Knockout (Gaslight spin-off)

10| Double take

Downstairs in the kitchen, Mom is at the table in a silk dressing gown with her phone and a cup of coffee. She looks up when she hears me, smiling before indicating to the fresh juice pitcher.

"Orange and pineapple with a hint of cinnamon and a pinch of turmeric," she says. "I read it gives you a morning boost."

I slip into my seat and observe my mother carefully, waiting for the next backhanded compliment to roll off her tongue. Or the subsequent critique of my appearance. But as she sits there, sipping her coffee with her pinky stuck out, she looks a picture of innocence.

"Looks yummy," I say, pouring a glass.

"Took me forever to squeeze out the pulp, though," she says. "I even got some in my eye." She squints a little and blinks like that droplet of orange juice has blinded her. "Just my luck to blind myself before the woman from Food Daily arrives."

"That's today?"

She nods and picks up her phone again to scroll through her feed. "She'll be here around eleven, so we have plenty of time to get ready. I've already laid out your outfit."

The voice in my head wants to answer back – that's what I'm good at – but as much as I detest her fixation on appearance, this job is important to her. Besides, today is the day I find a way to save the gym – I can't bring myself to be mad. "As long as it's not pink."

"The top is pink, but it's muted."

I squeeze my glass as I take another sip. "I'm not wearing pink. It doesn't even suit me."

She waves her hand dismissively. "Of course it suits you."

If she knew me at all, if she somehow possessed the ability to read between the lines, she'd know that all of this is the last thing I want, but my mother has a habit of putting her needs before mine; why should now be any different?

"Fine, whatever." I pour myself some cereal at the same time she gets back to her coffee.

Google suggests that my mother is a clear, textbook case: an impressionable child grows up in a society that puts appearance before all else. The end result? My beautiful mother, riddled with insecurity, now puts those same pressures on me.

Still, despite her faults, my father was always sympathetic. I think back to last year when Mom went away on a trip with her friends. Cody, Dad, and I were having the best time without her, and as soon as Dad tucked Cody in bed and we went downstairs to watch a movie, I turned to him.

"I wish it could always be like this," I said.

He half-turned to look at me, his eyes clouding over with something I couldn't place. Confusion? Concern? Empathy? "You don't mean that, Cassie."

"I do," I say. "Why do you put up with it, Dad?"

He was silent for a moment, his eyes taking on this far-off look like he was trying to recall a dream. Then he looked at me, eyes soft, and said, "Have you ever heard of the saying hurt people hurt people?" I nodded.  "Well, your mother isn't just hurt," he said, "she's broken, and broken people break people too."

For some reason, that conversation stuck with me. Day after day, night after night, my father would make allowances for behavior. Ever since that night, I have too.

"Oh, and I thought maybe we could try some eyelashes," she says. "I know how you feel about sticking things to your face, but I think–"

I put down my spoon. "You're not happy until you're controlling every little thing, are you?"

She pulls back as though she's been slapped. Surprise fills her eyes, but I refuse to back down anymore. "I'm not trying to control you, I just want you to look your best. I know how cruel people can be online, Cassie. I don't want you to have to deal with the hurtful things they might say."

And that's the problem. Deep down, she truly believes that she's doing the motherly thing. Maybe it doesn't occur to her that wanting me to change does far more damage than the words of a stranger online would.

"Please, Cass," she says. "You know how important this photoshoot is to me. You'll be wearing them for an hour, tops." She pauses, desperate, and adds, "If you really loved me, you'd do it."

The words make me flinch. Her favorite phrase – its purpose to invoke the utmost guilt, and the worst part of all is that it works. "Fine," I say, "I'll  do whatever you want me to, as long as we don't have to keep talking about this."

The relief that crosses her face is unmistakable. I return to my food, but she's chipped away another little piece of me, the way she does each time she criticizes me. I can handle it, for now, and can push it all to the back of my mind and not let her words affect me, but sooner or later, she'll chip too hard, and when she does, I will shatter.

The woman from Food Daily arrives at ten. For the next sixty minutes, I am preened and pulled by her hair and makeup team, who lather me in products and sprays. I have to admit, it feels nice to have people playing with my hair, even if I can't stand the makeup. The only thing getting me through it is the thought of heading to the gym and putting my plan into action.

Of course, my plan relies solely on Nico, which is less than ideal on account of the fact he's an arrogant jerk, but I can't deny that capturing a fight with him will have customers lining down the block; I just hope he shows up today.

By the time they are finished, I look nothing like myself. My usual dark waves are three times bigger, swinging down my back like an entity of their own. My skin looks dewy, my cheeks and eyes and whatever else smeared with sticky, glowy stuff, and my lashes could take out someone's eye. But for the first time ever, my mother looks proud of me.

It is not just me that's subjected to this torture, but Cody too. In fairness, his makeover involves putting spray in his curls and a few drops of oil on his skin. He looks over at one point, a big grin on his face as he lies back in his chair, thoroughly enjoying his facial.

"Okay," Suzie from Food Daily says, "I think we're about ready to start shooting. Maybe outside by the pool?"

"Great idea," Mom gushes, and she gathers Cody and me up before leading us onto the patio.

The three pounds of makeup on my face starts to sweat under the sun. Suzie has us in different poses, each more ridiculous than the last, but I'm forced to grin and bear it. Another fifteen minutes, and I'll be headed to the gym – the one place I can breathe.

"Hm," Suzie says as she looks at her camera, "do you think you could smile more, Cassie?"

Through my bared teeth, I say, "If I smile anymore, my face will snap."

Suzie sighs and snaps more pictures. Beside me, Cody senses my inner discomfort and grabs my hand, squeezing it tight. I squeeze it back as another snap goes off, and Suzie gushes, "How cute! I think that's a wrap."

I'm out of there so fast that I almost trip. I don't even bother to take off the makeup; I just change into my gym gear, grab my bag, and throw myself into my car.

Breathe, Cassie, breathe. But as I'm breathing, I catch my mother through the French bay window as she peers over Suzie's shoulder. She hasn't noticed my absence, she's too busy trying to decide on which picture because that's who she is. If this morning has taught me anything, it's that sometimes we do things that make us uncomfortable, and we do them for the people we love. But those very same people you do everything for won't do anything for you back.

I take another breath before kickstarting the engine. The drive to the gym helps to calm me down a little, but behind the lingering anger are nerves. I still don't know if Coach and Hayden will agree to my plan, but I'm about to find out. I park out front and head up the steps, suddenly wishing I'd taken off the makeup, but it's too late for that.

As soon as I'm in the doorway, my eyes land on Nico. He's over in the boxing ring, sparring with one of Hayden's friends, Wiley, and from the exhausted state of his opponent, he's winning. But then Nico looks over. He does a double take, his eyes trailing me with what looks like surprise, and that's all it takes.

Bam, bam, bam. Three shots to the face, and Nico stumbles back, his nose a bloody mess. My heart starts to pound, not because his nose bleeding – that's common in this gym — but because for that brief moment, when he should have been focused on his fight, he was focused on me.

A/N

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