Damn Sam, I think when I pull it on. The shirt is perfect. Once on, the color becomes more of a mood. I feel…pretty? Yes. It’s a very pretty look. I look at the mirror appraisingly. I’ve never been pretty. Cute was about as high as I ever rose in the looks hierarchy, which, according to me, goes:
Gorgeous/Stunning
Beautiful
Pretty, and on the other side of the spectrum, Handsome
Striking
Attractive
Cute
[Then, way down]
Unique
Yet this pink is magical. I come out with a little bit of swagger, and Trace and Hendon both say “Yes” in unison. Sam doesn’t say anything but the look in his eyes reminds me of that first day when he walked across the room, looking at me like I was the most important woman in the world, the only person who mattered to him. Right now, his attention is focused on me and only me, but unlike last time, it doesn’t seem like a challenge.
It’s overwhelming. I go back to the room and untangle the black thing Sam gave me, which turns out to be a jumpsuit that’s tight around the ankles with a collared top and an open back. No way to wear a bra. Huh. I give a bit of a jump and decide I’ll have to find those plastic disks you glue to your boobs to keep them in place.
Since I don’t have them now, I’ll have to own it. I walk out and the designers both come over to start fussing over the fit. Sam crosses his arms but he looks in my eyes, not at the neckline or the free-flying girls. It’s as if he sees me, Gracie, and I wonder if it’s truly me and not Fangli, or something between them that could never be.
It puts me off-balance and I drop my eyes first.
Fourteen
I take the pants, the shirts, and the jumpsuit but say no to the dress. Sam lingers until the room is empty, and I try to forget he saw me two hours ago madly searching for my towel with half my face ripped off. When I was mostly naked.
“Art show tonight,” he says. “Fangli thinks you’re ready.”
“Fangli’s hardly even seen me as her.” I take off the wig to air out my brain for a few minutes. “Where is it?”
“Don’t you know?” He adjusts his sleeves.
I shrug. I haven’t been keeping track of what events are coming since Mei has been teaching me pretty much on the fly.
“The Museum of Contemporary Art.”
“Am I buying some art?”
“No. You’re interested in supporting local artists and you’re there to admire. It’s a private showing of a private collection.”
“Will there be media?”
“Possibly. There’s not much point in having expensive things and important people admire them if no one knows.” He yawns. “I can deal with that.”
“I can do it.”
He looks like he’s going to argue but instead checks his watch. “We leave in an hour.”
Then he’s gone before I can ask him for his key.
An hour. First I call the nursing home and they reassure me that Mom’s fine. Then I check my list, which is getting stressful and daunting again. What if I try sorting the tasks out by the time they will take? I spend a happy twenty minutes sorting and resorting the tasks from least to most time needed before deciding the value of the task was more important. Once they’re listed, I realize I’d spent the whole time working on the list instead of doing any tasks. It could be because one of those tasks, call the lawyer, makes me so uncomfortable I have trouble seeing the words. My eyes skitter over them.
Not a good start to creating my own productivity method. I add “find a way to deal with disagreeable tasks” on the list.
At least I’ve left myself enough time to get ready. I stick the plastic disks Mei found to my boobs, impressed at their enhanced perkiness. I should wear these all the time. She left me with instructions about freshening my face, and I dab and shade and line like a soldier applying camouflage paint before battle. The jumpsuit, which Trace and Hendon tailored with expert fingers before they left, slides over my skin like space-age armor, and I begrudge Sam slightly for having such good taste. I adjust the wig.
When I look in the mirror, this time I’m Fangli. Or Fangli in cute but comfortable shoes.
Mei ordered me to wait until Fangli arrives home so there aren’t conflicting reports of her being seen twice. I come out when I hear our adjoining door open and nearly exclaim out loud. If she looked beaten down that first day I saw her in the SUV, today she’s so drained she’s transparent.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
She rubs her forehead. “A bit tired.”