Total pages in book: 187
Estimated words: 188957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 945(@200wpm)___ 756(@250wpm)___ 630(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 188957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 945(@200wpm)___ 756(@250wpm)___ 630(@300wpm)
But because I have told him this much, I go ahead and tell him everything.
“Because she never wanted me there. She never wanted me anywhere. Not at her shoots or award ceremonies. She’d only take me to interviews if she knew it would get her the front page or the ratings or whatever. She never wanted me at her charity functions, or on her vacations that she took with her friends or boyfriends. And I’d try so hard to impress her, you know? To do things that would make her wanna be around me. So I’d participate in like, school plays or art competitions. Why did I think she’d be impressed by art competitions, I don’t know. School plays I understand. I mean she was an actress but art competitions? Anyway, I did them nonetheless. I also learned everything about makeup and hair because those were her favorite things. I’d paint my nails the exact same color as hers. Wear the same style clothes and shoes so we could have something in common. I even learned to make clothes.”
I chuckle. “Yeah, I did. Can you believe that? I was always so fascinated with her costume fittings and all these designers who would hang out at our apartment, using her as a model to design new clothing lines. And so one day I just started doing these little sketches in my notebook. I always hated homework, right? Anything to get out of doing it or studying. So I’d spend hours doing these little sketches of dresses instead of completing worksheets. I’d think of colors and fabrics and whatnot. And then one day I just grabbed a few of my clothes and started cutting them up, mixing and matching fabrics and then sewing them up. And just like that I made a skirt for myself. Of course it was silly. I mean, I was what, ten? Or something. My mom saw it and said it was hideous. So I just threw it away.
“But can I tell you a secret? I really didn’t. I kept it. Because I loved it so much. Even though it was shoddy work. But that was the first thing I remember loving to that degree. And since then, I’ve made sure to hide everything that I ever made. I even hide it from myself, if that makes sense. Because I didn’t wanna give her any more reasons not to love me.”
And then I blink.
Because I realize that I’d gone into a trance. A sort of hypnosis.
But now I’m back.
In reality and into myself.
I told him everything.
Every fucking thing that there is to know about me.
About my mom. About my thing.
My thing.
I told him about my thing.
Holy God.
What did I do? What the fuck did I do?
I’ve never told this to anyone. I barely acknowledge it to myself.
I barely, barely think about it even. Think about the fact that most of my notebooks and textbooks are filled with little sketches of dress designs. Mock-ups of colorful skirts with tiny little notation marks about the fabric and stitching. Things I learned from Charlie’s designer friends.
Not to mention, I barely give it a thought that I browse through thrift stores, looking for clothes and fabrics to buy that I can later cut up and make into pretty dresses.
But now he knows.
Him, of all people.
And why? Because he asked.
Because he barely showed an interest and I blurted out my entire life story.
What the fuck, Poe?
What did you do?
“You make clothes.”
His voice makes me jerk up my head and I find him standing up straight now, pushed away from the door and his arms unfolded.
“I want to leave,” I tell him.
Yes because I need to regroup and think about what I just did.
“You sketch dress designs,” he says, this time taking a step toward me.
I shake my head and move back. “I just want to leave, okay? Can I leave?”
“And you hide the clothes that you make.”
Oh my God.
Oh my fucking God.
I keep backing away until my ass hits something, the chair, and I blurt out, “What are the chances of you potentially forgetting what I just said?”
His response is to take my breath away.
Because one second, he’s standing at the door, slowly approaching me and the next, he’s here.
Where I am.
He’s standing right in front of me and I don’t even know how he got here. How he moved so fast and how is it that I’m staring up at him, my neck craned, my hands gripping the back of the chair and my backpack lying on the floor.
“You hide the clothes you make,” he says again as if that’s the most objectionable piece of information in all of this.
“I did. Before. But not anymore,” I answer despite myself.
It’s his tone, I think. Also his eyes.
It’s the look in them.
All harsh and liquid somehow.