After sitting for Ash and Ginger to do my hair and makeup, I take the dress into the bathroom as Irina retreads the floor I’d paced just hours ago.
As I’m shimmying out of my jeans, a piece of paper falls to the ground. Sierra. After getting the date today with Henry, I completely forgot that not only did I see my best friend today, but she shoved a note into the pocket of my jeans. I’m struck with the absolute bizarreness of my current life. One day this will all feel like a surreal dream.
I open the letter with my name scribbled across the top in Sierra’s curling handwriting.
Cin,
I have about a thousand and one questions and since this is a letter instead of a text thread and you can’t give me the gratification of an immediate response, I’ll just tell you what I think you need to hear and save my questions for later.
I don’t know how or why you landed on this show—I mean, Erica, obvi, but you know what I mean. However, I do know this: If you’re going to be there, you have to let yourself stand in the spotlight. Don’t be meek or shy. You tried that sophomore year and it didn’t work out so well. Remember? Julian and Elise took all the credit for your big group project. Be the Cindy I know, and stop doing this halfway. Be a showstopper. I can see your little brain going into overdrive every time you’re on camera. It’s the overthinking tailspin I know and love. But you’ve gotta trust yourself. It’s what I’ve been telling you all year. You’ve made it this far in one piece, right? You’re there for a reason…
I love you.
xoS
PS: I definitely added “My BFF is Cindy onBefore Midnight”to my Twitter bio.
The roller-coaster ride my stomach has been on all afternoon settles as I hear her voice in my head.You’re there for a reason…That’s not something I can easily wrap my head around, and yet it does feel like there is some sort of unknown purpose for me being here. Whether it’s Henry or getting my name out there or maybe even getting back into some kind of creative groove. I don’t know….
Trust yourself. I can practically hear Sierra’s voice in my head. I look into the mirror and find my face totally made up and my hair swept into a bun with soft tendrils hanging down and a thin black choker adding just a touch of edge to the look.Let’s do this.
After getting fully undressed and putting on a strapless bra and an undergarment to save my thighs from chub rub, I slip the dress over my head. So far so good.
“Irina? Beck? Someone?” I call. “Zip me up?”
Beck lets herself into the bathroom, and I hold my arm up so she can access the side zip. “Irina’s coming to help too. I’m sort of scared to even touch the thing, if I’m being honest.”
I laugh. “Try wearing it.”
Irina shoulders her way past Beck and goes right for the zipper.
I nearly hold my breath, but you wanna know what? Screw it. If I have to literally stop breathing to get into this Dolce & Gabbana dress, then D&G doesn’t have the good fortune of gracing my body. I have no intention of suffocating all night.
“These damn zippers,” Irina grunts. She mutters something in Russian that I’m pretty sure equates to some kind of curse, but either I block it out, or the sound of the zipper sliding up distracts me.
“Am I in?” I ask. “Does it fit?”
Irina lets out a low whistle. “Like it was made for you.”
I take a quick look in the mirror. This fat girl looks like a damn princess.
“One final touch,” says Irina as she rushes back to the bedroom and returns with a white shoe box,JIMMY CHOOembossed across the top in gold. She opens the box to reveal the most decadent shoes I’ve ever seen. “On. Loan,” she says emphatically.
The pointy-toe stilettos are encrusted with Swarovski crystals that cluster together at the toe to create an incredible burst of crystals. They are glass slippers in the truest sense. These are the shoes of my dreams, and if I can only wear them for one night, I better make it count.
Well, I’ve never been on a date with three hair/makeup/wardrobe people, a sound engineer, and a few producers, but I guess there’s a first time for everything.
While we’re waiting outside the hotel for the car, it’s pouring.
“I need an ETA on the car!” Beck barks into the phone. “I don’t care about the rain or how gridlocked Forty-Fifth Street is. I need our—You know what? Never mind.”
“Uh, we’re not walking in this, are we?”
“Taxi!” Beck shouts. “I need a taxi!”
The valet dutifully runs out to the curb and calls over the next cab waiting in line for hotel guests. A bright orange minivan with an ad for Olive Garden on the roof pulls up.
“Your chariot, ladies!” the valet says as he escorts us to the car under the protection of his umbrella.
