacked out. I haven’t though. The lights have just gone off.
I don’t gasp or shriek or even shift though. This isn’t dark. Not like I know it.
“What happened to the lights, for God’s sake?” Mom’s voice rings through the room, a note of nervousness in it.
I know why. She’s worried this will be the straw that breaks my back. She doesn’t realize I feel more comfortable now than I did when I stepped into the light just now.
I take a few steps inside the room, my breath returning, and someone reaches for my arm. “Let’s leave them in the dark for another minute—what do you think?”
I hear the tipped smile in his voice. I feel the warmth in his fingers radiate up my arm. I smell the hint of the same shaving cream he’s been using since his first shave the summer he turned sixteen. I feel my nerves unravel, my stomach coil, and everything else get pulled in his direction. Like I’m a million shavings of iron and he’s a magnet, everything moves toward him.
“Are you responsible for this?” I whisper, turning toward him. It’s dark, but I can make out his outline. Or maybe I’ve just memorized it enough to picture it.
“Why? Are you going to tell on me?”
When his hand slides away from my arm, I grab it. That isn’t a conscious decision. It’s something my subconscious dictates. “No, but I was going to thank you for it.”
“And how are you going to thank me for it? I’ve made promises of celibacy, obedience, and to paraphrase, to abstain from anything of a fun nature.” His voice is light as he braids his fingers through mine.
It’s a small thing, but the sensation makes me teeter in place.
“I could always, you know, just thank you with words. The old-fashioned way.” My voice is light too. It sounds strange to my ears, but it feels good. Right. “Thank you.” I enunciate it slowly, which makes him laugh.