eleven #2
She sighed, soft and full of something that felt like memory. "You always remind me of your mama when you get quiet like that. Stubborn but soft-hearted."
I laughed under my breath. "That's one way to put it."
"I know I'm not around much, baby. But I think about you all the time. I pray for you too, even if I don't say it."
That tugged something deep in my chest. "Thank you."
We were quiet again, but it felt like the kind of silence that doesn't need to be filled.
"If you ever need help," she added, "even just someone to listen... you know where I am. I don't care how long it's been."
"I do," I said. "I know you've always looked out for me."
"Always will."
A pause. Then her voice softened even more. "You take care of yourself, Amira. And call me when you can."
"I will," I said, barely above a whisper. "Promise."
"I love you."
"Love you too."
When the call ended, I sat with it.
Not in grief.
Just... a full kind of quiet.
Then I looked back at the sketchpad and kept drawing. Like maybe this was how I took care of myself too.
The dressing room buzzed with quiet energy when I walked in.
Eventually, the soft buzz of my phone pulled me back. A reminder that time was still moving—that I had a shift to get to.
So I packed up, threw on something simple, and made my way to the club.
I was early, for once, which meant only a few of the girls were there—Sam sitting cross-legged on the counter, her phone plugged in beside her, and Heather pacing in front of the mounted TV like she was searching for something.
The fluorescent lights hummed above us, casting everything in that soft, too-bright haze that made the mirrors look crueler than they needed to.
"Heather, what are you even looking for?" Sam asked, voice scratchy like she'd just woken up.
"The eleven o'clock news," Heather said, not looking back. "I have to watch it for this econ class I'm taking. Professor says we have to analyze the language of a political broadcast before Thursday."
Sam made a face. "That sounds fake."
Heather rolled her eyes. "It's real. Political economics."
Sam reached for a makeup brush and glanced at me in the mirror. "You ever think you could go to school for something like that?"
I shrugged. "Sometimes."
Heather finally stopped on a channel that was muted but showing a local news teaser. The words "LIVE at 11" hovered in a red bar at the bottom of the screen. Something about a press conference.
"Why does every news anchor look like they were built in a lab?" Sam muttered.
"They probably were," Heather said.
I let their conversation float around me as I moved to my locker, changed quickly, and slipped on a robe. I wasn't scheduled to go on for another hour, but I liked getting ready early. Gave me space. Gave me time.
Tati breezed in a few minutes later in a tiny T-shirt and shorts, hoop earrings already on. "Amiraaaa," she sang, tossing her bag onto the bench. "You want a drink while it's still dead out there?"
I hesitated. "Sure."
We headed to the bar together, the hallway still quiet—just the faint thud of a bass-heavy song from the main floor and the scent of citrus cleaner clinging to the air. One of the newer bartenders, Gio, was restocking behind the counter.
"What can I get you ladies?" he asked, smiling like we weren't still technically on the clock.
"Just a soda," I said. Tati asked for a Shirley Temple and leaned on the bar like she owned it.
"I heard you had a big spender the other night," Gio said to me. "Private room?"
"Yeah," I said lightly.
"Big tip?"
Tati nudged me. "She's not gonna tell you that."
I just smiled and took a sip of my drink. But before either of us could say anything else, Sam came barreling into the bar area, her robe half-tied and eyes wide.
"Amira," she said, breathless. "Come here. Right now."
Tati and I exchanged a look. "What—?"
"Just come. You need to see this."
I followed her quickly, heels clicking softly against the floor. She didn't wait—just turned and power-walked back toward the dressing room.
When we got inside, Heather had stepped aside from the TV, and Sam snatched the remote from her without explanation.
"Hey—" Heather started.
"Just—hang on," Sam said.
She clicked back to the news channel.
The volume was low, but the headline at the bottom of the screen said it all:
PRESIDENT'S SON ANNOUNCES PENNSYLVANIA SENATE RUN
I froze.
At first, my brain didn't register the image. It looked too polished. Too official. The lighting was perfect, the flags too crisp. But then the camera panned wider, and there he was.
Brooks.
In a navy suit, crisp white shirt, and no tie. Standing next to the President of the United States.
His father.
My mouth parted slightly, but no sound came out.
He wasn't just rich.
He wasn't just "connected."
He was that connected.
"You know him?" Heather asked, her voice softer now.
I didn't answer.
I couldn't stop staring.
He stood with his hands folded calmly in front of him, chin lifted slightly. His expression wasn't smug or fake—it was the same careful neutrality I'd seen on him a dozen times before. The kind that made you wonder what he was actually thinking.
"He's cute," Heather added.
Sam looked at me like she already knew. "That's him, isn't it?"
The air felt suddenly tight, like the room had shrunk around me.
I watched as he leaned toward the mic, thanked the crowd, and began to speak.
The voice was the same. Low. Intentional. Measured like always.
But everything else?
Everything else was brand new.
And I wasn't sure what scared me more—how big his world actually was...
Or how easy it had been for me to believe he was just a guy who worked in finance.
I stepped back slightly, eyes still locked on the screen, my pulse quick and uncertain.
What the hell did I get myself into?