“Honey, I just saw a picture of you on Entertainment All-Access. I think.” Her mother sounded both startled and confused. “You were wearing some sort of old-fashioned dress?”
April had wondered yesterday whether JoAnn’s favorite show to watch during dinner prep would feature the story. Evidently, she had her answer. “That was me. In my Lavinia costume. You know, from Gods of the Gates?”
“Oh, my heavens.” Her mother blew out a breath. “April, I don’t even—”
A lengthy silence followed, in which JoAnn likely blinked in shock at her daughter’s sudden, unexpected fame, absorbed the news, and contemplated where to begin the conversation. With curiosity? Concern? Pity? Advice?
Eventually, she’d cover all of the above. April knew that already, as well as she knew what her mother’s advice would entail.
At long last, her mother chose an opening query. “How in the world did this happen?”
That was a question with many answers, some more existential than others, but April settled on the bare facts. Minus a bit of context, in the vain hope they could both avoid the inevitable.
“Well, I have a Twitter account where I post pictures of myself cosplaying Lavinia, and Marcus Caster-Rupp saw one of the photos Wednesday night and asked me out.” She kept her voice calm, as if her world hadn’t exploded in the last several days. As if her heart hadn’t been skittering in her chest since the moment she’d risen that morning. “I’m staying at a hotel in Berkeley this weekend while I get my new apartment ready, and he happened to be in the area. So our dinner is happening tonight, but please don’t tell anyone. I’d like to keep the whole thing as private as possible, under the circumstances.”
As private as possible meant not very private. And that was putting it mildly.
As soon as her Twitter exchange with Marcus went viral, her mentions became . . . incomprehensible. Overwhelming. Filled with commentary both heartening and stunningly ugly. And even though she’d muted all the main threads long ago, new followers and tweets just kept coming, as did interview requests and blogger and media questions.
Her current amount of exposure was more than sufficient, so she’d refused all requests and ignored all questions. Then, just when the hubbub had begun to diminish, the official Gods of the Gates Twitter account had picked up on the story and obviously seen the date, true to Marcus’s prediction, as a great PR opportunity. To her dismay, they’d started promoting the shit out of the blessed event.
Which meant yet more notifications. More DMs. More threads to mute.
At that point, the story had reached her former coworkers. Because of the continued internet uproar, two of her now-ex-colleagues had seen her picture in one of the many stories available online by Friday.
They’d chatted to her about it in hushed corners of the office, and she hadn’t minded their winks and nudges. But their sympathetic winces and pitying pats on the arm—such terrible things people said, April; I can’t imagine how you must have felt—had set her teeth on edge.
When she’d walked out of her old workplace, box of belongings in her arms, she’d done so through a gauntlet of gawking and whispers.
No more hiding, she’d repeated through a suddenly tight chest. No more hiding. Folk goddamn trio.
Then the story had leaped from Twitter to Facebook and Insta, and from there to Gods of the Gates blogs and even a few entertainment news programs.
Including Entertainment All-Access, evidently.
She was trying not to follow the spread of her newfound fame, but how could she not? Even when each post, each televised clip, ratcheted the tension in her muscles until her shoulders ached?
“I see.” JoAnn probably had seen the entire story only moments before, displayed for the public’s viewing pleasure on television screens nationwide. “Are you okay, honey?”
Ah, concern and pity had made a simultaneous entrance into the conversation. Lovely.
“I’m good. Just figuring out what to wear for—” Shit. Rookie mistake. Normally, April never, ever introduced clothing choices into any discussion with her mother. “Just looking forward to tonight. Marcus plays Aeneas, one of my favorite characters.”
Her mother ignored that gambit.
“They showed us part of that conversation on Twitter.” JoAnn’s voice dropped to a near-whisper. “I’m not sure posting pictures there is a great idea.”
It was more or less the same advice April had received for more than thirty years: If people are cruel, make yourself smaller and smaller, until you’re so inconsequential no one can target you.
But April was done cringing and hiding. The opinion of fatphobic randos on Twitter didn’t matter, and she wouldn’t make herself small just to avoid their notice. “I like showing everyone the costumes I’ve put together.”
JoAnn responded carefully, worry and good intentions in every syllable. “That dress . . .” She hesitated. “It didn’t show your figure to its best advantage. Maybe you can make one that doesn’t cling to—”
It could be anything. April’s arms. Her back. Her stomach. Her ass. Her thighs.
“I’m good,” she repeated, her tone more curt than she’d intended.
Another long silence.
When JoAnn spoke again, her voice quavered slightly. “You said you were picking out what to wear tonight?”
April had hurt her mother’s feelings, and a flush of shame crawled up her neck.
“Yes. I brought a few options, and I’m trying to decide between them.” Her hands were clenched into fists, and she knew, she just knew—
“I imagine people will take pictures of you during your dinner tonight.” JoAnn’s faux-cheer lodged under April’s skin like splinters. “A black dress is always in style, you know. And the color disguises so many sins, especially if you find a design that doesn’t fit too tightly.”
Black to disappear. Extra fabric to disguise.
As always, fatness was a sin, most likely mortal rather than venial.
Bowing her head, April didn’t respond for fear of what she might say.
“Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone about the date,” JoAnn continued. “Other than your father, of course. But I’m sure he won’t spread the—”
Okay, they were done. “I’d better go. I need to take a shower now so I have enough time to get ready for dinner.”
“All right. Have fun tonight, honey,” JoAnn said, although she didn’t sound as if she expected fun to be had by anyone involved. “I love you.”
Her mother meant it. April had never questioned that.
“Thanks, Mom.” Her nails were biting into her palms so hard, she was surprised she hadn’t broken the skin. “I love you too.”
And that was the hell of it. She did.
FRESH FROM THE shower, clad in a loose nightgown, April stood in front of her tiny hotel room closet and dithered.
As she’d told her mother, she’d brought plenty of date-outfit options from her half-packed home in Sacramento. Good ones. And under normal circumstances, she wasn’t prone to indecision—but these were far from normal circumstances. Whatever she chose to wear for her dinner with Marcus Caster-Rupp later that night, it had to make two simultaneous statements.