Um, sorry to bother you, but do you think I could get a ride?

Where on earth is my speech? What am I supposed to wear? What time is it?

Claro que si, querida. Pero…

My phone buzzes at the incoming texts, each one dog-piling onto the last like the unfolded laundry I find myself dumping from my third dresser drawer onto the swelling mountain on the floor.

…You’re certain you’re okay with riding in the car? We could probably arrange for something…

I throw the green sweater to the side and grab at the phone, quickly pushing my hair off my face only to have it fall back again and somehow worm its way into my mouth.

Si gracias, estoy bien. Could you pick me up from my house in about an hour?

Of course, darling.

It’s three hours until the grand opening.

I’ve let him ruin my whole week…

Don’t - don’t think now-

I shake my head - kick an atrocious velveteen blouse off of the main pile and into a shambled little molehill.

Why did I even buy this?

The shadow raps on the door. Pounds on the door. Scratches at it like some sort of clawed ghost from a slasher movie.

I pile up jeans and tee shirts like a scream queen barricading the door and hurry to the closet to yank down the hangers. 

Button-ups, sweatshirts.

This is what comes from never caring what you look like.

Living off of hand-me-downs trained me out of that - and even though I haven’t been broke since I was 18, I guess I never got over it…

Skirts suits, pants suits.

My hand falters on the pink wrap dress…

I guess…

I take it down from its hanger and take it out into the light, smoothing my hand over the bubblegum-colored satin. 

I guess we’re doing this.

I force myself to breathe, as the shaking sets in.

No more hiding. Not even the scars.

Alright, Kat…

I try not to imagine what he’s going to say. Not that I’ll be able to see him until tomorrow because of the stupid visiting hours. I don’t know how I’m supposed to live that long…

And after the surgery…who knows if he’ll even be able to…

The shadow shrieks-

I slip my teeshirt off and add it to the pile on the floor - pull on the dress, and tie the sash-

Don’t think about that now-

My face burns as I rush to the bathroom and pull my hair into a messy sort of bun - try to fix my makeup through the trembling.

This is going to be okay. We’re gonna-

I lean on the sink so I don’t collapse.

Breathe, Licia. Just breathe.

What if someone from The Foundation is there- they’re gonna-

Breathe

In front of all those people - god - not - I’m not ready-

My heart moves too slowly and too quickly at the same time - I can’t get enough air into my lungs-

I’m not going out - I’m not gonna go out - I’ll have to text Kat-Mrs. Moon-

I wake up the phone-

Kattar’s picture stares back at me from the lock screen.

It’s the New Year. I said I would have changed this by now.

Liar.

I run my finger over the image, tracing the cascade of the chestnut hair against his face.

I’m too sentimental. 

Sappy, maybe, like he said.

But if today - or rather tomorrow - is the last day we’re friends - if we’re even able to talk - I’ll at least tell him- and I can’t call it love if I won’t keep my promises.

I turn off the bathroom light and make my way down the stairs at light speed before I can stop myself - grab my trenchcoat from the coat closet, and step outside, slipping it on in the shivering cold.

The iced air - the light of the sunset - almost close enough to land on the rooftops weave together in the January evening like a burst of electricity. I feel more alive than I have for the last few days - I feel alive, period, rather than merely animate-

Maybe someday I’ll paint my own sunset - instead of just copycatting the patterns my hero created.

If I did, would I have to do it alone?

Kattar’s mom rounds the corner in her hot rod, and my heart begins clawing at my ribs, trying to run away-

I grit my teeth behind the painted lips.

No going back now, I guess.

I smile meekly as she opens the passenger's side door, and she beams back at me with that model grin.

“Are you excited?” She laughs as I slide my feet under the dashboard.

 “Yeah, I guess that’s one way to put it.”

*

The gallery is lit up like the surface of the sun when we arrive, an hour and twenty minutes before the grand opening. The curator looks haggard, but her face is awash with relief when I come through the door, hugging my arms in an attempt to stave off the panic.

“Oh thank goodness,” the curator sighs, laying her hand over her heart, “We were so worried something had come up when you missed our phone calls…”

“Yeah…sorry,” I say, looking at my shoes and praying she won’t ask for an explanation, but she just smiles professionally.

“No worries. You’re here now and in good time. We’re just doing the sound check on your microphone now.”

Mrs. Moon pantomimes taking a sip of coffee and motions to the door. 

“I’ll be back for the event,” she mouths, holding up her phone in a camera pose.

Right. And she’ll be taking pictures, for a certain little prince…

He must be in surgery right now, or about to be.

Just the reminder sets me trembling again.

Not now, Lise. Grow up, for goodness sake.

I’m paralyzed between staying and running away - never mind the embarrassment.

Everything in me wants to scream - everything in me wants to stay - because I want this - I want to do this speech…

Peace my sweet. 

I don’t want to let Shannon, or Etan, or the accident, or the panic, or the voices in my own head - the stupid shadows - ruin this for me.

We’re not - not giving up on this…not now…this is what we’ve been fighting for…in spite of everything…

I breathe. For myself and for Kattar, hoping at least one of us will come out of this okay.

But okay…

Is only going to be possible if I choose to stop running away from it.

Breathe - I’m-

Still trembling.

But I’m breathing.

So far so good, I guess.

*

Would you look at that? Stunning.

I think I saw one of these pieces before…wasn’t it in Melpomene?

It almost looks like a photograph, doesn’t it?

The bodies swarm around me like some sort of cultish dance, sucking every breath of air from the small left wing. I’m surrounded by voices - laughing, talking. Admiring the art. Every few seconds there’s an “ooh” or an “ahh” as the ocean shifts and somebody new gets a glimpse at the painting ziggurat.

I hear the words ‘spectacular,’ ‘amazing. 'Magnifique' with fake French accents.

I shiver at every brush of someone pushing past me, hugging my arms against the touch of fabric - drowning in strangers. The mass swirls like a whirlpool - 

How long has it been since I last glimpsed a member of the staff or Mrs. Moon?

At long last, I see someone beckoning me to the stage. It’s only been 15 minutes - it feels like an eternity.

Run - run away and go home-

But not this time.

Staff members corral the bodies away from the exhibit until there’s space for me and the curator to stand. Someone hands me a microphone with a reassuring smile, but I can’t make myself smile back. I hear the curator clear her throat but the sound feels a million miles away - like the memory of a voice that died out eons ago.

“Welcome art lovers to the grand opening of our brand new exhibit, “Spiraling.” As you all know, this is our first new exhibit in a very long time, so we wanted to come back with a bang - something that would really stretch our concept of what you can do with a canvas - and as we learned, even how you could assemble a collection. We couldn’t think of a better person to lead us in this project than this beautiful young woman,”

The shadow-

I swallow.

 “The 2023 Winner of the Precioso Vegerra Award, and creator of more than 200 breathtaking pieces! We are so honored to have 15 of her originals here in our museum and to hear the story behind this masterpiece of an exhibit she has put together for us! So without further ado, I give you our very special guest, Ms. Alicia Palmero!”

The curator steps off to the side amid the applause, and I stand alone in front of the display, staring at the undulating sea of faces until my vision blurs-

Then I notice Mrs. King and my heart falls to the floor. 

There’s an uncomfortable mixture of anger and confusion ebbing in her expression, her lips compressed into a thin line. Her eyes flash with an unvoiced question.

I can’t speak.

The crowd vanishes into a roaring quiet - drowned out by the familiar heartbeat of my demons wailing into the depths of my subconscious - singing in my ears.

Now’s not the time, Alicia. Not now. Not now-

For heaven’s sake! If you’re ever going to live you have to fight it, right now!

The applause dies down, but I stand silent with that all too familiar panic. I hear a small, birdy voice peep with stifled anticipation.

My mind turns to the chickadees.

“If you try to force creativity, can you call it creativity?” my voice begins without my brain, sounding mechanical, but audible.

Keep going.

“Would you consider art created for the sake of creating art, art?”

I turn from the crowd and rest my hand on the chickadee's little title placard, and the three words engraved into the fake gold, “Looks like Christmas.”

I force myself to breathe.

“A few months ago I accepted a challenge, to exist,” I start again, “To live with my eyes open, and to find beauty where I wouldn’t look for it. To look for beauty in the middle of a disaster when all I wanted was to wallow in the ugliness of this reality...”

The anger in Mrs. King’s face descends into complete and total bewilderment.

I keep talking. 

I describe the chickadees - the mediums used to create the lion, that’s crying - to create peonies, horribly fragile - to create the tragedy of the damsel.

I’m terrified to the very core of my being as I stand there - barely able to keep my voice from breaking, talking about ferns, and holly berries - trembling like the mainsail of a little ship in the midst of a hurricane.

But I stay standing.

I hope Mrs. Moon is getting all this.