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“But Tom doesn’t drink,” I remind her.
She laughed. “No one needs to know that.”
“They don’t?”
“This is about creating a fantasy, Melanie. This is about making your life better. You have to be more interesting, more fun, and more beautiful. You have to outdo the average girl your age who is sitting behind some screen in her two-day-old pajamas, with her unwashed hair, wishing she had half the life you have. All the while, she’s wondering: will the boy call? Maybe if I had this or that, maybe if I was a member of that church, maybe if I was more like Melanie. She’ll think of you when it comes to getting what she wants because—you— you have it all. And she’s going to want to know what you’re doing. That’s where New Hope comes in.”
I press my lips together like I’m shocked. I really want to be. I do.
Beth shook her head and tossed up her hands. “Fake it till you make it, right?”
“No, I get it,” I said, making my eyes light up. “I have to live a top shelf life.”
She pressed her palms together and brought them into the praying position. “Exactly.”
When I was eight, my wrist snapped in two during a soccer game. I kept playing; I ran the ball all the way down the field and straight into our opponent’s goal. This was a pretty easy thing to do, given the other players. Everyone stopped and took a knee. They looked on as I gloriously ran toward the goal, my wrist flapping like a flag on a windy day. It hung proudly from my arm like jelly. All the while I felt nothing.
Early on, I learned to mimic social cues on my parents’ faces in regard to what I should be feeling. I would fall down, and their faces would be wide-eyed and cautious, and this showed me the correct emotion in which to draw upon. This time I was too distracted. That’s how I was found out.
Not long after, I was finally diagnosed with congenital analgesia. Basically, that’s a fancy term to say I have an inability to feel pain. It’s a rare disorder but I wasn’t surprised. I had always been rougher than other kids. Braver. More audacious. The sort of things that don’t earn you a ton of friends. No one likes to be reminded of their inadequacies. No matter that I was the one with the faulty genetics.
It’s not your genes, Melanie, my mother liked to say. It’s just no one likes a show-off.
I didn’t know what she meant. I was missing any markers on what I should feel. There was no reference to show me how far I could take things, and so I went all the way.
This didn’t last long. My peers ended up hurt as they tried to keep up until I was left with few kids willing to play with me. Slowly, but surely, parents pulled their kids away, as if I was doing the hurting on purpose. It’s tough to have empathy for other people’s pain when you have no personal reference.
It was okay. I was dead on the inside, too.
Eventually, this was proven when the NPD diagnosis arrived. Narcissistic Personality Disorder. Who’s to say what came first. The chicken or the egg. Maybe it was cause and effect. It’s easier to push people away as opposed to watching them leave on their own accord. All I know is at some point it became a game. Win people over. Hurt them slowly.
Tom says I look stunning when he sees me in the new gown. I assume this means he won’t pick apart the price. Accountants. Man. I guess because they spend so much time around numbers they have a hard time seeing them for what they are. Fake. Just like my new life, there’s really nothing tangible to back all those zeros up. It’s not like we’re on the gold standard anymore. So who cares?
My husband, obviously. He’s been working overtime, he explains, trying to make all the numbers fit. I tried to help by explaining that money is infinite. You can literally create it from nothing. Banks do it all the time. He said, I am not a bank.
At any rate, absence apparently does make the heart grow fonder. He’s happy tonight. At least as happy as a man like Tom can get.
It’s okay. With a little salt, he’ll go down easier. And, if that doesn’t work, I’ll try a chaser.
I’m not that surprised when we arrive at the charity fling or whatever it’s called, only to find it’s like all the other charity functions my parents dragged me to over the years. Actually, I thought of inviting them, just to show off. Look, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. But then I came to my senses when I realized I’m not ready for that level of personal involvement yet. So I made it a point to send my mother an invite to Instalook. This way she can see all the photos of my new life.
I know it’ll make her and my father proud. There’s only one problem. One I’ve just realized. I only have eight hundred and two followers. It doesn’t matter that I haven’t a clue who these people are. I need more. When I remember Beth said some people have millions, I set out to find her. It isn’t hard. She’s positioned herself by the door, the best way to be seen.
I mosey up to her, and in a hushed tone, I say to her, “I have a huge problem.”
“I’m in the middle of something right now, Melanie,” she replies in her usual pissy, shrill tone. “Can you give me a moment?”
“No,” I inform her. “It can’t wait.” I want to remind her that we’re besties, and besties are there for one another. I don’t think she’d either get or appreciate my sarcasm. Most people don’t.
“Excuse me,” she motions to the couple. I can’t help but notice she doesn’t use that tone with them. Then I see their nametags, the label ‘donor’ proudly displayed. She smiles neatly. “I’ll be right back.”
Beth takes me by the elbow. “Melanie,” she chides. “We don’t have problems. Not in public. It’s unbecoming.” She gives me the side eye. “Jesus. Who raised you?”
“But I do have a problem.” I hold up my phone. “I only have eight hundred and two followers. I need to have more.”
“Have you been posting?”
I show her my feed. I feel a wicked rage for recognition building.
