Lights All Faded

Chapter One - Becca

CHAPTER ONE

My Uber Driver looks exactly like Santa Claus on his way to a Garth Brooks concert.

Tufts of white hair curl up from under the band of his cowboy hat, and as he leans forward to open the door for me, I get a strong whiff of peppermint. “Are ya here for business or pleasure, little lady?”

“Both,” I say, stifling a laugh. His Texan accent is as thick as his long, puffy white beard. “I’m here for Buzz Con.”

“Oh, so you’re one of them fancy online content creators, then?” He settles himself behind the wheel. There’s an ID on the dash and a button that says, ‘Hi! I’m Gary! I like tacos!”

“I am,” I reply, buckling my seatbelt. “I’m a beauty influencer, actually.”

I say it with practiced confidence, even though I hardly look like the girl from Smoke and Makeup Mirrors, the platform that has earned me over three million followers.

Right now, I’m just light brown hair pulled into a low ponytail, yoga pants and a tank top, and not a single ounce of makeup on my face.

Nausea churns my stomach, but I inhale slowly and let the breath back out. I doubt Gary watches a whole lot of makeup tutorials, much less my content, so I don’t think I have to worry about him noticing my unusually red-rimmed eyes and splotchy skin.

You’ve got the whole ride to the convention center to pull it together, I remind myself. It will be fine. It eases the knot in my stomach just a little.

I wouldn’t normally show up for such an important convention looking so frazzled, but when Donna, the woman who gave birth to me, stumbled in around 2 a.m., I’d followed the trail of debris—the shattered water glass in the kitchen, the knocked-over lamp, the pair of stilettos she’d kicked off, and the pool of vomit in the entryway — to find the hurricane I call my mother slumped on the couch.

I’d spent nearly two hours cleaning up the mess with her signature scent of Chanel No. 5 and tequila burning my nose. Then, of course, I’d slept through my alarm.

By the time I realized my mistake, I had just enough time to brush my teeth and race to the airport.

I’d spent most of my flight out of Chicago crying and trying not to let the overwhelming existential dread crush me—which is why I’m literally wearing my pajamas and a fake smile in the back of Gary’s Uber.

“How about that,” Gary drawls, pulling away from the curb. “That’s real nice. Well, darlin’, you just sit right back there and relax.” He takes the exit out of the airport and turns onto the entrance ramp of highway 410. “I’ll have you down to the convention center in a jiffy!”

According to the app on my phone, it’s about a thirty-minute drive from the San Antonio International Airport to the Henry B. Gonzalez Convention Center downtown. Settling in my seat, I pull my makeup bag out of my backpack, fully intending to use the drive to make myself look presentable.

It’s not that I’m afraid to show my natural face in public, but there’s a pretty heavy expectation hanging over my head. When I arrive at Buzz Con, it’s Becca from Smoke and Makeup Mirrors that people expect to see. Not Becca Evans. And there’s a difference, trust me.

Gary’s whistling along to the radio and doesn’t seem to be paying me much attention, so I apply a layer of tinted moisturizer for my foundation and get to work camouflaging the dark circles under my eyes.

Next, I grab my contour stick and move to swipe it just below my cheekbone when Gary jerks the wheel, swerving into the next lane.

I yelp as the force knocks me sideways, sending my contour flying.

“Learn how to drive, MeeMaw!” Gary yells out the window as we pass a tiny gray Corolla with an elderly woman at the wheel. “Sorry about that,” he says over his shoulder. “They’ll let anyone have a driver’s license these days.”

I might have laughed given the irony of the situation, but I’m too busy staring at the dark, uneven stripe across my cheek.

With a huff, I attempt to wipe it away. Since I’m traveling, I don’t have my entire arsenal of beauty products with me; only the essentials I packed in my carry-on.

Without a decent beauty blender or a make-up wipe, I have to make do with my fingers.

After retrieving my contour stick from where it’s rolling around on the floorboards and two more disastrous attempts while Gary swerves through traffic, I decide that maybe a simpler look is best. I dapple my cheeks with a rosy pink and press on a little powder.

I check the app on my phone. According to the screen, my destination is only fifteen minutes away. What in the world? It feels like I’ve only been in the car a few minutes.

Gary is humming a jaunty little tune under his breath and according to his speedometer, going twenty miles over the recommended speed limit.

I swallow and tighten my seatbelt, trying to ignore the way my nerves are firing.

I’m not so worried about becoming a human grease stain on the highway.

I just need to make sure that the face I wear when I get out of this car is the right one.

It doesn’t matter that I’m twenty-three years old and still living in a home that’s about to be foreclosed on with my alcoholic mother.

No one cares that my life is one big, blazing dumpster fire.

No, the only Becca they want to see is the one they know through the screen.

There’s still time. I remind myself. Just breathe.

With the wide, blue sky flying by outside the window, I fish a tube of mascara from my bag. I poise the wand at my lash line.

At that exact moment, Gary slams the brakes and yanks the car off towards an exit ramp on the right.

The wand stabs me in the cornea, and I yowl in pain as my eye instantly begins to water. It burns like absolute hell. The only thing that helps is squeezing it shut so tightly I’m pretty sure it’s going to get sucked back into my head.

By the time we roll up to the curb outside the convention center, I’ve managed to pry my eye back open, but a quick look in my compact mirror confirms the damage.

What little make-up I’ve applied is now streaked thanks to the profuse watering, and my eye is so bloodshot, it looks like I have a wicked case of pink eye.

“Well, here we go, hunny! Henry B. Gonzalez!” Gary grins as he turns around to face me. “Say, you alright?” He takes in my splotchy face and grimaces. “You look a little peaky.”

“I’m fine,” I say through gritted teeth. “Thanks for the ride.”

A few minutes later, Gary drives away, tooting his horn and running a stop sign in the process. I stand on the curb and try to assess my next move.

The city of San Antonio is bright and colorful and bustling with activity. No one on the crowded sidewalk seems to be bothered by the June air, so hot and thick it’s almost hard to breathe. Maybe it’s just me.

Gripping my phone, I read the block letters of the quote on my lock screen: If you’re sad, add more lipstick and attack. But with my suitcase at my feet and the Henry B. Gonzalez Convention Center looming over me, not even the words of the great Coco Chanel can embolden me.

“Get it together, Bex,” I mutter. “No one cares that your entire life is falling apart. You’re a Starlight Challenge finalist and it’s time you started acting like one.”

Inhaling a deep breath, I head for the door, wheeling my heavy suitcase behind me.

The lobby is packed with people, but thankfully, no one really pays me that much attention.

I love meeting fans, but I’m not up for it right now.

Not with this weight sitting on my chest. And I definitely don’t need pictures of me looking like a hot mess popping up on the internet.

“May I help you?” one of the registration workers asks.

“Hi, I’m Becca Evans. I was told I needed to stop by here to pick up my registration badge.”

“Sure, I can help you with that,” the woman smiles brightly. She pulls out my badge and several attached sheets of paper. “I knew your name sounded familiar,” she says, pulling apart the paperwork. “You’re one of the contest finalists!”

“Oh!” I say, slightly caught off guard. “Yes, I am.” Butterflies immediately start fluttering in my stomach.

Starlight Talent Agency, one of the sponsors of the con, is the top talent agency in the country.

They rep the biggest and most prolific content creators, and this year, they’re holding a cross-country challenge-based competition for rising internet stars.

The prize is a contract with them and 100,000 dollars.

The Starlight Challenge is the entire reason I made the trip out to Buzz Con in the first place. It’s also the very thing I’ve based my entire future on, so even though I’m not a super competitive person, I’m determined to win. No, I have to win.

The lady behind the desk passes me my conference badge hanging from a bright pink Buzz Con lanyard.

“There’s a green room set up for all of the finalists with refreshments and such, and we also have a coat check if you need a place to store your suitcase.

” She pulls out a map of the convention center and circles the locations with a highlighter.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?”

I shake my head and give her a smile. “Nope, I think that’s it.”

“Well, enjoy the conference,” she tells me, handing over the map. “And good luck in the competition!”

“Thank you,” I say, throwing the lanyard over my head and glancing quickly at the map.

The coat check is my first stop. I’ll drop off my suitcase, find a bathroom to fix my face and change clothes, and head to the opening ceremonies.

It’s going to be a bit of a time stretch, but I think I can make it.

I move through the crowd as quickly as I can, hoping no one will recognize me.

My flip-flops smack a rhythm against the shiny, polished floor, and I see the location I’m looking for up ahead.

I’m slightly winded from the speed-walking, so I let out a deep whoosh of air and shove open the door— only to find that instead of the racks of clothing and stored luggage I was expecting, there is an entire room full of people staring back at me.

I let out a startled yelp and quickly steal a glance at the map in my hand. I’ve mixed up the locations. This is most definitely not the coat check.

“Ah, you must be Becca Evans,” a man wearing a crisp black suit and the whitest smile I’ve ever seen waltzes towards me, his arms out in welcome me. His hair is thick and fluffy and arcs across his forehead in an unnatural way. “We’ve been expecting you.”