“To some people, sure,” I reply vaguely, wondering where this is going. I sense something beyond just a motherly discussion of my future career. Anyway, engineering and coding are all fine and dandy. Careers to further technology, to help people live longer, safer, better lives is great. But art is the reason for living those longer, safer, better lives, right? Books, movies, theater, music, video games. Somebody has to make that stuff, too.
“Tech jobs can be very lucrative,” Tess continues, dragging this awkward conversation even further. She picks up an additional two dresses that I hope are for her and not for me. I decide I better pick something out—and I better do it quick or I’m leaving with an oatmeal-colored nun’s habit.
I spot a sparkly black dress on a mannequin and make an immediate beeline for it. It’s pretty much the only thing in this store that I don’t actively despise.
“Could I see this one, please?” I ask, pointing up at it as I pause beside an associate. It seems to be the only one of its kind in the store. She tells me the size to see if I think it’ll fit, and I nod. Tess catches up to me as the employee finishes getting it down.
“Looks like a dress fit for a nightclub,” she says which could be an insult … or not? Hard to say with her. I glance Tess’ way and try something I practiced several times on the plane. I absorb her profile, the shape of her lips, the glimmer in her eyes, and I repeat the word Mom to myself inside my head. Just over and over and over again to see if it’ll stick. “That won’t work for—”
She pauses again and then turns to me as the associate looks between us questioningly.
“Start a fitting room, please,” Tess tells her, handing over the clothes draped over her left arm. Grr. See, I knew they were for me. I despair at the idea of putting on a fashion show for Tess, my mind straying back to a shirtless Parrish and the milk lifted to his pouty mouth. I almost smile as I think about inviting him to play games with me again tonight. That’d be fun, right? Having a gaming buddy just across the hall. “Dakota?” Tess says, as if she’s repeating my name for the dozenth time.
I blink at her, trying to feel some hope that she’s used my actual name for once. Does it sound like grated bits of metal scraping over her teeth? Sure it does. But that’s okay. Rome wasn’t built in a day.
“I’ve accepted an invitation to a talk show,” Tess tells me frankly, and my heart plummets to the bottom of my stomach, shattering to jagged pieces of glass. I give her what must be a look of pure hurt because she seems taken aback. “It’s for next weekend, for the Martina Cortez Show.”
The Martina Cortez Show. Great. Ten years as the number one talk show in the world. That’s … just fantastic.
“Okay,” I say blandly, because I’m not stupid. I remember the conversation from the limo, of Tess shushing Paul when he mentioned something about a talk show. “What does that have to do with me?”
I turn away and head for the dressing room as quickly as I can, doing my best to ignore Tess’ tan kitten heels clacking on the floor as she follows. Stepping inside, I slam and lock the door behind me while Tess waits outside.
“Dakota, hear me out,” she continues, and then I see her start to pace on the other side of the door. “Getting our story out there is important.”
“Important for who?” I ask, undoing the straps on my jumper and kicking off my heels. I leave all the items on the floor as I tear my long-sleeved shirt over my head and grab the sparkly black dress. Sorry, Tess, but I am not wearing oatmeal or camel hair or sheep’s wool or whatever ridiculous name for beige the world has come up with now.
The dress slips easily over my head, but it’s a bit tight in the boob area. I love my boobs, to be honest, but I hate that I can never fit them into anything. Still, once I adjust the dress just right, it looks pretty good. A bit short in the front, a bit flashier than something I’d usually wear, but if Tess really wants to buy me a fancy outfit from this horrible store, then I pick this.
“Important for the world,” Tess says, which is ridiculous. “You were stolen from me. Don’t you think other mothers might be out there, wondering where their children are? We could give them hope.”
I open the door to look at her and she gives the dress a raised brow.
“Don’t pretend like going on this talk show is about helping others. It’s about helping you and your non-artistic book career that’s ‘just a job’.” I make quotes with my fingers and Tess’ mouth turns down in a sharp frown. We’re like oil and water, me and this woman. I might be of her, but I am nothing like her.
