Une Fleure Fanée

Week 4 Part 6 (Saturday)

     Our hysteria has worn off, and we are allowed a small amount of caffeine. I get the lowest calorie-dense thing on Starbucks in the lowest size that has a flavor, which is an eight-ounce cinnamon dolce frappuccino with a light whipped cream and light cinnamon dolce sprinkles to avoid suspicion. 190 calories. Only drink half. Save the rest for throughout the competition, Lilliana.

     Ms. Abby is very tired, saving her happiness and energy for the fans and the cameras. The moms are falling asleep over each other. The kids are high on caffeine, including me. For once, I don't feel bad or guilty for eating. Because it makes me feel normal and like I fit in. But I know that's a one-time thing. Food is bad. Coffee is bad. Coffee is probably going on my list of foods I can't eat, along with ham and cheese sandwiches. I know the list will grow.

     Everybody's cheering for us. I don't deserve it. Everybody thinks I'm a tiny star dancer. I'm just a horrible dancer and a fat slut. But I have to mask my feelings and smile. Because nobody knows. Nobody will ever know. Maybe Brady will know; he's been on my trail a bit lately.

     This time, he sits with Pressley and they are watching a scary movie, but I can feel his eyes lingering on me every now and then. You're just baggage, Lilliana. He has to worry about you instead of living your life.

      The dressing room is really pretty. I hope all the yelling that I know is going to happen won't ruin it. Brady's mom is feeling a lot better today than yesterday. But my Mom has to ruin it. Brady and Pressley have gotten changed already for their duet when Mom starts to interrogate about yesterday.

     "Was it the part of the dance that got switched in his benefit? Like, what part of the day was rough?" Mom asks.

      I understand that Mom is a therapist, but being a therapist doesn't mean that you constantly have to figure out people's problems. That can get on people's nerves. It gets on mine whenever she wants to investigate me. Knowing that a fight will ensue, I look at Brady telling him with my eyes that it was gonna be okay. He starts organizing the makeup, as do I, both of us trying to ignore the yelling.

     "What is that I'm ever going to be able to do for you to get off my back? Please tell me what it is. Please, say it," Brady's mom asks the cameramen, knowing that she has to stir up drama, eventually coming up with something.

     "You want me to be like 'Oh no, don't put him in the center of the dance.' I like that he's the center of the dance," Brady's mom begins to fake rant before Ms. Abby stops them.

     Having a feeling that this is going to be messy, I go ahead and take my Venlafaxine pill. It's 7:30. That means that in the last half-hour of the competition, I would be unmedicated totally. Normally, competitions don't last this long. They may be grueling hours, because the cameras may stretch the hours to ten, maybe twelve. But cameras are on us for thirteen hours. One hour is 60 minutes. The camera will be on us for an extra 60 minutes.

     It doesn't seem like a long time, but it is. There is so much pressure and fear of what they're going to air and what they're not. I'm pretty sure they're going to air my panic attack from two weeks ago. Mom talked to the producers and convinced them not to let my eating disorder story that I shared with everybody in Week One air, but they need some drama.

      "Woah woah woah. Woah woah. What is going on in here?" Ms. Abby asks the moms, me leaving the room to get changed for the costumes for the duet, disappointed when the changing rooms are close enough to the dressing room that I can hear nearly every single word.

     "Everyone is upset because your delivery to Brady is really nice. It's hard, as a mom, to sit and watch you harp on a child over and over and over again," Hannah's mom explains.