The Absurdity of Fairy Tales

eight

..

Sometimes I wonder if

Who I pretend to be

Is who I really am.

And sometimes,

I know it isn't.

..

Nan takes the dress to all the nearby dry cleaning places, and all of them tell her the same thing: the stain isn't going to come out and she should just give up. Eventually, she tries to get it out herself, and while she does a pretty good job, you can still see the outline of it over the bodice, right where my heart would be. The color looks eerily like blood. It feels like someone's stabbing me in the chest whenever I look at it, so I guess it fits.

Fortunately, though, I'm busy enough to stay preoccupied, because January is when everything starts to happen at once. College application letters need to be sent off; I finally decide on going into Philosophy and Creative Writing, while Nick, who's known what he wants to do since middle school, applies to Computer Science programs.

Exams are drawing closer, too, and so is Delta. We've been scheduling practices like crazy, rehearsing almost every day in the days leading up to the soiree. My days blur past in a flurry of school, studying, working, and play rehearsals. Then suddenly it's opening night for Delta and I'm standing on the stage, waiting for the curtains to open.

The waiting is always the hardest part, because those ten minutes between us being all made-up and ready and the curtains opening is just enough time for everyone to get full-on stage fright—especially Cal. She's hyperventilating in the right wing, back against the wall, head buried in her knees, hair falling around her like a shield. When she takes a breath, her chest rises and shudders back rapidly. I can see her shaking from here.

Beside me, Delilah hisses, digging her fingernails into her palms. Her entire frame is rigid; all she wants to do is run over to Cal and comfort her—I do, too—but she can't, because we're in the first scene and we're not allowed to move. Watching her near fall apart makes us near fall apart, too, but there's nothing we can do to stop it. And Eli's freaking out backstage, compulsively straightening and organizing everything, and God knows where Nolan is because he's not needed until the second half, so there's no help coming. All we can do is wait and watch Cal dissolve.

Then, finally, five minutes before D-day, Nolan shoulders his way past stage technicians and crouches down next to Cal, his face clouded with worry.

He pries her hands away from her hair and takes them in his own, his mouth saying something I can't catch. She lifts her head slightly, eyes wide and lip caught between her teeth, and one of Nolan's hands flies up to cup her face. When he says something else, Cal cracks a weak smile and nods, and Del and I both let out a sigh of relief as he pulls her to him tightly, rocking them back and forth. Cal will be fine; whatever it is she and Nolan have, he's always been able to take her away from the edge of a panic attack.

On the other side of the curtain, the crowd suddenly quiets and anxiety supernovas inside of me. We sold so many tickets this year, enough to make me queasy thinking about it. And right in the first three rows are our families—Delilah's parents and siblings; Nan and Nick; Nolan's father and mother, sitting several seats away from each other; Cal's parents; Eli's parents, twin, younger brother and reluctant-looking grandparents. All these people we want to make proud. I close my eyes, trying to calm myself down. In, out, I remind myself. C'mon, Landin. In, out.