“Ahhhg, and there goes the sappy part.”

“Is it sappy to say I love you?”

Etan used to say it. 

He didn’t mean it but he still said it.

Kattar would suffer to say it to his mother because he knew it would break her heart if he didn’t. But for me, there was no such obligation. It went without saying - or it went unsaid. Either or. 

And two can play at that game.

A stalemate.

*

I feel fire and needles under my skin - furiously breaking hair ties as I try to get ready for the ‘mock interview,’ Shannon is holding today in preparation for my real interview with Wylde Journal this Friday.

I dab on a touch of blush, a swipe of mascara - brown, never black - still there’s something about the style that’s unnatural to me. I don’t want to show up to the meeting looking like an 18-inch doll.

I’ve had my picture taken enough times in my life - between promotional photographs for my website and unofficial modeling for certain crazy photographers that I don’t think I’ll be nervous. Still, it would be worthwhile to have a gist of the sort of questions I’ll be answering.

Shannon sent me home with a pile of magazines twelve volumes thick from Wylde Journal as well as a link to their website, which he texted some time while I was on the train.

They’ve had quite an impressive lineup in the last several years, for such a young publication.

“It’s no Callisto Magazine,” Shannon informed me “It’s kind of like it’s weird, hipster younger sister.”

But any step is better than none at all - better than complacency and monotony.

A few weeks ago I wouldn’t have imagined myself doing interviews at all. Now, if things go well, he says I’ll probably do three before Christmas.

My schedule is packed. My living room is crowded with half-finished masterpieces, and three-quarters finished works of daunting daring - requiring a level of adroitness to complete that I’m not sure I possess.

There’s a black fox with the northern lights woven through its fur staring back at me as I make my way down the stairs and into my kitchen, grabbing my keys and a cornmeal muffin before I make my way out the door.

I’ve started baking myself easy-to-carry edibles to have on hand for breakfast in the mornings. I don’t have the time to cook five out of seven days a week. By the time I get home - or get done painting - I’m already starved and I’m sick of takeout. Fortunately, my aunt taught me how to cook - not much - but enough to feed myself.

Sometime soon I’ll ask Mrs. Moon for some of her recipes - whenever she gets back from San Diego.

She says her magazine is arranging a big writing and art competition for teenagers with this crazy $5000 grand prize.

She wants me to speak at the award ceremony - but that won’t be until next summer. Maybe by then, I’ll be big enough for those kids to know who I am.

For the moment, I’ll be discussing albino lions with Callisto’s weird little sister.

Shannon’s office is arranged differently than usual when I arrive around noon, on Wednesday morning. For one thing, there’s a copy of my white lion piece, “Snow,” on an easel beside what looks a lot like a black high chair, the kind directors sit in for interviews.

“Excuse me, Mr. Man,” I nag, hands on my hips, as he comes in sipping a cup of coffee, “but how exactly do you expect me to get up there in pumps?”

“Well, there are two or three ways.” He smirks, setting the cup down on his desk, and wiping the condensation onto his cable-knit sweater. “I can put my hands together and help you step up or you can take the heels off and climb up like a five-year-old in Mickey Dees play place.”

I roll my eyes.

“First of all, that’s only two ways, and I’m pretty sure my shoes would stab straight through your palms if we tried the first one, and you’d have to spend the rest of the day looking like Christ.”

“Just take the shoes off and I’ll help you put them back on once you’re seated.”

I shake my head, but step out of the heels, and climb up onto the chair.

As Shannon slides the right shoe back onto my dangling foot he quips:

“If the magic slipper fits…”

“Hah.”

“It works! We won’t have to remove any toes.”

“Oh. Gross.”

He retrieves the second shoe from where I left it by the desk, but pauses before coming back, weighing it in his left hand.

“I guess I’ve really made it when I have people putting my shoes on for me,” I joke from my perch. He turns back around, eyes laughing as I add lightly, “It feels wrong to have you fetching my shoes for me.”

“It’s fine. I don’t mind grabbing and carrying things - it’s what we men are made for,” he makes an exaggerated imitation body-builder flex of his biceps as he says this, making his sweater pull taught across his broad shoulders.

“My ex-boyfriend hated all manners of grunt work,” I admit, not knowing why. I fidget the thick braid over my shoulder. “It was just one of his ‘things.’ He was a pretty boy - and I was into that. But I guess that’s why Mrs. Moon always says that ‘the most attractive man is a useful one.’”

“You don’t mean Clara Moon…” Shannon asks, pausing in his adjustment of my left shoe.

“Yeah, Clara Moon. How did you guess?”

“I figured you must have been talking about somebody in the creative industry. I’m subscribed to Gossamer and Ambergris Journal. Do you know her personally?”

I nod, scratching my bracelets, “She’s the mother of one of my friends.”

“Imagine that. Here I thought you were a mild-mannered little Mary Sue with secret talent, but you have a whole celebrity circle around you!”

“No - no,” I laugh, waving my hands quickly, “I don’t really know that many people. It’s honestly just Mrs. Moon and her son Kattar. He’s a stunt driver…”

I rage against that dark night trying to creep its way back into the corners of my subconscious-

“...was a stunt driver. We had an accident…the night of The Foundation’s award ceremony.”

He looks stunned. It takes him a second to ask, with an uncomfortable smile, “You mean that hot guy with the brown hair who was with you in the video…?”

“Yeah,” I nod, trying not to see Kattar’s face - to relive that night. 

I should send him something beautiful today.

“Gosh. I’m sorry, Alicia”

“You don’t need to apologize,” I smile, “We’re both okay.”

At least…mostly.

Shannon looks at me, his bright eyes suddenly dark with sympathy. I feel like I should say something.

“Thanks for…listening, Shannon. Sorry for being a bummer.”

He tilts his head at me and then, turning to his desk, picks up a thick stack of paper, and runs his fingers over the leaves.

“Don’t apologize for your story being painful,” he smacks my knee lightly with the stack, “The ugly spawns the beauty. I like to know the stories.”

“There’s been a lot of ugly…” I say, letting out a heavy sigh.

“That makes sense,” he smiles, eyes dancing with light, “There’s a whole lot of beauty going on.”

I almost laugh, but there’s that something in his expression like I’ve seen in Mrs. Moon’s face - in his eyes - there’s something like Kattar - something of the little girl with the umbrella-

“Thanks…” I say softly, “Thanks.”

He just nods grabbing his cup of coffee.

“So…this mock interview? We’ll call it ‘Princess in the Tower’ take one.”

I smirk and cross my dangling legs to keep them from going numb.

“Okay…but I’ll throw hands if you try to climb up my hair.”

*

Kattar Moon *Encantado*

(online)

                                                                     I took some pictures of my new pieces today. 

                                                                     Whaddaya think?

                                                                                                      3:16 P.M.                                                                                                                    

?

            3:20 PM

                                                                     About the picture? I just finished this one on

                                                                     Saturday. Shannon’s looking to get it featured

                                                                     in a magazine. 

                                                                                                       3:20 P.M.

Oh.

                  3:22 P.M.

Cool.

                  3:25 P.M.

*

I am very probably overreacting.

Stupid lion. Stupid interview. What I’d do if I got my hands on that little jerk…

He’s doing it just to irritate me. I know he is.

But I can’t just ignore him. 

I can’t not talk to him.

I met with Shannon again today. We arranged a second interview. We arranged a feature in a magazine where they’re going to be displaying one of my collections. Now I just have to organize a collection.

I’m thinking about calling it ‘Affected Beauty.’

The chickadee and the peonies, the weepy lion, the flowers in the dark.

I text Kattar a picture of the bird, with the holly eyes and the wings for leaves.

All he says is “looks Christmassy,” as if that isn’t obvious.

But what more was I expecting?

Kattar’s world has always revolved around him - my orbit is getting bigger.

For the first time in my life, my story is about me.

I’m detaching myself from his pull. I’m thinking about other things - maybe - about other people - a little bit.

I’m dreaming bigger and hoping bigger and crossing my fingers - wishing - believing bigger.

Shannon says he thinks he can get me a showcase in a gallery.

A gallery! Imagine!

I never even dared to dream that big a few years ago.

Etan always told me my art was so “so-so.” Mediocre - blasé - unremarkable.

But for the first time…I’m starting to think I don’t really care what anyone else says - I like these pieces - I like my blasé lions and unremarkable still lifes -

So why won’t that little jerk say anything but “cool.” “great,” “awesome” “nice?”

What I wouldn’t do if I got a minute alone with that beautiful creep…

I’m not going to do it. 

I’m not going to give in and go see him until he texts me first.