Or I’m just being a total drama queen.
I’m not empty. I’m still a person. I cried over a bad thing that happened in my life, but I probably shouldn’t have. Compared to Mom’s crisis, mine was small. Compared to a thousand other girls’ around the world, mine is insignificant. It wasn’t bad. Not compared to everyone else.
It was just a couple seconds.
It wasn’t years. It wasn’t months, like Mom. It wasn’t a family member. Wasn’t someone I see anymore. It didn’t even hurt. There was no blood.
It wasn’t bad.
Not compared to others’.
So I should stop crying.
I get dressed slowly, carefully. It’s a fancy place, but not too fancy, so I choose a shirt and jeans. My hand hovers in my closet, right over the Chanel box with the beautiful pink blouse. The beautiful pink blouse that doesn’t suit me at all. I could still wear it. I could wear it, with a jacket over it so no one could see. Mom wouldn’t see. No one would see how dumb it looks on me, but it would get some use, at least. It’s an expensive blouse. I don’t want it to go to waste.
I know this beautiful blouse doesn’t suit me. But for once, for one night, I want to be pretty. Not hot, not fabulous, not loud or pushy or annoying. Just…pretty. Pretty and sweet and nice, like Kayla. Like so many other girls who are better than me at being a girl.
I pull it on, the chiffon like smooth flowers against my skin. I put my jacket on, and check my makeup in the mirror. I look pale and exhausted. A bit of lip gloss and eyeliner can’t hide that. I can’t even meet my own eyes in the reflection. Everything is too fresh, too open and bleeding.
But Kayla’s waiting for the date she’s wanted her entire life. Mom’s waiting for me to smile at her and tell her everything is fine. I have to be fine. I have to be the one person she can always count on, the one person who’s always fine – the huge sturdy stable as hell rock in the confusing ocean of her recovery.
Mom looks up from her newspaper. “Going out?”
“Yeah, with some friends to the mall.” I’m sure it’d go over fantastically if I told her I’m paying an escort to take my friend on a date and subsequently snooping on said date to make sure I get my money’s worth.
“Have fun! And drive safe.”
“There’s leftovers in the fridge. If you need me, I’ll have my cellphone on –”
She waves me off. “Just go!”
“Are you sure? Like, concrete-around-diamond sure you’ll be okay?”
“I’ll be fine! You’re not the mother here, alright? So please, go have fun.”
“I love you.”
“I love you more.”
It almost comes out. Right there, with her face shining with a smile, I almost tell her what happened. But I immediately do a one-eighty. If she knew, she’d be disappointed. She’d be devastated it happened to me. She’d coddle me and try to be strong for me, instead. But that’s not what she needs right now. She can barely comfort herself, let alone me. She’s broken. Trying to fix me would be stupid when she isn’t fixed, either. It’s better if she doesn’t know.
I’ve kept it inside this long.
I can do it for a lot longer.
Because I’m strong. Because I’m Isis Blake, and she might not be pretty, or sweet, or well-mannered, but she’s very, very strong.
***
The sun is just barely kissing the horizon as it sets for the night when I park at the Red Fern. The dimming blue sky is marbled with peach-cream clouds and streaks of blood orange. It’s like someone took a bunch of gasoline and poured it all over the sky, then lit a match. But in a beautiful way, not a generally-deadly arson way. The Red Fern is clean and quiet, with sleek polished tables and comfy chairs and potted palms and tropical flowers everywhere. The hostess flashes me a smile. I crane my neck over her and look to the tables. There he is, on his phone. I point, and she waves me past. I sit opposite Jack, who’s in a dark shirt and jeans, his hair combed and slightly gelled to one side. He looks bored, slouching in his chair and eyeing everything with the air of someone who’s seen it all before. He makes the place look like a photo shoot for Prada or something. Seeing him makes me queasy – how he ripped into me yesterday still fresh in my mind. But this is for Kayla. It’s everything she’s dreamed of. For her, it’s better than an apology, so technically it’s also what I’ve been fighting the war for.
Is this the end of it, then? The end of our battle of wits?
Has he won?
“Here,” I slip him the envelope of money. “Two hundred, as agreed.”
He looks up at me. His icy eyes betray nothing of what he’s thinking, or feeling. I can’t tell if he regrets what he said yesterday at all. He’s an infuriating block of ice. He reaches over and counts the bills. Satisfied, he slips it in his pocket.
“If she kisses me, it’s an extra twenty-five. If she tries to sleep with me, I’m leaving.”
“Are we even talking about the same Kayla? Kayla’s timid and virginal as hell. She won’t even look at your crotch, let alone go near it. Which, in my opinion, is an obscenely good call, considering the only things that come from that anatomical area are more or less disgusting monsters.”
“You seem better.”
I scoff. “You don’t know what better looks like.”
“You’re chipper enough to crack jokes. But then again, jokes are like armor for you, aren’t they? Easy to hide behind. Easy to distract people with so they don’t see how you’re really feeling.”
“I’m going to be over there –” I ignore him and point at a distant table, half-hidden by birds-of-paradise. “And I’m going to watch your every move to make sure everything goes well tonight.”
“Technically I’m working,” He says. “Your vigilance is unnecessary. I’m very serious about my work, and I perform well.”
“Oh, I’m sure you do.”
I get up and go to the table and order a Sprite. Kayla arrives ten minutes later, and I feel my jaw do a little drop. Her dark hair is combed to perfection, shining in the light and curled over one shoulder. She wears a strapless, bright green dress that compliments her bronzed shoulders, and her black heels accentuate her long legs. Her eye are bright and smudged with beautiful smoky makeup, her lips a dewy, pearly pink. She spots Jack and flushes, shoulders tingeing pink as she glides over. She’s a picture-perfect doll, an incredible work of art, the kind of girl poets and writers flip their shit over and write fever-dream books about. Even Jack – Jack, the king of the stone-faced and icy-hearted – looks stunned.
No wonder Wren’s got a crush! Look at her! She’s a perfect goddess! But Wren’s a good guy so I’m sure it’s not all tits and ass with him. He sees how smart she is. Um. Smart at things that aren’t school! Like, lipstick! I’ve seen her identify a lipstick just by smelling it! And she can touch her tongue to her elbow, and she makes incredible brownies, but honestly the only thing you need to know how to make when you look like that is pee and carbon monoxide –
“Ma’am,” I feel a light tap on my shoulder. My waitress smiles at me, pained. “You’re, uh, disturbing the other customers.”