Page 22 of Don't Tell Me How It Ends
Exhausted by my morbid line of incessant questioning, my mom eventually decided it was safer to keep me awake than risk me falling back into another nightmare and beginning the whole mess again. She’d sit me in front of cartoon marathons and pray the vibrant lights and colors would chase away the bad guys in my mind.
It never worked. I didn’t want a distraction, I wanted to be prepared for the things nobody else wanted to talk about. It wasn’t until I graduated from Disney toDatelinethat I actually found a little peace. Say what you will about being a true crimeaddict, but for a kid who grew up afraid of the boogeyman, it was basically survival research.
Now, my antennae remain firmly up at all times, which is why as soon as I step into the hallway on Saturday morning, I already sense trouble.
“Uh, morning?” I say, when Zola and Mom fail to notice my arrival in the dining room.
Mom turns to greet me, the angle of her body bringing the scene behind her into full view. Apparently where I used to start the day early to avoid nightmares, today I’ve left the safety of my bed and stumbled straight into the waking kind.
“What the…?” I say, horrified. “Zo. No.”
“It’s too late,” Zola says without looking up from her seat at the head of the table. She pauses shuffling crisp pink papers just long enough to turn a small stack toward me. “You can’t back out now. I already mocked up the logo.”
XO by Zo.Okay, that’s kind of adorable.
“But did you also rob a Staples” I ask. And then, ignoring the alarm bells telling me to run, I hear myself say, “What is all this?”
That’s all the invitation Zola needs. She nods once, and Mom reaches for my shoulders. Ushering me toward my seat, like a lamb to the slaughter.
“Welcome,” Zola says dramatically, “to the first day of the rest of your life.”
She opens her arms to frame the table as I take it in. I never knew a few manila folders could be so ominous.
Mom retrieves a plate of assorted baked goods and a take-out carafe of black coffee from the kitchen island at my back. I haven’t had a chance to properly discern the hierarchy of Zola’s makeshift enterprise, but Mom’s vibe is givingentry-level.The anti–Tina Knowles.
I break off a chunk of a blueberry muffin, before abandoning it on the center tray in favor of a pain au chocolat. How theymanaged to pull all this together after I passed out last night is beyond me, but clearly, they’ve been busy. If this was happening to anyone else, I’d almost be impressed.Almost.
“Kaia,” Zola starts, with a shit-eating grin plastered on her pretty little face. “You are about to embark on a transformative journey that will change the very course of your life. When this is all said and done, I’m confident you’ll be a new woman. Perhaps even a woman in love.”
Zola’s doing entirely too much, but I thaw a bit when Mom lets out a little squeak and squeezes my hand.
Zo continues her pitch, which I imagine is similar to what it’d be like to be sold a dilapidated time-share in nowhere Idaho or a wood-paneled station wagon without an engine.
“With our limited time frame,” she says, pointing down at her belly, “I’ve designed an expedited membership package. A two-month commitment, with targeted coaching and three perfect matches I’ll be personally selecting to…break through all that,” she says, pointing this time to my face, frozen mid-snarl.
When Zola wraps up her introduction, Mom walks me through a more detailed timeline. It all starts with that thirty-six-step questionnaire Zola showed us the other night. Based on my answers to those prompts, she’ll take two weeks to find suitable contenders.
“Before you meet the guys,” Mom explains, taking the reins, “you’ll get to look at their completed questionnaires, and they get to read yours too. You’ll meet one of our bachelors each week, on a date that we’ll plan especially for you. Isn’t this great?”
Mom hasn’t used this tone on me since she tried to convince me to give a speech at her second wedding to a near stranger. She’s handling me, but she’s also smiling.Reallysmiling.
Still, I’ve got to ask: “And if I hate them?”
“Typical,” Zola says, making a note in what must bemy file.
I sit a little taller in my chair to get a peek inside, but I catch myself before Zola and Mom notice. That slipup would’ve indicated interest—a weakness I can’t afford against this united front.
I abandon my curiosity, narrowing my eyes instead. “It’s a valid question.”
Mom steps in to diffuse the tension. “Let’s just cross that bridge when we come to it.”
Zola reclaims the stage. “I need a shiny, happy success story to hard launch this thing. And what’s shinier and happier than this face?” she says, squeezing my puff pastry–stuffed cheeks.
“Zo.” I don’t waste time pretending not to beg. “I’ll find you better faces. There are a lot of thirsty girls home for the summer.”
She waves the suggestion away with a literal flick of her hand. “This isn’t like your apps. Do you know how long it takes to vet quality clients? Background checks, online sweeps—I don’t have time for all that. Ideally the first pairing will be locked in before the launch party.”
“The launch party?” I say, but Zola’s words are coming too fast and furious for her to register the question.
