Samantha
"And that's when I learned: my self-worth came from within. Not from seeking validation from others," the tall woman on stage concluded, earning a round of applause. She oozed grace and confidence, the peach dress flowing over her toned legs.
When I received the invitation card from Social Bubble, I had bawled from excitement. An interview at their Mental Health panel? Apparently, many organizations had taken my webcam disaster as a serious matter, (especially after the reason why I was afraid of the dark had come out). So, they wanted to hear my story. I was given a chance to finally be seen.
The last two weeks, I'd rehearsed and rehearsed in front of the mirror. So many people would be watching. Filming live. My story would be up online for all of eternity.
This. Could change. My life.
I spent my last couple of hundred bucks on a yellow summer dress. Brown, high-heel sandals. Hip pads, of course. The skirt was a little too tight to go without curves. I even got honey highlights in my hair and powdered a peachy blush on my cheeks. To look lively.
The convention hall was made of glass, reaching the clear blue sky. Thousands of chatters echoed up the high ceiling. My skin buzzed with nerves. At least the massive size of the building would lower my chances of running into Ashton. He'd be here for Luka, after all.
Thankfully, Luka's dance studio was on the other end and we were supposed to start at the same time. His class was meant to last an hour, my interview only fifteen minutes. So, Cara would be at my interview, then the two of us would go support Luka.
And in the event I ran into Ashton, I'd just say... hello. Very civil. You know, nonchalant.
While I was dreading and wishing to see him again, the makeup studio was chaos. Every influencer soon to be on stage was seated in front of a vanity mirror, being perfected. Luka was mouthing the choreography steps while a lady sprayed his blonde hair. Cara, the intimidating woman in a sleeveless turtleneck and chained cargo pants, was glaring at her. Luka being Luka, poked her waist and winked knowingly. Which made Cara melt, though she'd never admit it.
"What do you need, hon?" A makeup artist asked me.
"Oh! Um..." I glanced at myself. "I'm really... not sure? What do you recommend?"
She gave me a warm smile and grabbed my arm, pulling me onto an empty stool. She observed my hair and makeup, concluded I only needed a brief touchup, and started to powder my nose. In the midst of it, the last voice I'd ever wanted to hear now, broke out behind me.
"Please, I'm like the most popular influencer here. Why would you doubt me?"
Stacy. I'd recognize that snarky tone everywhere.
"Because you look like one of those hookers at cheap gas stations who sell their body for meth." An even more snarky, older woman's voice made my eyes bulge. "You're so dehydrated. Come on, your skin is all saggy. Don't you know people here know you're my daughter?"
Oh my God. Stacy's mother.
"That's our host..." The makeup artist chuckled sarcastically, rubbing my nose faster. "Don't be scared, sweetie. She only talks like that to her."
"What?" I whispered. "But that's so mean..."
"Sam?" Stacy called behind me, making me dreadfully turn. Oh, crap. She looked stunning in a red, floor-length dress. I felt like a caked up lemon now.
"Hi, Stacy." Maybe if I smiled politely, she'd mirror it back.
"Are you here to promote your webcam business or something?"
I was wrong.
"You're the girl I'm interviewing soon." Her mom smiled slowly in recognition.
"Aw, give her a lot of attention, mom. This is a big day for her," Stacy cooed. "Little Sam has been trying forever to be under the spotlight. She finally made it after stripping for old creeps."
The makeup artist scoffed next to me while my jaw dropped to the floor. But I had no chance to even recover before her mom exploded next.
"I wouldn't make fun of a woman for being driven, sweetheart. It's better than living off of me like a leech, then marrying a loser who's dumb enough to provide for you." She laughed, rolling her eyes at me as if we were neighbors sharing gossip. "Kids. Give them everything, they say. No one warns it'll bite you in the ass later."
"I'm so looking forward to that interview." I forced a smile, begging for a miracle to end this nightmare. That miracle appeared in the form of Cara walking up to me. "Oh, God, I love you so much."
"What?" she asked confusedly, letting me drag her as far away as possible.
"I just witnessed Stacy getting bullied," I whispered in her ear. "By her mom."
"Serves her right," she cackled.
I snuck a peek over my shoulder in their direction. Stacy was clutching the armrests of her seat, spaced out at nothing in front of her. Though her profile was tense with frustration, I couldn't help but notice the edges of her lips being pulled down. She looked all alone despite being surrounded by people. And in that moment, I'd never related to her more.
Luka met us by the door and the three of us hugged before separating. The interview room was dark like a movie theater, with overhead lights pointed on a raised platform. A wooden podium on the right, and two couches on the left where Stacy's mom was adjusting her microphone.
Rows and rows of chairs organized the audience. Buzzing with anticipation. Smartphones out in the air, already capturing the moment. A few production cameras on wheeled tripods were being whirled left and right. Damn. I almost felt like a celebrity.
"Good luck. Kick ass. Don't let anyone bring you down." Cara squeezed my shoulders behind the side curtain as Stacy's mom announced my entrance. Then I stepped out in front of everyone. The crowd applauded politely.
I took my seat with tight legs and an equally tight smile.
"Hi, it's such a pleasure to meet you." Stacy's mom flashed a polished smile like a trustworthy legal advisor. "Why don't you tell us a little about what brought you here today?"
Just like the email had described. I word-vomited my quick introduction: how I was an aspiring influencer making healthy lifestyle content, and had been invited to speak of my recent issue of being trapped in a webcam live video, while assuming it was a regular photoshoot.
"And this was specifically tragic because you were forced into blindfolds," she summarized with an apologetic tone, making my shoulders sink a little.
"Yeah, I have an intense fear of the dark..." I should've said yes, not yeah. Why didn't I—
"Tell us more about that."
Of course, I was here to share my trauma. My mouth dry like I had swallowed a spoonful of dust, I flitted my gaze over the audience, whose faces were lost in the dark. Only the outline of their hair and shoulders. Faceless people, paying attention to my every word. This was good, right?
But as I revealed the reason why, with my voice shaking, I felt myself shrink instead of feeling empowered. Unlike the intimacy, the connection I shared with Ashton. When I'd told him the same story while we sat on the itchy couch in that cramped up house in a desert. The tender way he'd looked at me. The soft brush of his knuckles on my cheek. His affectionate murmurs.
"... round of applause, thank you for being so brave and sharing with us." Stacy's mom broke me out of my thoughts. I hadn't realized the whole room was applauding.
"Thank you." I masked a ghost of a smile. Wow. This was... unfulfilling.
"Forgive me if this is too soon, but is it also true, that this unfortunate incident ended the romantic relationship with your special someone?" she pinned me with curious eyes.
"Well, y-yeah. Yes, it did..." It was a huge, terrible mistake to look at the crowd. Because immediately, as if my body sensed before my mind, my gaze shot across the room at the open door. Where a familiar, masculine figure towered in a wide stance, staring right back.
Ashton.
He was here.
Why. Why was he here? My pulse spiked to the red zone. Close to a full-blown panic. Breathe, breathe, breathe. You knew he'd be in the building. You knew this was a possibility—
"...so sorry to hear that," Stacy's mom said. "So tell me, how do you feel today?"
Jesus, what a question to ask when he was watching. As a mental health representative, a resilient girl who'd overcome adversities, I was supposed to say I was feeling great. That despite the pain and turmoil, I had come out a stronger person. I was supposed to say how eating fruits and veggies helped to maintain a healthy balance. Hormones. Immune system. All that jazz. Yoga. Meditation. Positive thinking. Ha! Head held high. Sure, sure. A bright, convincing smile—
What was I doing?
"I feel terrible," I said. My heart burst screaming that I'd regret this, but it was too late to stop.
"Talk to us, we're listening," she urged me on.
"I don't think I deserve to be here." My voice came out surprised. Like pieces of a long-unresolved puzzle were coming together before my eyes. "I don't deserve to be here."
"Of course, you deserve it! You should be so proud. We're proud."
"No, you're not." I chuckled. "Come on, you called your daughter a meth-addicted prostitute." The audience gasped in unison. "You called her a leech."
She looked like I had slapped her across the face. From the front row, Stacy choked on a satisfied laugh. Cara behind the curtain cheered. Cameras snapped pictures with flashing lights.
"That was a private conversation." Stacy's mom recovered, putting her hand up. "Let's get back to our interview—"
"How was it private? My makeup artist almost stabbed my eye when she heard you yell," I interrupted. A few people in the audience chuckled. "I got PTSD flashbacks from my mom just by listening to you. I think I'm still twitching a little."
I mean, if people like Stacy could get bullied, then something was universally wrong with these moms. Right? Because Stacy had everything. With her looks and confidence, yet we ended up on the same boat. So... what the was the point? I bet Stacy's mom had also been bullied. I bet my mom had been bullied. We'd just been passing the bullying around, accepting it as facts!
"I think we're done here." She removed her headset, refusing to make eye-contact.
"And by the way!" I turned to the audience, some of which were standing to leave. "I faked my whole relationship! Yeah, that handsome bartender you saw on my Instagram? All fake."
"You're digging your own grave," Stacy's mom murmured before rushing off stage.
I removed my headset as well. Security was probably on its way to escort me out. Heck. Go big or go home. I'd probably never see anyone here again. This was... invigorating.
"I have hip dips!" I stood up with open arms. "Screw the hourglass figure. I look like a straight tube of toothpaste and I'm proud of it!"
"Samantha!" Ashton snapped like a long lost daddy, reaching over the raised platform with an open palm. "Get down from there. Now!"
"Wait, I'm still performing," I mumbled, snaking my hands as discretely as possible under my dress. He yelled in horror for me to stop, but I was already slipping my hip pad shorts down my thighs until they pooled at my ankles. I picked them up with one finger. "Here's the truth, folks!"
Ashton stormed in front of me, muttering under his breath, "That's enough." Then picked me up under his arm like a textbook and hauled me down the stairs.
"I also have boobs!" I yelled for anyone still willing to hear. "Very nice boobs! And big eyes! So like, they're super cute when I do my makeup. Not to mention..." I cupped my mouth for Luka across the hall. "I have the greatest friends in the world! And I'm funny. And I'm kinky in bed. This guy can tell ya. I don't just spread open like a starfish, ya know. I contribute!"
~A/N~
Looks like Sam finally came out of her shell xD Are we proud or embarrassed? Both?