I send him a quick text.
- Morning. We good?
- No. I’m fucking exhausted, and you’re sleeping in.
- Chat at lunch?
- Hitting the gym with Max and Amias. You got the girls and Patrick.
He’s not letting on one bit. Ugh!
- Chat after school?
-Everything good, T? You’re acting like a freak. Still hiding under the blanket?
- Fuck off.
- That’s better. See you soon.
I lie in bed for a while, wondering what Justice knows about last night. He didn’t mention a damn thing. He simply laid next to me and droned on and on about the special that Convicted Ink, Bella and Tags’ reality show, is doing starting in September and how awesome all the artists are. Some are from overseas, they came for a chance to compete in the twelve-hour challenge that starts at midnight and lasts until noon the next day. He also told me that they would have started earlier, but they specifically chose those hours so Bella, Tags, and Luna could come see me in the play.
I feel a bit guilty over that fact, because none of them know how serious I am about not applying to any colleges for dance anymore. I’ll tell him tonight. And maybe today, I’ll let my Mom know, too. I’m holding off on telling Dad because, as much as Mom loves dance and it was always her thing and her mother’s, Dad has been the one who pushed me the hardest to become the best I could be. And if I’m honest, it was always him who I looked at during final bows, his applause always my favorite.
If Patrick told Justice about Saturday night, which I assume he did, it was probably why he busted into my room last night. The fact that I was terrified by stupid high school bully tactics was probably why he decided to hold off on the TED Talk.
I’m not afraid now, though, and yes, I am well aware that it’s because it’s light out, but still …
So, basically, today, I’m going to go to school and face those assholes, and if one of them says shit about me or to me, or looks at me wrong, I’m going to go full Steel on them. And tonight, after dinner and when Justice is done playing chess with Mom, I’m sure I’ll get the talk.
I decide there is no way in hell I’m going to fall back to sleep, so I roll out of bed and cringe when I step on the floor. It’s probably a good thing I’m going to the doctor’s today. This hurts like a bitch. And maybe, just maybe, they’ll tell me I can’t dance for six months, and then I won’t disappoint anyone when I blow off the auditions for colleges.
After showering, I pull my light pink toothbrush out of the holder, brush my teeth, and then rinse the bristles of my brush. I put my toothbrush back into its hole then splash my face with water before rubbing my light pink face wash into my skin. Then I rinse and pat it dry with a hand towel covered in tiny ballet slippers before applying toner followed by moisturizer.
When the condensation lifts, I lean in and notice a new blemish forcing its way onto my skin right above my lip. I huff.
My skin has never been too acne-prone, so the occasional blemish really irks me. The last time I had one was after the solos for the recital were posted. Stress is seriously a hazard to my skin.
I open my bathroom drawer and reach in to pull out the bin containing everything I use every day and decide, fuck full face makeup today. I apply a tiny little bit of concealer on the new blemish then a tiny bit of lip tint, followed by a couple swipes of black mascara. Then I shove all the products back into their spots before grabbing the blow dryer and round brush.
While drying my hair, I look up in the mirror and nearly jump out of my skin when I see Mom standing behind me. The brush and dryer go flying.
When the brush hits the mirror and I see a crack, I start to cry.
Mom quickly turns off the dryer and pulls me into a hug. “Oh, Truth, it’s okay. It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay, Mom. I broke the mirror. Do you know what that means?” I sniff.
She takes my face in her hands and turns me to look back at her. “It was my fault.”
“I broke it!”
“And it means nothing. Nothing at all.”
“It’s bad luck. Not just bad luck, but seven years of bad luck. Jesus, isn’t sixteen enough?”
You’d have thought I slapped her by the look on her face.
“I’m sorry. I just …” I pause and slap the tears from my face. “It’s bad luck.”
“Your father wears a broken mirror, tattooed on his chest, and he’s the luckiest man I know. So, no, Truth, it’s not bad luck. It’s just a broken mirror.”
I shake my head and look down.
“Do you think maybe you need to talk to someone?”
“I’m not crazy,” I tell her.
“Neither am I, but I can tell you talking to someone when you can’t talk to anyone else because you feel like no one else would understand helps in ways that I can’t even explain.”
“I’m not you.”
As soon as the words fall out of my mouth, I immediately wish I could erase them.
“I know.”
I look up at her. “Mom, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“I know that, too.”
“I’ve had a good life. I didn’t lose—”
“Truth, it’s okay.”
I shake my head.
She bends down and picks something up off the floor. Then she takes my hand. “Let’s go use my vanity.”
“No, it’s fine, really.”
She holds up the box she picked up. “I bought this round brush dryer thing. I wanted to try it on your hair and see if it lives up to the hype.”
The round brush blow dryer was something I looked at online. She must have seen me checking it out.
“Come on; let me do your hair.”
After being buzzed in, I walk down the main corridor, the Hall of Achievements, as they call it, wearing a boot, because I have a severely bruised ankle bone. I begged Mom to let me keep it off during school hours because, let’s be honest, I need no help drawing attention to myself.
The framed musical posters have been removed, and in their place is information for the junior prom and different sporting schedules.
It’s eerily quiet in the empty hall without the normal chatter and squeaking shoes of students and administrators. I should like it—not running into anyone—but I don’t.
I pass the middle school hallway, which smells of pubescent students’ rank pits and smelly sneakers, masked with perfumes and colognes, even though it’s not as pungent as our old school. The ninth and tenth grade wings aren’t half as bad, unless you happen to use the bathroom during shark week, when everyone’s period seems to sync. Not that the upperclassman bathrooms are much better, but at least they have a firmer grip on hygiene.
When I get to the doors leading to the courtyard that I have to cross in order to get to the upperclassman area of the school, someone calls my name from behind.
I look back and see Tobias Easton walking quickly toward me.
“Fuck off,” I huff as I push the door open and hurry out of it.
When I feel my backpack get jacked back, I turn around and look up at him. “I don’t know who the fuck you think—”