It’s like when me and Chelsea used to play barbie dolls in my bedroom closet. We would dress them up in the best clothes Mama found for us at the Goodwill, set up the perfect scenes, and then put them in the wildest scenarios our brains could think of.
“You gotta smile, kid. Unless you wanna be on Getty Images looking weird,” Ace whispers in my ear while we stand in front of the Ason Williams’ Shooting Stars Gala step and repeat—that’s what the white lady that helped me out of Gus’ backseat called it—a step and repeat.
It ain’t nothing but rich people taking a step, repeating a pose, and doing it again until somebody with an important job whisks them away.
“Please tell me what the fuck a Getty Images is?” I choke out with wide eyes.
He chuckles because rich people are so good at playing make believe that ugly words and potential fights don’t exist when they interact with the outside world. All the bad shit that happened in the truck stayed there with Gus and he locked it away in one of his treasure chests.
“A big ass online database of any picture you can think of—even ones of me and you at Ason Williams’ Shooting Stars Gala.”
“I’m gonna throw up.”
“No, you’re gonna smile. The best perk about the world hating me is that nobody gives a fuck about me and my frowning lil’ lady at my Pops’ gala. Even if she is the first lil’ lady I ever brought to one.”
“I’m really gonna throw up.”
“No, you gon' smile hella big for that camera over there.” He points toward a camera with a blinding flash that knocks the vision out of my eyes for a second.
Those butterflies that had been fluttering in my stomach all night are going extra dumb because they know Ace looks perfect behind me with flushed caramel skin and a modelesque face that’s like a magnet for every camera along this stupid step and repeat.
“I can’t smile,” I grit out.
“Yeah you can…”
“No—”
“What makes you happy?” he asks, talking, smiling, and gripping my middle all at the same time.
His eyes aren’t bloodshot anymore because I found a bottle of Visine conveniently sitting at the bottom of my clutch. I doused his eyes with it after fixing his cufflinks before that white lady opened Gus’ backdoor screeching about a step and repeat.
“Huh?” I choke out.
Somebody stole my Bubble Yum from my backpack and stuck it next to the eyedrops so I bit it in half and gave the other piece to him as soon as our shoes touched the red carpet. Now it’s stale and his unsteady gait is steady again. The flashes from the cameras burn my pupils and I’m sure the makeup Cree piled onto my face will melt before we’re even seated, but these screaming people don’t care and neither does Ace.
“I asked ‘what makes you happy?’” he repeats.
Now I’m too focused on looking weird and being so close to Ace that I feel parts of his body that I shouldn’t, so my mouth tilts into one of those half-smile half-frowns.
“What does that have to do with me looking weird?”
“That’s the trick to producing a genuine smile for good pictures. Talk to me about the shit that makes you happy.” He pushes his lips closer into my ear. “At least that’s what Mom used to make me do.”
“Smile bigger, gorgeous!” a photographer yells. “Take another step this way, guys.”
He waves his hand and shoos us to the side as Coach Williams smiles like an expert next to us.
“Bear claws from Shipley’s… that squeaking noise tennis shoes make in the gym…” I babble back. “Mama’s dancing… uh… Marcus’ gold fronts an—and strawberry cool cups.”
He roars out a deep laugh into my ear.
And him.
The boy that I hate and like at the same time makes me happy.
“Beautiful smile!” another photographer yells. “Scoot in closer to her, Ace!”
He digs his fingers into my hips and steps forward.
