CHAPTER23
Dawson
I’m woken by the robotic hum of Cy’s cyber-toned jingle about himself. As soon as the short number is complete, Cy makes an announcement.‘Get ready, housemates, because it’s time to film the finale episode of Time Warp. Please meet in the studio at noon.’
Noon?
The announcement makes me wonder if I slept in. The sun is blasting through the wall of windows and warming the bed, I’m aware of that with my eyes closed. I crack open one eye to see that Brinley never did come home last night.
I’m not shocked, but the fact that she left her cats here concerns me to no end. When I got back last night, I contacted Marsha through the diary room’s iPad, in a panic about Brinley’s whereabouts, but the producer calmly put my worries to rest.‘We know precisely where she is,”the woman assured.‘She’s safe, she’s sound, and she’ll be there for finale day.’
I promised to care for her cats, which is why Muffin is, at this moment, massaging my upper shoulder with a combo of padded paws and micro claws. Moonshine, however, is curled up to my chest, as usual, purring like a broken motorboat. I rub the scruff of his neck.
I suddenly feel a deep and somewhat surprising affinity toward the scruffy animal. “You’re just misunderstood,” I tell him, “aren’t you? Maybe, for you, any attention is good attention, is that it?”
The observation earns me a side-eyed glare and the quick swat of a dagger-edged paw to my face.
“Ouch!” I flinch back and run the back of my hand over my bottom lip and chin. A trace of blood streaks my hand, and I glare down at Moonshine.
“I’m telling your mom you did that,” I threaten, then continue to rub him anyway and watch as he stretches his limbs and flops onto his back. His eyes roll into the back of his head, and the pink tip of his tongue slides sloppily out where a tooth must be missing.
Muffin kneads me some more before standing, stretching, then walking along the side of my body like it’s a balance beam. She meows, then leaps gracefully off the bed, which reminds me it’s time for a trip to the litter box for these two.
I decide to close them up in the cat den and take a much-needed shower. When I pass the bed on my way to the bathroom, I’m struck with a dart of sadness. Come tonight, that bed will be empty. Brinley will go back to hers; I’ll return to mine. We’ll live separate days and separate nights in our separate lives, and I hate it. The sad thing is, there’s nothing I can do to change it.
I’m ninety percent sure that Brinley has already made her choice.
Despite my efforts to calm the jet-powered spray from the showerhead, the pressure feels like it could crack open my skull. I think back on the moment they announced the winner for the docuseries, still unable to believe that Upside Clown actually took the win. I already have a list of proposals from those who’d like to delve into the other labels out there. What’s behind the eyes of a mean girl? What drives the cruel behavior of a bully? The unyielding drive of a jock? Originally, we hesitated using the popular label, class clown, at all; it’s said that labels themselves can be harmful, but since society hasn’t shaken them yet, we hoped to remove the common stigmas surrounding the label instead.
I’m not sure how it will work with the others, but I take comfort in the fact that I’m playing my part. I’m silencing the ego monster enough to expose myself, my craving for attention, and my thirst to be seen. And it’s helping others. It’s actually making a difference.
If only I could dive into the mind of the jaded, elusive artist with her sharp wit, unabashed candor, and her knack for sarcasm.
Suddenly I’m overwhelmed with emotion—maybe it’s the cover of the shower’s stream or the building tension of Time Warp coming to an end. Maybe it’s the acceptance that, even if Brinley rejects me, I’ll have to push on. I’ll have to accept that the one person I want most in this world can’t accept me in return.
I give in to the tears for a time, allowing myself to loosen my death grip on the future I hoped to have with Brinley. I can no more hold onto it than I can the water running down the drain. I recall my parents’ faces as I told them about the second chance show.
In their infinite wisdom, years of solid marriage under their belts, they offered some collective advice, borrowed in part from a Kenny Rogers song.It’s okay to hold firm to your dreams, but you’ve got to know when to fold them too.
As painful as it is, I realize it’s true; I can’t force Brinley’s hand; nor would I want to.
With that, I crank off the faucet, shutting my tears off too, and prepare myself for the finale episode.
* * *
Brinley
An odd silence hovers over the house as I finish getting ready for the day. I apply more makeup than I might have, but that’s mainly to cover the dark circles under my eyes.
I feel as if I’ve aged a lifetime.Grownmight be a better word for it. And heaven knows one can’t grow without a few pains to show for it. But this feels like more than mere growing pains. I ache everywhere when I replay the last five days. I’m particularly struck by the final day though. The moment Dawson and I were on stage; that plea in his eyes.
My insides burn at the recollection. I just couldn’t give in. I knew he was begging me to see past the disturbing news I’d gathered in the hall, but I just couldn’t do it.
And as if somehow knowing that wasn’t enough to walk away from him, I tried convincing myself there was more to hide—perhaps a relationship between him and Buffy he hadn’t owned up to. I took those things and used them to make my escape. It must have felt like déjà vu for Dawson. Me, running away, blaming him in the process.
I’m ashamed of my stubborn heart. I’m angry at my accusing nature.
But I’m encouraged too, because I’m learning. I realize now that I formed some pretty big opinions at a young age. I fostered a certain narrative based on my experience with my dad. I looked at each experience that followed through that narrow lens, not allowing for anything that might challenge, stretch, or even disprove that narrative altogether.
