Clothes that I wanted to get back into, so I moved from the tiny hallway into the living room, freezing in my tracks at the devastation before me.
Now, to be fair, no aspect of my apartment is what one would consider luxurious or posh. In fact, it’s pretty much exactly what you would expect for a 1960’s built, 700-square-foot, two-bedroom unit in one of the more colorful neighborhoods of Jersey. But leaky aluminum windows, chipped paint and temperamental furnace aside, I couldusuallyrely on the place to be clean.
Today the small space looked like a fabric store had exploded. Expansive swaths of colorful velvet covered the old blue couch that filled most of the small living room. Piles of pink and red tulle buried our crappy TV, and the faded brown carpet was blanketed with lavender jersey knit. Three dress forms stood at the back of the room, and it felt like the mannequins were somehow judging me. As if they knew of my failure.
“You’re back early,” a chipper voice called from inside the first bedroom. I braced myself as a smiling face framed by an untamed mop of red curls popped out from the room.
As she ran over to greet me, I eyed the half stitched, pink ruffled dress that hung loosely off her curvy frame and the nearly empty package of Oreos clutched tightly in her hand. She tossed the box onto the table and wrapped me in a tight embrace, despite knowing that I was not now, nor would I ever be, a 'hugger.'
Jenn and I were not biological sisters, but we’d been raised together in St. Philomena’s Orphanage until we were eleven and never lost touch as we both spent the next few years bouncing around the foster system. When we turned eighteen, we moved in together and for the last seven years had been practically inseparable.
“Yeah, I’m back,” I mumbled, unable to summon any false cheer.
She pulled away enough to look me in the eye, the previous excitement fading to wary concern.
“It happened again, didn’t it?”
My response lodged itself in my throat. I wanted to say that of course it didn’t happen. This had been the biggest audition of my life so there was no way anything could possibly ruin my chance to play for The Phil. Not even my broken brain.
But there was no point in lying to Jenn. She’d see right through it anyway.
“Yeah,” I whispered, looking away. “It did.”
I tried to stop the tear that formed in the corner of my eye. I hated crying. Hated feeling like a broken toy that never worked quite right. I had been able to keep my emotions in check the entire subway trip home, but here, with Jenn, I couldn’t hold it back anymore. The tear slipped free and rolled down my cheek, the only evidence of how deeply destroyed I felt inside.
Grabbing my arm, Jenn dragged me over to the couch and plopped us down, crushing a stack of fuchsia velvet squares. She leaned back against the faded cushions, drawing my head down to her shoulder.
I don’t know how long we sat there, me letting a few tears escape and her just being… her. My safe space.
“It’s okay,” I said with a shaky resolution. “I’m fine.”
I turned to look at her, mentally preparing myself for the potential onslaught of pity and useless attempts to cheer me up. Instead, I only saw genuine concern on her face.
“You don’t have to be fine, Rain. Not with me.”
She had said those same words so many times, but I never took them to heart. Nobody actually wanted a mess for a sister. As often as people said stuff like, “I’m always here if you need to talk,” or “you can tell me anything,” they didn’t really mean it. Not really. Everybody had their own lives and their own crap to deal with. Nobody, not even Jenn, needed my baggage as well.
“I know,” I said, dismissing her words.
“Do you?”
I looked away, unable to bear the weight of so much concern in her eyes. “Iwillbe fine. Is that better?”
“Rain, this wasn’t like an audition for some chintzy local orchestra. We both know this was your dream. I saw how hard you worked on that video audition. How you squealed when you got the letter for the in-person callback. You don’t go fromsquealing in excitement to the bullshit of 'I’m fine.' We both know you’re not fine, so please just talk to me.”
Crap.
Why did she have to go and say that? I waited for a second and… yep. There it was. That far too familiar anger bubbling up inside me. My natural response to any time someone tugged on my safety blanket of denial that I needed to feel normal.
“What do you want me to say?” I snapped, jumping to my feet and pacing around the room. “Do you want me to say you’re right? That l blew the opportunity of a lifetime? That I’m so completely messed up in the head that I couldn’t overcome my panic attacks long enough for one freaking song that I know better than the sound of my own voice? Are you happy now? Because no, I’m not fine. I will never be fine. People like me don’t get to be fine.”
Jenn cringed at the venom in my voice, and it killed me to see that small sliver of fear in her eyes.
I slumped against the wall beside the couch. “People like me don’t get to have their dreams come true.”
She was silent for a minute, then in the quietest voice, she asked, “People like you? Or people likeus?”
“That’s not what I meant,” I argued.
