My parents both shoot me a glare, and I shrink into myself. The pressure to perform socially is hard enough, and in their eyes, everything I say is wrong. The situation doesn’t improve when Mr. Venturi studies me, swirling the drink in his hand.
“You know, Gabi,” he deadpans. “They say Van Gogh couldn’t hear criticism.”
I stare at him blankly, failing to read the emotion on his face. That panicky feeling in my chest spreads as I try to think of an appropriate response. The seconds tick by, and I know it’s already been too long. My mask is starting to slip.
“Because of his ear.” He smiles.
It takes me a moment to register that he’s joking. Sometimes it’s hard to tell—especially if I’m not familiar with someone’s tone or expressions.
“Oh, right.” I laugh awkwardly.
“That’s hilarious.” Mom smacks her gum and slaps Michael on the leg. “Isn’t it, honey?”
Michael’s brows knit together as he nods, and I’m fairly certain neither of them understood the joke. But I’m not about to point that out.
The room falls into uncomfortable silence until finally, Riccardo arrives. My future husband is a cousin of the Vitales, but he wasn’t blessed with the same god-like genetics. Everything about him is average—from his height to his physique. His hair is a mousy-brown color, and his eyes are usually bloodshot. Tonight, he reeks of alcohol, and one of his shirt tails hangs askew from his pants.
“Hey, Gabi.” He tosses me a wink before he spares my parents a glance. “Are we ready to get this party started?”
“Riccardo.” His mother hisses. “Tuck in your shirt.”
He stuffs his hand into his pants, letting it linger there as he raises a brow at me. If this were a National Geographic episode, I suspect they might describe this as the strange mating display of a peacock. Rather than feathers, Riccardo wants me to know he does, in fact, have a penis.
Nobody acknowledges his behavior, but Mrs. Venturi rushes us to the dinner table before it’s even announced.
I have the misfortune of being seated next to Riccardo, and he stares at me throughout the entire first course. At one point, he shifts closer, and I nearly choke on the perfume wafting from his clothes. When I steal a glance at his shirt, I also notice a lipstick stain smudged against his collar. Apparently, he’s been practicing his mating behavior with some other poor soul.
“You look hot tonight.” He leans in, breathing down my neck.
In an effort to avert my gaze, I cast it downward, only to regret it when I see him adjusting the erection in his trousers.
I feel like I want to vomit, and this dinner can’t end soon enough. By the time the second course is served, he’s already downed three glasses of vodka.
His mother gestures for the butler and whispers something in his ear, and I suspect he starts serving Riccardo water after that.
“Gabriela, why don’t you tell us about your final year of school?” Mrs. Venturi suggests.
I shift in my chair, tension winding its way through my body as everyone stares at me. Design is a special interest of mine, and admittedly, I could talk about it all night. But I know most people don’t actually want to hear all the details, and what they really expect is a summary. I do better when I have a chance to mentally prepare my answers, but I try to keep it simple.
“It’s my capstone year, so I’m working on my senior collection.”
“Interesting.” Mrs. Venturi nods politely. “And what does that entail exactly?”
“Well, I’ll need to design an original fashion collection and present it in a runway show before the end of the year.”
“Oh, that sounds fun. I’d love to see what you come up with.”
“You must be taking a light course load,” Mr. Venturi remarks. “Remind me again, you’re in your sixth year?”
“I am. I’ll graduate when I’m twenty-four, but this is a sustainable pace for me.”
I leave out the fact that I vacillate between hyperfocus and burnout because my parents would be angry if I mentioned it. But I struggle with perfectionism and overwhelm, especially in a class setting where external factors are beyond my control. Having a lighter course load makes everything more manageable, and I’ve been able to adapt my schedule to accommodate my delayed sleep phase cycle.
“And what about the business side of things?” Mr. Venturi asks. “Do they teach you that as well?”
“Yes, actually. Part of this year’s project is creating a business plan and pitching it. We also study pricing, retail strategy, and supply chain logistics?—”
“What’s wrong with this steak?” Riccardo picks it up with his fingers and slaps it against the plate. “It tastes like shoe leather.”
