One Carefree Day

by Whitney Amazeen

  Charlie has already set up his station, and I’m dismayed to find the one he chose is across the room from us. Now I won’t be able to sit with Theo while we get ready.

  The show is at five this evening, which means it will be a long while before I’m allowed to get back into my leggings and go home. I sigh and settle into my seat while Ash begins detangling my heavy curls.

  “I’m so nervous,” she says quietly.

  “Why? You’re not the one who has to walk across the stage in front of everyone.” But to my surprise, I’m not dreading it as much as I thought I would. Not to mention, as soon as all this fashion show business is over, we’ll be eligible to start working on actual clients.

  “I might puke,” Ash informs me. “I’ll bring a bucket, just in case.”

  I laugh. “You have nothing to be nervous about.”

  She scoffs. “Are you kidding me? If we don’t get at least third place, we won’t win a spot in the boutique next semester! Of course I’m stressed.”

  I scoff. “Ash, the boutique is just a glorified mini-salon. It’s overrated.”

  She puts her hands on her hips. “It’s sectioned off from everyone else, you get to wear normal clothes, and you have first dibs on all the clients! It’s absolutely not overrated!” She tugs on my hair, and I grit my teeth, trying not to complain.

  From across the room, my gaze locks with Theo’s. I want to sit next to him, to spend every second I can with him before he goes back to England. To his new flat in Surrey.

  The thought of him leaving stabs a hole in my chest. How will we talk to each other every day, especially with a time-zone difference? How will it feel to spend weeks without the feel of his arms around me, without him living so close? I sigh, trying to remember that I can technically go and visit him whenever I want, if I so desire. If I can afford to.

  “Hey,” Eva says to Ash. “Can I borrow some bobby pins?”

  Ash glances at Raymond in the chair next to mine and gives Eva a saccharine smile, though I can see the irritation behind it. Raymond has hair as long as mine, and we need almost every hairpin in our inventory for the updo I’m supposed to wear. “I mean, I guess?” She says to Eva. “You couldn’t remember to bring your own? Just go grab some from the supply table.”

  Eva scoffs. “You know what? Whatever. Forget it.”

  I grab the pins, handing them to Raymond. “No, it’s fine,” I say. “Just make sure you leave exactly nineteen for us, please.” Not because it’s an odd number, but because that’s how many we end up using each time. I’ve been counting.

  Eva raises her eyebrows. “You know what? Just forget it. It’s fine.” She purses her lips, and adds under her breath, “You’d think with her pregnancy-brain, she’d cut me some slack.”

  Ash inhales, clearly fighting the urge to snap a retort back. She meets my eyes in the mirror as if to say, This is for you. I’m biting my tongue for you.

  I fight a smile.

  Hours later—when my butt is sore from sitting, my hair is styled and dry, and my almost invisible makeup has been applied—Ash tells me it’s time to change into my dress. We’ve been waiting until the last minute, afraid any refreshments I eat might accidentally fall onto it and stain it.

  There’s only thirty minutes left until the show starts, and the nerves that have been tormenting Ash seem to have escaped her, choosing a new victim in me. My palms are sweating, and my stomach feels like I drank an entire pitcher of flat soda.

  Nearly all the models are ready, some of them already dressed in their nineteenth-century attire. Others are holding cups of fruit punch and plates of cupcakes, chattering in excitement about possibly winning a spot in the boutique. Only two or three stylists are running behind, still hard at work and sweating with the effort to finish on time. Pity slices through me, but I stay where I am. I would offer to help if it weren’t for them being Ash’s competition.

  Ash and I enter one of the makeshift dressing rooms, and she gets to work on my corset. I enjoy my last full breaths of air as she tightens it into impossibility, constricting my lungs. Ash has me step into the hoop skirt. She pulls the long-sleeved, full-skirt dress over my head, careful not to let any part of the pale pink garment touch my hair or face. She adjusts it here and there, tying the white sash, and once I’m suited to her liking, we slide open the curtain.

  I don my white wrist-length gloves as we walk out, gathering up my skirts so I don’t trip, but somehow don’t lift them high enough. I stumble, about to lose my footing when a strong hand grips my elbow, holding me upright. I look up into Theo’s face.

  He stares at me, locking me in place. A thrill shoot through my body.

  “You look beautiful,” he says. “Absolutely stunning.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper, realizing for the first time that he too is already dressed. He’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt under a vest and a pair of dark trousers. His boots are fastened with buttons and hooks, and a silk necktie the exact shade of his blue eyes graces his neck. His dark hair falls gracefully against his forehead. My knees suddenly feel weak again. He is so perfect it makes me want to cry. “You look like a true English gentleman.”

  “Don’t worry,” Ash says from beside me, a smile in her voice. “You’ll have plenty of time to rip those clothes off each other later.” She pulls me forward, and we make our way out of the cosmetology building, heading for the back entrance to the drama theater. “Remember,” Ash tells me. “Smile. Don’t trip. Spin slowly, so that everyone can see the back of your hair, and curtsy at the very end.”

  I swallow. “Anything else?”

  “Yes,” she says. “Get me into that damn boutique. I can’t find maternity scrubs anywhere.”

  We enter the drama building through the back, and I’m surprised to find we’re one of the last pairs to arrive. We’re supposed to walk the stage in order of group number, which is assigned alphabetically by the stylist’s last name. Since Ash’s last name is Majors, we’ll be the sixth pair in line. Theo’s turn won’t come until later, since Charlie’s last name is Samuels.

  I search the room for Theo, willing him to materialize out of thin air. I’m starting to feel more anxious with each passing second.

  “I’ll be right back,” says Ash. “I’m going to use the restroom really quick.” She rushes out the side door. If she’s not back in time for our turn, they’re going to have to skip us. Because there’s no way I’m doing this without her.

  On my way to get in line, I see my reflection in a floor length mirror propped against one of the walls, and my breath catches. Ash has truly worked some kind of magic. The way my curls gracefully graze my forehead and jaw make my reflection almost unrecognizable. My eyes stand out in my face, the green flecks made more prominent against the brown somehow. My lips are full and pink, and the dress itself is a piece of art as fine as a jewel. I can’t honestly say I would have made such a diligent stylist, had our roles been reversed.

  Ash will win a spot in that boutique. I will somehow make it happen for her, if it’s the last thing I do. For working so hard, for ensuring I don’t make a fool of myself. For always being such an amazing cousin and best friend. She deserves it.

  With my determination comes fear, as always. The thought of not winning makes my heart sink, but there’s no way for me to guarantee such a thing.

  Except to perform a ritual, a small part of my brain tells me.

  My breath catches. I never want to go back to that mentality, but since I’ve managed to mostly eliminate reacting to compulsions from my daily life, it’s hard to see the harm in one tiny ritual.

  I don’t have long to decide, because the sound of the music starts, and Mrs. Harrison enters the backstage room. “Get in line, everyone!” She moves her hands in the direction of the stage. “And be quiet back here. We don’t want the mics picking up anything extra.”

  I look around the room for Theo again just as he opens the back door and comes inside after Charlie. I catch his eye, and he immediately walks over
to me.

  “Thank God,” I say, about to unleash my worries.

  “I—”

  “Places!” Mrs. Harrison somehow both shouts and whispers.

  Theo touches my cheek. “Don’t worry, little Willow. I’m right here.” He kisses me and gives my hand a firm squeeze. “You’ll be brilliant.”

  “Ready, babe?” Ash says, appearing back from the restroom. I nod, and she pulls some oil blotting strips from her apron, dabbing at my nose. She smiles. “You look perfect. Let’s do this!”

  An employee from the cosmetology department gives the audience her introduction, thanking them for coming, and explains that the funds gained from the ticket sales will go towards bettering our department and supplying products for the students.

  The first pair to go onstage is Jess Anderson and her model Cami. Their obvious confidence as Cami struts onto the stage makes my stomach swim. Cami’s ruby red gown is adorned with sequins, cut low and showing off her sharp collarbones.

  What if I fall? What if Ash pukes? What if—

  “Babe,” Ash whispers. “Pay attention.” She gestures in front of us.

  The line moves forward. I shuffle ahead, careful not to trip on my skirts.

  It’s disorienting to not be able to see what’s going on behind the curtain. We can all hear the claps and cheers of the crowd, the Victorian drawing-room music playlist going, and the sound of Cami’s heels as she struts up and down the stage. I wish I could see what she’s doing. How she’s walking, if she looks nervous, if she trips and falls.

  Breathe, I tell myself. You’ll be fine.

  I still have time to tap. Doing so could guarantee everything will go according to plan. But I’m worried if I tap, I’ll fall back into the trap of relying on my rituals to solve all my problems.

  My heart races when the next pair goes, and then the one after that, and when I’m the next one in line, I feel like I’m about to faint or turn inside out or crumble into dust.

  Lola and Peyton have finished, which means it’s our turn. Mrs. Harrison signals for us to get onstage, and I swallow my nerves, lifting the ends of my skirts again, as high as I can get them.

  We step out from behind the curtain.

  At first, I’m blinded by the spotlight pointed directly in my eyes. I blink a few times, seeing the light even from behind closed lids. I’m worried I’ll somehow end up walking straight off the stage but remember that there’s green fluorescent tape signaling where we’re supposed to stop walking.

  I take a few wobbly steps forward. Steady myself. Continue.

  The announcer’s voice sounds from the speakers. “Stylist Ashton Majors has modeled Willow Bates after a mid-century, high-status lady of age.” She continues, explaining Ash’s inspiration behind the style, but I’m no longer listening. I’m too focused on breathing, which is even harder for me now, thanks to my corset. I concentrate on keeping my footing even, and on not falling flat on my face.

  When I reach the part of the stage closest to the audience, I pause. Spin slowly, just like Ash told me to. Smile. Walk back—and remember her last request. I curtsy. The crowd applauds, and my smile is genuine when we make our exit backstage.

  “You did so good,” Ash tells me. “I’m so proud of you.” She squeezes me.

  I exhale loudly. “Thanks.”

  The next pair is called forward, and Mrs. Harrison tells us we can watch the rest of the show from any leftover empty seats in the audience, if we like.

  “You go ahead,” Ash says to me. “I’m going to take a nap in my car.”

  I laugh, sure she’s joking, but then I remember she’s pregnant and probably completely serious. “Okay,” I tell her. “I’ll text you when the winners are about to be announced.”

  I head for the exit, stopping when Theo reaches out from his spot in line, his arm snaking around my waist. “You did amazing, love,” he whispers in my ear, sending chills over my entire body.

  I give him a quizzical smile. “How do you know?” I ask.

  He smirks. “I watched you. Snuck out of the queue when Mrs. Harrison was preoccupied. You were brilliant.”

  I laugh, simultaneously surprised and embarrassed. “Why did you do that? You could have gotten in trouble.” I smack his chest, wincing a little when my finger hits a hard button on his vest.

  “I don’t care.” His eyes are on my lips, and before I can react, he’s kissing me. His lips are hard against mine, and I break away when Charlie coughs.

  “Lipstick isn’t part of his look, princess,” he says.

  “I wanted to use a ritual so badly,” I whisper to Theo, ignoring Charlie.

  His eyes show only a hint of alarm. “Did you?”

  “I was close,” I say. “But I didn’t.”

  It’s been weeks of refraining from reacting to my compulsions, weeks I’ve felt so at ease. There are times it’s hard. Like tonight. My urge to find an outlet to my anxiety still hasn’t disappeared. Part of me thinks it never will. I’m not sure if anxiety is something that can be simply cured, but what I do know is I am strong. I’m more determined than I was yesterday, and my mental strength will only continue to grow. Every time I refrain from reacting to my OCD, I only build that muscle. And the fashion show just so happened to be one of those instances.

  Theo’s eyes search my face, and I can tell he wants to ask if I’m okay. But instead he says, “Well, I’m proud of you. And I would still be even if you used a ritual. All that matters is that you keep growing.”

  I smile. “Thank you. Now I’m going to go find a spot to sit in the audience so I can watch you strut that stage.”

  Theo smirks, and I leave him there to ponder that information with Charlie. I hope he feels just as nervous as I did, now that he knows I’ll be watching him, too. But knowing him, it probably doesn’t even faze him.

  I find a secluded seat in the back row of the theater. As I watch the next group perform, I realize it doesn’t matter if Ash and I place tonight. If we don’t, whether it’s because I didn’t use a ritual, or because fate decided we shouldn’t, it will be okay.

  I’ve finally accepted that I don’t need to be in control of my life. It’s a liberating feeling, letting go of the wheel, letting it spin in whichever direction it chooses. Even if it causes me to crash, even if it results in my end, I don’t want to interfere. I don’t want the pressure of deciding what little details are going to influence the major events in my story.

  I’d much rather sit back, relax, and watch.

  Epilogue

  This is the first gender reveal party I’ve ever been to.

  For someone who claims she doesn’t care what gender her baby is, Ash had an especially difficult time deciding how she wanted the big reveal to happen. Between cutting a cake, popping a balloon, hitting a baseball open to reveal colored dust inside, it really doesn’t matter. In the end, the result will be the same: pink or blue. Girl or boy.

  Ash hasn’t gone with any of these methods. She’s decided to reveal her baby’s gender by shooting Joseph with a paintball gun. All day, everyone has been complimenting her on her creativity. Personally, I think she just enjoys hurting him.

  All her guests are wearing pink or blue to represent what they believe the sex of her baby is. I don’t understand why pink and blue are the only acceptable options. My favorite color is blue, and I’m a girl. Whoever assigned color to gender, of all things, I’d like to have a conversation with.

  Nevertheless, I’m sitting on a party bench in her backyard, mingling with guests and wearing blue, not because it’s my favorite, but because I think Ash is having a boy. I cheated, basing my guess off hers, because they say the mother’s intuition is always right.

  I’m deep in a conversation with Aunt Christie about how she knew all along Ash was pregnant.

  “I was just waiting for her to tell me herself,” she says.

  I’m not sure why she’s insistent on telling this story. I was there when Ash told her mom the news. To say she was surprised would be an und
erstatement. Aunt Christie wouldn’t speak to Ash for two days.

  Although the baby’s gender has been apparent to Ash’s doctor for weeks, Ash wanted to have the party at the end of the semester, as a way of celebrating the end of us being freshman stylists. Not only that, but I think she’s also hoping for another chance to rub our second-place victory in the fashion show in everyone else’s face. She keeps expressing her excitement to show off her new clothes when she and I are in the boutique after she has the baby. I think I’m supposed to be thrilled, but instead, I’m trying not to mourn.

  Theo’s flight home leaves tomorrow.

  This is my last day with him.

  I’m not paying attention to what Aunt Christie is saying anymore, instead searching the backyard for Theo. He’s leaning against the wall of the house, talking to Joseph. He glances up at me, as if sensing my gaze. My cheeks heat as his eyes trail my body, sending desire burning through my veins.

  “You really do care about him,” My mom says, causing me to start. I hadn’t heard her approaching, but I nod stiffly. Things between us still haven’t returned to normal. I’m not sure they ever will, either.

  “I do.”

  My mom sighs and smooths my hair back, away from my face and down my back. “I love you, Willow.”

  I meet her eyes. “I love you, too.”

  She smiles, but it looks sad, like she knows there’s a barrier between us now, a wall meant to separate us for an infinite amount of time.

  “I’m sorry for the things I’ve done,” she says softly. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  I stare at her, in complete shock at her apology. She did it. She actually said sorry.

  “Thank you for apologizing.” My lips quiver. I don’t know if I want to smile or burst into tears.

  My mom stares back, and for the first time, it seems like she might not be seeing anyone other than me. Like the resentment she’s never been able to let go of is finally starting to fade.