Tess, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to care much. She isn’t looking at me. Instead, her arms are crossed over her chest and her gaze is fixated on the stage. Based on her expression, you’d think she was about to enter a corporate conference to discuss consumer reports or something. There’s no emotion there, none at all.
I turn away from the video and put my hands over my ears. I don’t want to hear about it anymore. I don’t care. It’s as if this is all happening to someone else, anyone else that isn’t me. This isn’t my life. I’m not Mia Patterson. I’m not some lost and stolen child.
When Tess steps onstage, I pull out my phone with shaking hands, hoping beyond all hope that my grandparents have messaged to let me know they’re watching. That Sally and Nevaeh have my back. Maxine, at the very least, knows that I’m going to be here today. It could be a text from her.
Instead, it’s a message from Maxx.
Heads up: your sister is freaking out. Your grandparents are being interviewed remotely for the show today. They didn’t tell anyone until this morning. Maxine is on the phone with them now, but she’ll call as soon as she gets the chance.
My heart drops into my stomach and a wave of nausea takes over me. My grandparents are coming on the show today? I turn back around to find Tess smiling at Martina and nodding her head; they’re talking to each other, but all of a sudden, it’s like I can’t hear anything but the pounding of my heart.
A sense of dread washes over me.
This isn’t going to go well for me today.
“What is wrong with you?” a voice asks. I don’t have to look up to know that it’s Parrish.
“My grandparents,” I breathe, because the lady with the badge is turning me around and positioning me on a taped X near the stage. Parrish stays with me, for whatever reason.
“What about them?” he asks, but I don’t have the words to reply. The assistant gives me a gentle nudge in the middle of my back, and I find myself stumbling onto the stage in front of all those people.
The audience begins to clap, but I feel rooted to the spot, paralyzed. Everyone is staring at me, analyzing me, judging me.
I take a few more steps and suddenly find myself sitting in a chair beside Tess. I hardly remember how I got there, I’m just … sitting. And then there’s even a smile on my face. Because I can’t bear to ruin this or make a scene, because I’m still trying with Tess. Because I’m an idiot.
An idiot.
“Thank you for joining us today,” Martina says, leaning forward and offering up a patronizing smile. I don’t think she means for it to be patronizing; it just is. “Would you like us to call you ‘Mia’ or ‘Dakota’?”
The entire audience falls silent. Not like they were before, but like truly and utterly still as they await my answer. It’s annoying, more than anything else. This whole thing is idiotic.
“Dakota, please,” I reply, and several people gasp. I turn toward the audience to stare at them, but Tess gives my leg a squeeze, reminding me that I’m supposed to be looking at Martina. “I think I’ll always want to be known as Dakota Banks.”
“Tess, how do you feel about that?” Martina asks, because part of her claim to fame is that she’s an actress-turned-therapist-turned-talk show host. About as cheesy as Dr. Phil but so stupidly meme-able that people can’t resist talking about it.
That’s me. A future meme.
Nobody:
Literally no one:
Not even clout hungry iNfLuEnCeRs:
Dakota Banks: yes, I love being a kidnap victim!
“I think that Dakota can’t help but feel that way,” Tess replies, as smoothly and easily as if she, too, is a talk show host. Every now and again, there’s that little sliver of humanity in her, when her hair is mussy and she’s wearing glasses and it’s early and she’s muttering plot points to herself in the kitchen. Then there’s … this. This senator-y stiffness mixed with a touch of wealth poisoning. “She’s been indoctrinated by the Banks.”
“What?” I blurt, blinking as Martina sighs and nods her head, like she agrees. Fuck. I’m not here to talk about my burgeoning—and extremely challenging—relationship with Tess Vanguard. I’m here to see my grandparents roasted on the internet.
Shit.
“Speaking of the Banks,” Martina begins, turning back toward the screen. I follow her gaze just in time to see my grandparents appear on the screen. God. Damnit. If I hadn’t been struggling to breathe in that moment, I might’ve gotten up and kicked over the camera.
Oh, who I am kidding, I wouldn’t because I always try to put everyone else first. I don’t want to hurt Tess. I don’t know what to do here.
“We have the Banks here, live with us. Carmen and Walter, thank you for joining us today.”
“You’re welcome,” my grandmother says, her mouth pursed, her red lipstick bright. Beside her, my grandpa looks older and more fragile than I remember. I feel suddenly guilty and sick to my stomach. It’s the first time I’ve seen them since the coffee shop. Well, my grandmother that is. I haven’t seen my grandfather since the cab drove me and Tess away from my house for the last time.
“Is this the first time you’ve spoken to Dakota since she moved to Seattle?” Martina asks as Tess remains where she is, facing forward. She doesn’t look back at the screen, not even as my grandmother answers Martina’s question. I don’t understand. Tess seemed fine back in New York? Like, she’s mad at the Banks now? Why?
“It is.” Carmen’s words are short, sharp, and clipped. She isn’t any happier to be here than I am. “Which I think is criminal.”
“What’s criminal is raising a kidnapped child full well knowing that she wasn’t your daughter’s.”
I blink at Tess before turning back to the screen, expecting to see my grandparents aghast and upset at such a stupid declaration. Of course they didn’t know I wasn’t Saffron’s.
Silence stretches, long and painful, before I realize that neither of my grandparents is speaking up.
“Is it true that two years ago, your daughter Saffron Banks came to you and admitted that her child—her real child—Dakota Banks had been dead for years?”
I’m frozen to my seat right now. Paralyzed. My heart has stopped, and I’m fairly certain that I’ve stopped breathing. Hopefully, I’ll suffocate and this whole shitty moment will be over.
“That’s true,” my grandfather begins, and the audience gasps and murmurs. I can only imagine the comments we’re garnering online. “When Dakota—our Dakota—turned fourteen, Saffron admitted the truth, but we didn’t believe her. She’s lied about things like that before.”
“From what I understand, you telephoned the hospital she claimed to have had her real daughter at to confirm?”
Another pause.
“That’s true,” my grandfather says, but I can’t even look at him so it’s hard to place the tone in his words. It’s impossible to decipher without a facial expression to accompany it. “But you have to understand, we still didn’t know the whole story. We had no idea, until the episode of that stupid show. Frankly, looking back, we might not’ve made the call at all.”