20 #2
Vega locks eyes with me and taps my knuckles—two taps and we know the drill.
If we make it to eleven without shaking, we go in.
We breathe at the same time, count in silence, and when eleven hits, we look at each other and unbuckle in sync.
We open the doors. The sun hits my eyelids.
I shut my eyes for a second. Chin up, Alaska.
I slam it shut, out of habit. I tug my T-shirt down where it’s ridden up, adjust the bra that’s cutting into me, and pull my hair out of my mouth.
I cut a glance at Nat; she’s still in her seat, still, fingers tense. Not even a "later." Nothing.
I walk toward the entrance with stiff legs.
My temple throbs, the skin on my chest itches, and heat climbs.
I bite my tongue until it tastes like iron.
Don’t cry, dummy. I laugh to myself, without meaning it.
I hitch my backpack higher on my shoulder and keep going, my stomach on ice and a voice in my head looping: "You heard it. That’s that. "
I breathe and lock onto this new universe we’re stepping into—pretty green, perfect trees, dirt paths without a single sad little rock, and every twenty steps a giant camera silently going, "Smile for the mafia, darling.
" It gives me the nervous giggles and, at the same time, a weird stab in my gut.
Vega and I head straight ahead, just enough dignity and our insecurity through the roof.
Irina is planted on the stairs like she’s the Forbes cover and the mansion’s butler at the same time.
She’s so coordinated and pressed I want to give her a lick just to see if she tastes like old money or rich-bitch perfume.
She smiles, very "welcome to my humble empire," and I don’t know whether to bolt or curtsy.
Obviously I smile back, because that’s what you do, though inside I’m full drama: soul rotten, heart mashed to pulp, and fantasizing about swan-diving into the hedges if things get ugly.
And in that microsecond, I imagine a thousand things: Irina hugging us, handing out an inheritance in pink envelopes, adopting us as designer pets and buckling diamond collars on us.
"Hey," I blurt, my voice coming out half fancy, half street, and I give a little laugh to fix whatever it is I’m messing up.
"Sweetheart," Irina says, and my shoulders twitch on their own. She gives me a micro-hug that smells like flowers and a packed calendar. "Thanks for coming."
"Thank you for inviting us," I answer, my face burning—not from embarrassment, from sensory overload, from wanting to ask a thousand questions, and from the fear of a big fat no smacking me right in the forehead.
"This place is intense—like stepping into a Neiman Marcus catalog. If I touch anything, do I get fined?"
"Relax," she adds, with that calm people have when they’re the ones calling the shots. "Come on in."
"Before we go in," I say, my pulse hammering in my throat—hidden by my hair, thank God. "I just need to know one quick thing. This isn’t an interrogation, it’s a how-to. If we go in, is this for real?"
Irina pins me with a look—not to intimidate me, to make sure my neurons get it—and she nods, slow, no theatrics.
"It’s for real."
I let out a dumb little laugh that’s fear in disguise, that ridiculous mix of relief and pissed-off, happiness and the urge to punt a trash can for the years of silence, for the photos I don’t have, for the birthdays she wasn’t there and everything we went through when we could’ve had all this.
Irina steps half a step closer and doesn’t say anything grand.
She just touches my arm, barely, and gestures inside.
I feel sweat at my nape, my heart making noise, my bruised pride demanding justice, the lost girl begging someone to name the fear, and I nod yes, just a little, because if I do it big I’ll start crying—and yeah, I brought waterproof mascara, but I don’t want to test it in front of rich people.
We go in. A strange warmth blooms in my chest, something that says “finally,” and it pisses me off that it makes me happy, and it makes me happy that it pisses me off, and I breathe again.
"Irina," I blurt, my voice coming out softer. "I crack jokes because if I don’t I’ll break—don’t get it twisted, I’m not playing. It pisses me off to want this and it gives me peace at the same time. And I don’t know what to do with my hands, or my eyes, or the baggage I’m hauling."
"You’ve already got somewhere to put it," she says. "Here."
I bite my lip, nod, look at Vega to make sure she’s still here, that I’m not inventing all this because of the ADHD, and I move forward, one step, then another, and another, praying without praying that there aren’t traps, that if there are I can dodge them.
"Ah, and one more thing," I say, because I’m an idiot but honest. "If at any point you feel like bailing, say so. Don’t wrap it in silence. We’d rather have the ugly truth than a pretty promise."
Irina nods, Vega does too, I breathe, and for the first time in a long time I don’t feel invited, I feel like I belong.
Scared, yes. Itching to run, also. But with a clumsy kind of hope I’ve never felt, and I let myself have a tiny mental toast with an ice-cold Coke—no confetti, no soundtrack, just the sound of my footsteps and of three women who, apparently, are building something that gives me vertigo and makes me hungry at the same time.
This is promising and I’m not ready, but hey, since I’m here, let the music start.