Page 4 of Ruby
As I scroll through, obsessively moving through until the end, my stomach feels tighter and tighter. Most of the negative comments are about my body, of course. Then my terrible acting skills.
And of course that I’m a whore.
It’s intermixed with the usual offers of marriage, professions of undying love, stalker-style comments, and altered images and movies that make me look idiotic.
Another comment pops up, this time expounding on how I don’t deserve Shane and I’m only using him to increase my platform.
That one makes me laugh.
He has a small fraction of my base and all I’ve gained from him are comments like that one. Meanwhile, his following has tripled since I started dating him last week.
I never respond to comments. I wish I could make myself ignore them completely.
I’m interrupted from thinking of ways to manage this stupid addiction by a call from the Witch. I briefly consider ignoring her, but it isn’t worth the hassle.
“Hello, Mother.”
“Have you heard back?” she asks me, her voice harsh after her many years of smoking.
“No.”
She snorts. “I know someone. I’ll get you set up to go on a date.”
My heart sinks. “I don’t want to—”
“You will go, Anichka.”
“Whatever. Fine,” I say, annoyed.
“You aren’t scowling right now are you? I can hear it in your voice,” she accuses.
“You know my face doesn’t move that way anymore, Mother. You insisted I looked old in the last film. So I turned into stone. Remember?”
“Don’t talk back to me,straya korova,” she hisses.
I take in a slow breath to keep myself from hanging up. It would only make it worse. I used to be an “ungrateful cow.” When did her standby pot shot become “old cow”?
I swallow down the sting of the new insult, along with any words I might say back.
“Did you read the article about that new procedure?” she asks, tone back to neutral like nothing just happened.
“Yes,” I tell her, tone clipped.
I didn’t.
I try to think of ways to reroute her and think back to my promise to be more open with my feelings. Dread tightens my throat and my stomach aches at the idea of telling her I don’t want to do something. Maybe I can just share about the past instead.
“Do you remember when I was thirteen,” I say. “That first director?”
“We are not talking about this again, Anichka. No one gets to the top by looking backward.”
I open my mouth to respond, but no one is on the other side of the call.
Only one person in this relationship can exit a conversation like that without repercussions. It sure as hell isn’t me.
I don’t know how she can still be deluded that I’ll ever reach the top. I’m mid-list, at best.
I spend an hour reading the article she sent and researching, then looking up more reliable sources. According to several respectable journals, it’s a terrible idea. There’s a long list of side-effects, some of them pretty horrific.
