Chapter 13 Olive
Chapter thirteen
Olive
"It’s just like anything else," I whisper, staring at the pre-filled syringe, still wrapped and sealed in its packet.
The thing has just been…looking at me, and for some reason, I can’t peel my eyes away.
"Just rip it open, pop off the lid, and jab it in. You literally had two spinal taps within a twenty-four-hour period. That’s needles.
Deep in your spine." I don’t know why I feel the need to say any of this out loud, like I wasn’t there when it all happened.
Like I didn’t have to be curled up in a ball the first time while they numbed my back, then proceeded to miss the spot they needed to drain the fluid.
The student doctor literally said ‘whoops’, then told their boss in a whisper that they didn’t think they were ready to be completing such a ‘complex task’.
Going over everything once more, I check for my sharps container, making sure the is lid firmly secured, alcohol wipes to clean the site of my choice, cotton wool to stop any potential blood from dripping out, and the ice pack that’s no longer frozen because it’s been sitting on my vanity for the better part of an hour.
My phone buzzes beside it, and I swipe the screen down to turn it on Sleep mode.
I don’t need a distraction.
I just need to do it.
Shaking every inch of my body free from the anxiety rippling through me, I rip my singlet over my head, peel off the protective covering from the needle, and stare at it for a long fifteen seconds before my trembling hands place it back down.
I tear open the alcohol wipe, my traitorous hands and brain unable to find common ground to stop the shaking in them. I clean a spot next to my belly button, blowing out a heavy breath, ignoring the pulsating in my head that’s trying to steer me out of the bathroom and back into bed to give up.
"Fuck it," I say quickly, ripping the lid off the tip of the needle, letting it hover above the disinfected area of my skin for less than a second, and I pierce it into my flesh.
I squeeze my eyes shut, the needle penetrating my skin, feeling the sting, but only just.
"Okay, okay, that was fine." I breathe deeply and swallow hard. "Now you just need to put a little pressure on the end and press…yep, exactly like that. Job well done, Olive." Talking out loud and giving myself praise helps.
I had to hear the words and not just in my head, that I had done what I needed to do. And that I’d done it well.
Slowly, I remove the needle from my skin, a tiny drop of crimson spilling out just below the site. I clean it up quickly with the cotton wool.
Once I see it come back clean, I decide to skip the ice pack, throw my singlet back over my head, and smile at myself in the mirror.
Dark circles are under my eyes, and my hair is an absolute bird’s nest on top of my head, but I did it.
I did it.
Now it’s time to face reality, and stop ignoring my phone that—even on sleep mode—has not stopped buzzing.
Which tells me two things.
One: The people listed as my emergency contacts have incessantly tried to contact me.
Two: It’s probably an emergency, and I completely ignored it.
There’s a string of texts from the Herring Girls group chat that I can ignore for now. Missed phone calls from my mom, I can return later.
But the influx of calls, texts, and voice messages from Josie? That’s something I cannot skim past.
What’s worse? The fist that is currently pounding on my door, making their presence known, forcing me to deal with whatever this is head-on.
"Coming!" I shout, cleaning up any evidence that could give me away before I’m ready.
Josie is my manager, I shouldn’t keep something like this from her, not when she could no doubt be the support I need. But how am I supposed to tell her, when I can’t even say the words to myself?
"Sorry," I say breathlessly, ripping the door open. "I slept in, and took a shower. I didn’t hear my phone," I ramble, coming up with the best lie possible, and she pushes past me, shoving her phone in my face.
"Remember how I told you there would be news you weren’t expecting?" she asks, and while I vaguely remember it, I remember nothing else.
"Sure." I close the door behind me. Turning, I see her holding her phone out for me to take.
"This is what I was referring to. They took the bait," she says, a deviant smile on her face, and now I’m even more confused than I was before.
Taking the phone from her outstretched hand, I see the words ‘Olive and Avery: Everything we know so far!’ I swallow the lump in my throat.
"Hold on, Josie. What do you mean?"
She looks over her shoulder. For what, I don’t know, but whatever she’s searching for, she doesn’t find it. "After your show where Avery came to your defense—"
"You mean how he butted in and tried to kick that guy’s ass when I had it handled?" I cross my arms over my chest, remembering the first meet and greet and how his actions made me feel incompetent, and weak.
"Right. That." She nods. "His manager, Orlando Davis, and I got to talking and, well…" she pauses. Josie seems nervous, which is very unlike her. Whatever she’s about to tell me has got her feeling frantic.
"Spit it out, Josie. Don’t we have somewhere to be?"
"Pictures were leaked to the press that you and Avery were seeing each other after your show. You had gone to his game the night before, too, so it just all synced up. I know a friend who is a journalist and she asked me to confirm or deny knowing you’re my client.
I asked her to hold off a day or two, then the YBAGB happened and it just seemed like the perfect opportunity.
" I hold up my hand. I already know the rest. Well, I can assume to, anyway.
"You orchestrated it. That much is obvious, but I didn’t realize why. I thought you were just doing it to get the public to see that I wasn’t boring. That I deserved my spot on the tour."
And I do, thank you very much. Label, be damned.
"Sorry, Olive. Orlando offered me a solution, and I took it.
The label has been jumping down my throat telling me to think of something to make you seem more personable, likable.
And apparently dating someone like Avery Jones, does just that.
It keeps the fans interested in you for more than just your music.
" She sighs, and I see the remorse all over her face.
"So, what? Do you just expect me to fake like I know this guy? That we’ve been together for God knows how long, just to make some rich men at a record label happy. What if I say ‘no’?"
"Then you’re cut from the tour." She cowers away, but I know it’s not her call.
"Fine. I’ll do it. But I’m not going to enjoy myself."