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