2. #2
There are balloons. There's music. There are women from class standing in a semicircle, grinning like they've just done something generous instead of violent.
All I can hear is the pop.
The pop reverberates in my chest.
My lungs forget what they're supposed to do.
In.
Out.
But the "in" doesn't come.
My mouth opens and nothing fills it. I suck in air and it feels thin, useless. My heartbeat spikes, rapid and frantic, and suddenly my hands are numb.
My vision blurs at the edges.
Someone steps closer, smiling. "Naomi? Are you okay?"
I try to answer.
I can't.
The room tilts. The balloons sway like they're underwater. My fingers curl tight around the strap of my bag as if I can anchor myself to it.
Then the shaking starts.
Small at first-just my hands, just my knees-then harder, like my whole body has decided it's done pretending.
A gasp tears out of me. Another. My chest pulls tight like it's being cinched with rope.
"No-" I manage, but it doesn't sound like a word. It sounds like a plea.
Faces change around me. Smiles falter. Eyes widen.
"Oh my God."
"Is she-?"
One of the instructors drops the sign. It hits the floor with a slap that feels like another pop. She rushes forward, hands out.
"Naomi, it's okay, you're okay-"
She touches my arm and I flinch so hard I almost stumble.
"I-I can't-" My voice breaks. "I'm-"
Hyperventilating. That's the word.
Panic attack. That's the truth.
But truth is dangerous.
I force myself to shake my head, to pull air, to speak something-anything-that makes this look small instead of catastrophic.
The instructor guides me back into the locker room, her hand hovering near my elbow like she's afraid to hold me. The door closes behind us and the noise dulls, but my body doesn't care.
My heart keeps sprinting.
My hands keep trembling.
Tears spill before I can stop them.
"I'm sorry," I choke out, forcing the words through ragged breaths. "I'm sorry, I'm just- I'm really bad with loud noises."
The lie drops into the room like a fragile glass.
The instructor's face softens, but her eyes flick over me like she's assessing. Like she doesn't fully believe it. Like she's filing me away as something unstable.
"It's okay," she says quickly. "It's okay. We didn't know. We just wanted to celebrate you."
I nod, wiping my cheeks with the back of my hand, embarrassed and furious and terrified all at once. I force my breathing to slow, even though it feels impossible.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
The shaking eases little by little, like my body is reluctantly giving me control back.
"I'm fine," I say, voice hoarse but steadying. I straighten my shoulders. I pull myself upright. Poker face, poker face, poker face.
"I'm fine," I repeat, and this time it sounds believable enough.
"Maybe you should head home for the day and try to rest or relax. I know you probably have had a busy week." The instructor gives a nervous laugh. "Do you... want the fruit basket? You can take it. It's yours."
A ridiculous offering. A peace treaty made of melon.
I paste a small smile onto my face. "Sure," I say softly. "Thank you."
I walk out of the locker room like nothing happened.
The women have scattered. The balloons droop slightly now, left behind like evidence. Someone's phone is face-down on a bench as if they were recording and thought better of it.
Or as if they already got what they wanted.
I keep my expression composed as I walk through the lobby, fruit basket in my hands, shoulders back, chin lifted.
Outside, the sunlight feels too bright.
I make it to my car.
I set the fruit basket on the passenger seat.
I close the door.
And the second the world can't see me-
I fold.
My forehead hits the steering wheel. My breath comes out in a broken sound I don't recognize as mine. Tears spill hot and fast, and my hands shake like they're trying to peel me out of my own skin.
I cry until my chest aches.
I cry until my throat burns.
And all I can think, over and over, is the same flat sentence that started last night and still hasn't stopped being true:
By the time I make it home, my eyes are dry.
Not because I've stopped feeling. Because my body is tired of crying like it changes anything.
I wash my face again. I change into another matching set-something soft, something that looks like I feel put together. Then I sit at my vanity with my laptop open, the camera angled just right, the background blurred.
Vivian Bowers appears on my screen at exactly 5 pm.
She looks the same way she always looks-sharp, alert, composed. Hair sleek. Makeup perfect.
"Naomi," she says briskly, like we're coworkers. Like we're friends. Like we're anything other than a transaction. "How are you feeling?"
"I'm fine," I answer.
Poker face. Even in pixels.
Vivian nods like she expected that response. "Okay. We're going to move quickly tonight. The next few weeks are going to be... busy."
My stomach dips, but my face stays still.
She shares her screen. A calendar fills the space between us like a trap.
"Inauguration prep," she says, clicking through blocks of time like they're inevitable.
"Meet-and-greets. A First Lady style consult. Security briefings. Your public initiatives. We're going to need to decide what you're focusing on-education, criminal justice, women's health-something that aligns with Rodney's platform but feels authentic to you."
Authentic.
The word lands wrong. Like a joke.
She keeps talking. "There are certain expectations now. Appearances. Speeches. Posts. You'll need to be more visible. Warmer. The public will be watching you closely, Naomi. They already are."
I nod at the right moments. I make a small sound when she pauses. I sit upright, attentive, like I'm not listening to my life become a schedule someone else controls.
"And we'll need to refine your initiative," she says, eyes scanning the screen like it's a battlefield. "Rodney's team is leaning family-values heavy, but there's an opportunity here."
I nod once, like I'm listening.
Vivian looks up at me through the camera. Her tone shifts-less scheduling, more strategy. "Naomi, you're a Black First Lady representing the Republican Party."
The sentence lands with a clean, calculated weight.
"That's going to be a talking point," Vivian continues. "It can be good ammo for us. We can adjust what we're positioning as your focus-something that reads authentic but also makes the administration look-" she pauses, searching for the correct PR-friendly word, "-balanced."
Balanced.
I keep my face calm. I keep my shoulders relaxed. I don't let my mouth tighten.
But inside, something sour curls.
Because I already know what she means.
They're going to use me.
Not as a person. As proof. As a shield. As a headline that says Us? Racist? We can't be that. As the poster child for a world that still looks at my skin first and then calls it progress.
I've been watching it happen for years, long before last night's win.