My feet stumble. Braces and chewy candy do not mix. Two years of orthodontics had drilled the “can’t eat” foods into my memory. Saltwater taffy was high on the no-no list.
Overlook it.They’re smart. They’ll figure it out without yourhelp. You don’t want more attention today, remember? Talkingwill only make them all stare at you again.
But poor Natalie would be in pain....
I sigh and pivot. “Sorry, I couldn’t help but overhear.” Everything. I heard everything. “But you really shouldn’t eat hard or chewy things while wearing braces.”
“Oh yeah.” Natalie frowns. “I forgot the orthodontist said that. Thanks, Mackenzie.”
My gaze slides to Jeremy’s of its own will. A glutton for punishment. His eyes are the same rich, deep brown they’ve always been, but now the soft gentleness I previously found myself being pulled into looks an awful lot like pity, and maybe a little like guilt.
I lower my gaze, my limbs feeling heavy.
Don’t do that. You’rebetter than that.
Am I, though? Most of the time, I don’t think so.
7
My emotions brewed all last night. So much so that I couldn’t sleep. Anger, frustration, and hurt built pressure like a volcano behind my breastbone, ready to explode. Instead of drifting off to sleep, I stared up at the ceiling, the fan in the center clicking with each rotation.
Not only did I have the immense pleasure of reliving the embarrassment from the conference room (seriously, who blurts outI love youin a work meeting to a client?), but the reel that refused to hit pause in my mind was a double feature. One embarrassment after another. And this time I couldn’t console myself with Keri’s words that my mind was making the situation out to be worse than it was. Not when I have Jeremy and Lincoln’s conversation to bring credence to what I already know.
I’m a hopeless case of social ineptitude.
Even arguing with Jeremy in my mind didn’t help. Conjuring up a mental image of him and telling that image that he’d hurt my feelings and that I didn’t want his pity hadn’t calmed me at all. Maybe because the retort I put in mental-image-Jeremy’s mouth wasn’t apologetic. Instead of apologizing, he justified his wordsby saying he’d only been speaking the truth. In fact, he’d even been antagonistic, daring me to prove he was wrong.
I don’t get angry often, but I admit I was then. That anger pushed me to meet imagination-Jeremy’s challenge. Which led to a bit of online sleuthing. I needed some weapons in my arsenal if I had any chance of convincing Sofiya I was competent enough for the promotion.
It turns out I’m not the only one on the planet who gets tongue-tied in front of other people (go figure, right?). Whose heart races and head spins at the idea of social interactions outside their comfort zone. Some people have found a few different things that help in those situations.
Things like cosplay.
I read a discussion in an online forum from people who experienced social anxiety like me. Some of the commentors said when they dressed up in cosplay and attended comic cons or other fandom conventions, their anxiety disappeared. When they put on the costume of whatever character they were dressing up as, they became that persona. They no longer worried what people would think about them personally, because any judgments they might run into would be projected onto the character they embodied, not themselves. They also sort of borrowed the character’s personality. So if the character was bold and confident, then they became bold and confident because they saw themselves as the character.
The concept fascinated me. Not that I didn’t want to be me, but ... yeah, I guess there are parts I want to change. The inability to converse in the simplest form of communication—small talk—for one. The way a crowd of people makes me want to shrink inside myself. The nagging voice inside my head that makes me hyperaware of my every word and action and how those around me will perceive them.
I try to lay all these things at the feet of Jesus, but they’re like too-wet dough. I clean the mess off one hand only for the doughto stick to the other. I swipe at the clingy gluten strings only for them to adhere back to the first hand again. I can’t get rid of my anxious feelings to save my life.
So I fight. I fight the good fight of faith like Paul says to do. Day after day. But the more I fight, the more it feels like the reflex in my brain switches to flight, and I find myself running farther and faster in the wrong direction.
The running needs to stop. Instead of flight, I need to choose fight for once in my life. Because I’m not just fighting for myself, I’m fighting for my mom.
Which is why I now stand in front of my closet, reaching for a dress in the back that I inherited from my mom from her younger days trying to revive disco and go-go dancing. Instead of the bright colors and groovy patterns reminiscent of the trend, the dress is mostly solid red with a thick black collar, but it still boasts that classic retro silhouette. Thankfully it’s long-sleeved, and a pair of thick tights and knee-high boots will keep me from freezing. Plus, the dress is normal-looking. Even when I add a Christmas tree brooch over the area of my heart, no one but me will know that, along with donning the outfit, I’m also donning the bravery and moxie of an intergalactic member of Starfleet. There’s no room for trepidation and self-doubt aboard the starshipEnterprise, and I won’t allow any in myself today. Maybe this isn’twhere no man has gone before, but it’s definitely outside my comfort zone.
I finish clasping the brooch to the dress and check my reflection in the mirror. I am no longer Mackenzie Delphine Graham. I am Nyota Uhura, intrepid communications officer serving in the twenty-third century.
“Keri,” I call as I exit my bedroom and square my shoulders. “Are you almost ready? We need to make a stop on our way to work.”
8
Uncle Jeremy, do you know where my shoes are?” Nathan yelled from upstairs.
Jeremy paused, butter knife in one hand and a slice of bread in the other. “Did you check the bathroom?” Heaven forbid either kid’s things were where they belonged, so he wouldn’t even bother suggesting the logical place to find shoes—the closet.
“They aren’t there,” Nathan yelled again.
Jeremy sighed and set the bread and knife on the kitchen counter alongside a package of deli meat and American cheese squares. He glanced out the small square window over the sink, noting the lightening of the sky. When he’d woken up, it had still been pitch-black outside. It was still supposed to be barely dawn when the twins climbed onto the bus for school, but already the darkness had started to make room for the light, like someone slowly turning a dimmer switch on for the world.
