Lena:You go girl! *dancing emoji*
Aidan:I’m hung up at a networking mixer for a few hours today, but are you free tomorrow for lunch? Let’s say 1 at Crumbs and Coffee
Chris:Stay home today. We’ll discuss this photo tomorrow.
Mom:Char, did you break up with Aidan?
Out of all the messages, my mother’s words just about send me over a giant cliff. Uncontrollable laughter bubbles up inside of me. It takes a few minutes to settle down from the full-body giggles that have taken over me. When the giggles turn into tears, that’s when it becomes real…
“I am losing it.”
On instinct, I call for her, touching my necklace, waiting for the glow and the chant that follows.
“Ghosty, for once, please show up when I need you.”
And never in my life have I begged for someone to show up like this, but desperate times…
The windows burst open and a sigh of relief washes over me. In a sparkly new outfit, she materializes right in front of me. Ghosty is wearing an aquamarine dress that screams glitz and glamour.
“Look who is on the other side of the headline. I knew you could do it.”
She’s smirking, almost satisfied by my state. I clear my throat and continue to grab my laptop from my desk.
“What? I’m impressed. You surprised me.”
She elevates her voice as she follows me. All I can seem to do is analyze every inch of this photo, sizing up “Mystery Girl.”
My hair is pulled back in a high ponytail. I’m wearing a black bodysuit with a cheetah print maxi skirt. I’m holding on to Holden’s arm as we walk on the gravel pavement. His face is visible, whereas I’m staring at the ground, trying to avoid falling.
By the angle of it, I got lucky. If they were any closer, they would’ve seen my anxious eyes or my rosy cheeks. From afar, I look—
“You are finally being noticed.”
“I never wanted this kind of visibility.” I turn my computer screen over to her. “I look like his arm candy.”
“Is that such a bad thing?”
“Yes! Of course it is.”
Everyone who saw me yesterday knew what I was wearing, so that means everyone in the office is thinking one thing: Charlotte Tate is a whore. That’s why the man who doesn’t believe in sick days gave me a day off.
I grind my teeth as I look Ghosty up and down once more.
“Why did you dress up for prom today?” I gesture to the sequined floor-length gown she has decided to wear at eight o’clock in the morning.
“Oh, this thing? I found out I can change my clothes when I see something I like. This girl in our building was wearing it yesterday and boom! I’m wearing it.” She giggles.
Ghosty swings her dress back and forth, twirling a few times, radiating a smile.
“Boom!” I mock, opening the laptop again to type his name in the search engine. And there it is, five more articles popping up from last night. The words “Plain Jane” are sticking out now.
“I’d rather take Mystery Girl now.” The inside of my mouth suddenly becomes dry, grasping the definition of plain Jane. Ordinary, unglamorous, unattractive. Is that how the world sees me?
A stale piece of toast?
“I think plain Jane’s better than being called a whore.”
“Oh great, so everyone does think I’m a whore!” I slam my laptop shut again, trying my hardest to not go back to the newsfeed that is making me break out in hives.
