Chapter Twenty-One
OF COURSE IT has taken until today, the last day of the summer academy, for anyone to admit that the dressing rooms we’ve been using on the down-low are fine for us to use for privacy, if needed.
As in “if I need a space in which I can have a modicum of privacy while still being a part of this bastard cornucopia of ethically questionable communications and entertainment enterprises.” They didn’t tell any of us that this was an option, which makes sense because if Brian had told any of us that we could opt out of being on display for five minutes, we’d obviously have taken that option.
If all of that sounds expensive, it is. It’s also my problem to promote it, and that problem only goes away if he shows up.
That is the one factor I cannot control right now, and the only reason I’m okay with that is because I’ve already done everything I could to control it.
I’ve recorded my promos, posted my thirst traps, vague-posted my guts out, and anything else it might take to lure that boy back to the Wizzard Theater today.
My real feelings, used for a real fight in a fake, expensive world. My world.
Hence the irony in how I traded my interiority to get everything I’ve ever wanted, but now they offer privacy.
Well, somewhat private. Thankfully I haven’t alienated every single person in my life.
If it wasn’t for Trieu, I’d be making my grand battle of the exes debut in a messy ponytail, T-shirt, and jeans, which, while it would be an excellent fuck you to Brian and the toxic, aesthetic-based popularity contest that is social media, I’m more grateful to not be totally alone right now.
“Pout your lips,” Trieu instructs as he carefully flits around me like a Disney-approved fairy godparent.
The gloss dabbed on my lips is less grossly sticky than the one he used during my first makeover session, after he noticed I kept wiping it off every chance I got.
I appreciate him for a variety of reasons—especially today—but his commitment to finding sensory-friendly makeup products is currently at the top of the list.
“Grip that any harder and you might not be able to use that hand,” he says as he points a makeup brush at my fist clenched around the rundown that Brian’s assistant brought to me when I first got to the dressing room.
My knuckles have gone pale brown, my entire body vibrating from the tension of trying to keep the dangerous cocktail of nerves, anger, and concentration flowing through me from boiling over and igniting anyone it touches.
“Sorry,” I mumble, sighing and finally taking in my face now that he’s finished touching me up.
The mirror is so old that my reflection is speckled with dark bronze marks where the silvery bits have scraped off.
At first the spots were all I could see, but now that I’ve been here for a minute or two, my brain is learning to correct and ignore the imperfections and only serve me a reflection of what I know my face to look like.
It’s not the most recognizable version of myself—I’m honestly a little surprised Trieu went for a darker eyeshadow.
I’m told it’s better for the stage, as opposed to looks that serve my features on camera or in person.
It’s uncanny, almost. From a speckled distance I feel completely unfamiliar, but the longer I sit with myself the more the white liner on my bottom lash line looks less obvious and my eyes just look bigger.
The contour on my cheeks looks less like dirt and more like the natural shadow lurking under my cheekbones, my nose less cartoonishly outlined and more naturally thin, the V-shaped space between my boobs less dusty with powder and more bronzed to force my minimal cleavage into false perspective. My final polished-for-the-camera form.
“You don’t have to apologize to me,” Trieu replies with a shrug as he tosses the tube of lip gloss into his makeup bag.
I bite my lip, only to immediately release it.
Leave it to me to mess up my gloss within ten seconds of it being applied.
“Thank you again for being here,” I say as he stacks all of his makeup and hair equipment on the vanity table.
I know he has to leave soon, but I can’t help wanting him to stay for just a few minutes longer.
“I know I’ve … ,” I trail off. I’ve done a whole lot of shit I’m not proud of, but we’d need a whole lot more time to unpack all of that. “Messed up,” I finally settle on.
Trieu shrugs again. Some of the tension melts from my shoulders when he sits down on the lip of the vanity. He’s not leaving just yet. I don’t have to be alone with my racing thoughts—not yet. “I can’t blame you.”
“Really?” I ask, arching my freshly sculpted eyebrow.
“I’d be pretty pissed too, if I was in your position.” He frowns, crossing his arms. “I mean, I am pissed, and I’m not even the one who got to have Ivan Hunt as a fake boyfriend.”
Real boyfriend, I think, but don’t say out loud.
Dissecting the validity of our feelings is not something we have time to unpack right now.
Or maybe ever. Once all of this is over, I can shove all of my memories of Ivan—good and bad—into the box of repressed memories that’s currently collecting dust in the farthest corner of my brain.
“I get it,” Trieu says after I don’t respond, eyes fixed somewhere in the distance. Lost in another world I’m not a part of. “Ivan has this … magnetism about him. Makes it feel like you can’t possibly say no to him.”
I swallow hard and nod stiffly. That’s putting it lightly. But it’s good to know I’m not alone in that feeling—falling for Ivan’s magnetism.
Trieu stands up and tucks his finger under my chin like they do in the movies.
“You’re amazing. And stop blaming yourself for believing in everything he said.
” Trieu’s smile is the most heartbreaking kind of sad.
So raw and vulnerable it makes me want to hug him tight and promise nothing will ever hurt him again.
“He’s really good at that kind of thing.
Making you fall a little bit in love with him. ”
Before I can ask him to expand on that—or give him the bone-crushing hug he clearly deserves—a knock at the door makes both of us jump.
“Guess that’s my cue.” Trieu grabs his various bags and heads for the door, an endless black void of a pit opening in my stomach. Is it time for the match already? Did Ivan show up?
Trieu pulls open the door expecting to find one of Wizzard’s various production assistants, but we both stiffen at the sight of Cass standing in the doorway, hands in his pockets.
“Is Zora here?” he asks, making me sit up straighter in my chair. This is certainly a plot twist.
Trieu glances over his shoulder at me, keeping me carefully out of view. I nod, giving him the all-clear, and he pulls the door open wider so Cass can step in and he can step out.
“Break a leg, Zora,” Trieu calls out as he steps into the hallway and Cass takes his place in the dressing room. “You can do it.”
I give him a wave to calm my nerves, but the motion doesn’t do anything to stop my hands from shaking. Something that only worsens when Cass closes the door behind him, and we’re left alone for the first time in what feels like eons.
“Let me guess: you’re only here to wish me luck?”
“Little bit.” Cass scuffs his foot against the dusty carpet. “So this is where they store their superstars.” He scans the room quickly and doesn’t look particularly impressed. That’s fair enough. It’s not particularly impressive.
“Yeah, it’s an all-new perk,” I say flatly. “Sorry if I overwhelm you with all this glitz and glamour.”
“You know me,” Cass jokes. “I’m just a simple country boy from Delaware.”
“Livin’ in the big city,” I add.
“Alone,” he says, coldly.
I sense the shift in his attitude and look up at his face.
For the first time this summer, I notice that Cassius’s face and arms are tanned gold instead of his usual indoor white-boy shade of pale.
His hair looks lighter, like he’s been spending time in the sun.
It’s a more dramatic effect than he’d get just walking the twenty blocks between here and our dorms twice a day—has he been spending more time outside?
With who? Doing what? I suddenly imagine him doing something teenage and sporty, like climbing around on the glacial rocks in Central Park with a crew made up of academy students whose names I forgot to learn while I was messing around with Ivan on the internet.
Taking the Q down to Coney Island on a weekday to ride the Cyclone and sharing a folding paper bowl of crinkle fries smothered in salty cheese.
Curled up in the sun on the fake turf they set up in front of Lincoln Center, getting sweaty and gold with his earbuds in.
Having the summer we were supposed to have together, in another universe.
“Hey, come on. I was … ,” I begin defensively.
Sorry, force of habit. I can tell Cass is mad at me, but that doesn’t mean he deserves the sharp side of my tongue today.
He’s right to feel left behind, just like I’m right to feel …
whatever I’m feeling right now. I have to think about it for a moment.
I feel … very little, now that I think about it, like the space where I kept my feelings is locked or just empty.
“You were …?” Cass echoes me. He’s not going to let me get away with a nonanswer.
“I was busy,” I admit, “being a single-minded asshole who fell for a legit teenage con man?”
“Yeah, when you put it that way.” Cass nods agreeably. “I don’t really know what else I expected. That is the opposite of new behavior, coming from you.
“I think … I just thought, I don’t know.” He shrugs. “I really don’t know. I thought that I was different to you. I thought the whole reason we did this was to be independent together. But you just—”
“Shot ahead instead?” I ask, hoping he’ll at least acknowledge what I achieved by ditching him.