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“On a scale of one to ten, how nervous are you?”
“About a thousand and one?” I replied, needing a deep breath because even though I was in bed and didn’t have to deal with it until tomorrow morning, just thinking about it now made me sick. “Mom, you know how I am about public speaking.”
“Honey, you’ve sung in front of crowds of thousands all the time,” she said while dabbing her face mask on with her pinky finger. I could even see the chef behind her preparing something in the kitchen—it was nice to see some things never changed. “You will be fine.”
“Mom, I don’t sing all the time. I rarely did, remember? That was my whole issue, but it’s one thing to sing songs I wrote in English even if I did. My biggest worry isn’t just speaking; what happens if I speak and say something wrong? I don’t know what’s worse, having a panic attack and running off the stage or speaking and no one understanding me because my Ersovian is so bad.”
“I would say running off the stage is worse, sweetheart. They will forgive you for messing up—”
“No, they won’t, and you know it!”
“Yep, you’re right. If you mess up, they will never let you live it down. So, how about throwing in the towel now, break up with Gale, come home so we can have facials, yogurt, and movie night like always.”
“Mom!”
“What?”
“You are not helping!”
“No one can help you!” she snapped back, shaking her head.
I pouted but then stopped because all I could see was “spoiled heiress” on the cover of newspapers.
“Odette, my sweet, either you will fail, or you will not. If you fail, it will suck, but it will not be the end of the world. Nor will it be the end of you and Gale. Unless you think he will dump you because you mispronounced a word or two. Or three. Four.”
“You’ve made your point,” I complained, shifting to lay farther into the pillows. “I know he won’t dump me. But I don’t want to. I don’t want to make it harder for him.”
“Who are you?” she asked, leaning into the camera, “Are you sure you are my daughter?”
“Oh, here we go.”
“No, really, because my Odette was all ‘I reject romance,’ ‘love is not real,’ ‘sad song, heartbreak song, screw love,’” she mocked me before laughing. “Now look at you. Ready to bend over left, right, back, and front to make sure your precious prince has it a bit easier.”
“Are you really my mom?” I shot back. “Because I can’t tell if you are giving me a pep talk or tear down.”
“Of course, I am your mother. Look at your cheekbones. Do you think they fell out of the sky?”
I rolled my eyes, laughing. “You never miss a chance, do you?”
“To remind you that your beauty comes from me? Of course not.”
“Well, thank you, Mom, for these cheekbones. Can we get back on topic, please?”
“Of you freaking out?”
“Yes, that one.”
“You really will not let me rest until I let you read me this speech, will you?” She sighed dramatically.
“I didn’t ask for—”
“But it would make you feel better, right?”
How did moms do this? I hadn’t even thought that it would make me feel better until she asked. How did she know?
“Don’t just look at me. Get on with it.”
