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What has happened to that Heather? I have never seen her like this.
She turns and stomps out.
“Heather, wait!” I call after her. She slams the door so hard that a picture falls off the wall.
I don’t understand. Is it because she saw my weird tapping ritual and was disgusted? I should have been more careful. Nobody is supposed to see.
I want to run after her and make things right, somehow, but I don’t have time. I can’t be late. It’s another of my rules for safety. Being late equals bad luck.
I repeat the chant on the mirror, finishing it this time, but since Heather interrupted me, it won’t help.
My hopeful mood fizzles and turns sour. I don’t want to go anymore.
But I’ve already committed. I can’t just fail to show up and leave the rest of the waitstaff scrambling to cover me. So I stuff down my impending anxiety attack, brush my thick brown hair back into a bun, and shimmy into the dress. I paint on liquid eyeliner and smudge blush on my lips and cheeks.
And with a sense of dull foreboding, I head out the door.
CHAPTERTWO
TAMARA
On my way to the subway, I stop to say hi to Mark, the homeless guy who sleeps in the alleyway on my block. I reach into my purse and pull out the carefully wrapped roast beef sandwich I made for him earlier.
He sits on a stoop huddled in a blanket, despite the damp June heat, and I have to force myself not to wrinkle my nose at the smell of urine that wafts up.
His face is always red and swollen, his eyes bloodshot. I can’t tell his age. He could be twenty or forty. I know he used to work in computer security, until the drinking cost him his job. Also his home and his family.
“You’re the best,” he mumbles. “Where are you going, all dressed up like that?”
“Hot date with my boss tonight,” I say lightly, as if saying it will make it true.
“He’s a lucky man. Be careful—those rich types can be jerks.” Then he looks up at me, his weathered brow creasing with worry. “You all right?”
Oh, great. Just great. The tension twisting my face is so obvious that a homeless man who’s fried his brains with alcohol can see it.
“I’ll be fine,” I say. I glance down at him. “Areyouall right?”
He shrugs and lets out a little mumbling laugh. “What do you think?”
I draw a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” I say to him gently. “If you ever want me to help you find a rehab…”
He waves his hand at me dismissively, his expression gone sullen.
I’ve gone too far.
I walk away quickly. Heather says I need to stop trying to solve everyone else’s problems. I’ve got enough on my plate, being flat broke and juggling part-time jobs so I can eat and pay rent in the same month. I know she’s right. I just remember growing up and wishing I had someone to offermea helping hand. Roaming the motel room lobby, hungry, wearing dirty clothes…that’s why I’ve got my sights set on law school. I’m going to get hired by a non-profit and work with battered women and abused children. Maybe if I can help save someone from going through what I did, it will help ease the pain of those memories.
The feeling of uneasiness is still roiling in my stomach when I arrive at the party. When I go to the changing room, I am lucky. There’s no-one else there, so I quickly do my tapping ritual on the mirror before I stash my stuff in a locker and head out.
I’ve never been in the ballroom before. The room, like the rest of the Smith Acquisitions building, is an aggressive display of wealth and power. It was once owned by a nineteenth-century industrialist, and the Fifth Avenue address is a statement in itself. The original Gilded Age décor is intact, with elaborately carved Grecian friezes set into the wall panels and bow-legged furniture upholstered in red velvet. Marble statues rest on fluted columns, staring indifferently with their blind, pupil-less eyes.
There are easily a hundred people here—clients, models, and socialites, all snacking on tiny little canapes and swilling expensive liquor from the open bar.
A gossip columnist snaps a picture of Joshua. A skinny blonde Madison Avenue type in a glittery beaded gown sees the camera and hurries over. She flings her arm around Joshua’s waist, and he flashes a dazzling smile as the columnist snaps another picture. I feel the faintest twinge of jealousy.
Then he spins away, his back to the blonde, who flounces off in a sulk. I suppress a tiny burst of spite. I know it’s silly to feel that way, but I’m kind of relieved that I’m not the only one who feels like that.
I wait a few minutes, then I walk over and try to offer him a glass of champagne from my tray, but he waves me away without even looking at me. Discouraged, I skulk in the bathroom for a while, but I finally come back out. Maybe if I say hi to him, I can go home and tell Heather about it, and she won’t be mad at me anymore. I can’t stand the thought of her hating me forever. I know my need to be liked is neurotic, but I can’t stop myself. When people are upset with me, it burns away at my gut like acid.
