by Amanda Heger
She didn’t know how Clint had convinced her to do this. Obviously, she’d been out of her mind. “I can meet you when it is over. I think that is a better idea.”
“Nope.” He didn’t budge from her hotel room doorway.
“I think it is better if I stay here.”
“When have I ever steered you wrong? I was right about the skydiving, and I’m right about this. Besides, we discussed this.”
And they had. At length.
Somehow, last night—as they stood in line at the weird indoor skydiving cage—he’d convinced her to attend the afternoon awards ceremony. He’d started by dangling hope in front of her. “You never know,” he’d said. “People loved your presentation.”
When she reminded him about the final interview, he’d moved on to a different tactic.
“We both know the Pubes are going to win, so let’s go in there and drink our body weight in expensive wine. Then waltz out of there like we don’t need their money.”
“But I do need their money.”
Around them, kids stared at the wind tunnel contraption, pointing at the people flying around inside. People whose faces were so contorted by the rush of air that they looked like hound dogs with jowls flying in the breeze.
“Fine,” Clint said. “We’ll waltz out of there like I’ve been disqualified from their money and like you don’t want it. And on our way out, we’ll swipe one of those bottles of wine and take it with us on one of those celebrity home tours.”
Marisol couldn’t stand the thought of showing up at some poor celebrity’s house like a glorified peeping Tom. Not after everything. “How about a movie?” she asked.
“Done.”
Then she’d donned the jumpsuit and stepped into the cage. And exactly as Clint had promised, the rush of the wind tunnel and the weightlessness of flying—even just ten feet above the ground—had been enough to make her forget everything. At least for a precious few minutes.
But now, with only ten minutes before the start of the awards ceremony, not even the allure of sitting in a darkened theater with a bottle of wine and a box of snacks seemed like a good enough reason spend an hour or two in a banquet hall eating limp salad and feeling like the world was caving in. Still, she’d promised Clint. So she tucked in her shirt, threw on a cardigan, and followed him down to the banquet hall.
“Marisol! I was hoping you’d be here.” A woman she recognized from yesterday’s presentation pulled up a chair. “I’m Claudia Shelby.”
“Yes, I remember. Nice to see you.” She hoped her smile looked more welcoming than it felt.
“I’d love to pick your brain about a few things, but I didn’t catch your email.”
Marisol pulled a business card from her pocket. “Email me anytime.”
“Great. I’m with Safe Children First—I don’t know if I mentioned that. I’d love to talk about ways we can work together.”
Marisol’s lungs stuttered. Safe Children First? She’d seen their name on all the conference sponsorship forms. And once upon a time, her mother had put them on a list of “dream organizations” she’d hoped to work with. “Yes, I would love to work together. Maybe I can get your email too?”
The woman handed off a business card before she moved on to her table, and Clint gave Marisol a light nudge with his elbow. “See?”
She nodded, letting a spark of excitement flicker.
Only to have it stomped out by the appearance of Puble-Dee and Puble-Dumb. “So good to see you both,” one of them said. So fake, so prim, so proper. It made Marisol want to scream.
“You too,” she said.
“How do you feel? Bless your heart. You’ve had a lot going on this week.” Pube One put a hand over her heart. “No wonder you look so tired.”
Marisol stared at the table setting, focusing all her energy on the vase of sprawling white flowers in the center. A place card protruded from the center of it, announcing this was the table of the Della Simmons Grant Finalists.
No escape.
Clint squeezed her elbow.
She nodded, wishing for once she hadn’t murdered her cell phone. At least it would have given her something to stare at while she pretended not to notice the horrible women beside her. Instead, she let her gaze fall around the bustling room. The end of the conference meant everyone talked a little louder, drank an extra glass of wine, let their shirts stay untucked. One man smacked another so hard on the back he spilled red wine all over the tablecloth. They both let out a hearty laugh and refilled their glasses as if nothing had happened. These were the versions of her fellow conference goers she wanted to know. The ones who got messy and laughed about it and moved on. The ones who spent more time looking at one another than monitoring their own behavior for any signs of imperfection.
She turned to Clint. “If I ever run a conference, I will make everyone do something very embarrassing on the first day. Then they will all relax and be themselves.”
“Like what?”
“Maybe they will have to take part in a talent show.” She smiled as she remembered building that purple gum version of the Statue of Liberty. “Or do an obstacle course.”
“I’d start with drinking games. You know all those horrible ones you play in college. Never Have I Ever. Beer pong.” Clint rubbed his beard. “Yeah, beer pong. My conference would start with beer pong. It would be epic.”
“You’d both be walking liabilities,” Pube Two said—in a pageant girl voice that would make Miss Universe jealous. “Good thing you aren’t in charge.”
Marisol allowed herself two seconds to channel all her disdain into a glare, then forced her voice to match the Pube Two’s Miss Congeniality tone. “Good thing.”
“Welcome everyone to the closing ceremony of our little conference.” Scorpion Lady’s voice came through the speakers and cut through the crowd. “Well, the first of our closing activities, I guess. Tomorrow we’ll have the final screening of our documentaries followed by the award for best film. Please stop by. All of our films will be shown one final time tomorrow afternoon, so if you didn’t get the chance to see them in the evenings this week, make it a point tomorrow. We have some really special stories out there.”
Do not roll your eyes. Do not roll your eyes.
Too late.
Across the table, the Pubes tried a little too hard to ignore her. Behind them, a flash of red hair caught Marisol’s eye—reminding her of Annie—and a pang of guilt hit. She still hadn’t answered her friend’s questions. Or her brother’s. Her mom had stayed eerily silent on the whole matter. Which meant either she was furious or her Internet access was down again.
Tonight, she promised. After the Pubes officially won the money and she had time to clear her head, she’d sit down and explain everything. It would be easier over email anyway. She wouldn’t have to deal with interruptions or questions. No disappointed looks from Felipe.
“Please welcome our first speaker,” Scorpion Lady droned on. “Legendary documentary filmmaker Easton Sullivan.”
Polite applause lingered as the man lumbered from one end of the room to the other. And as Marisol’s gaze followed him, she caught sight of the redhead again. If she didn’t know better, she’d almost be fooled into—
“Annie?” She clamped a hand over her mouth, cutting off the rest of her thoughts before the clapping died out.
No, not possible.
The girl gave a little wave and pushed the mass of curls out of her face.
Yes, very possible.
Marisol crept away from her table, heart and mind running wild. Annie—her very best friend—had come all the way across the United States to see her. Something was very wrong.
Especially given the glare of the guy standing beside her.
Felipe.
“Hi.” She grabbed them both around the shoulders and ducked into a service hallway. She ignored the sidelong stares from waitstaff as she plastered on a smile. “What are you two doing here?”
A long pause, broken only by the clattering of
dishes, sunk into the space between them.
Finally, Annie spoke up. “We thought you could use a friendly face. Or two.” She elbowed Felipe in the side.
“Sí.”
One friendly face. One unreadable. Her brother always kept his emotions on lockdown, but usually Marisol could parse them out. He’d give something away in his posture or in the slightest change in his tone. But not this time. He’d become a brick wall.
Or a ticking bomb.
“I need to go back in there. They will notice if I am gone.” The world had officially spun off its axis. She was choosing time with the Pubes over her family. “I will find you after the ceremony, yes?”
Felipe stayed mum.
Annie wrapped her in a hug. “Good luck.”
Marisol knew she should warn them. Let them down now, before they got their hopes up about Ahora winning the grant. Dull the sting of her failure. “Thank you,” she said before sneaking back to her table.
“You found them.” Clint’s eyes glinted.
Marisol’s brain threatened a complete revolt as she slid into her seat. “You knew they were coming?” she whispered.
He shrugged.
“And now, our biggest award of the afternoon. The Della Simmons Community Improvement Grant. I’m sure you’ve had the pleasure of meeting some of our finalists this week, during their presentations and then later at the hotel bar.”
Light laughter filled the room as the waitstaff cleared salad plates and brought out the main course. At least she could eat her feelings once the Pubes walked up there for their stupid acceptance speech.
The filmmaker’s voice carried over the speakers. “Each of these people—and the organizations they represent—enrich people’s lives in more ways than most of us could ever imagine. From building wheelchair ramps in Appalachia to teaching fitness to Brazil’s most vulnerable children to bringing medical care to the most remote parts of Nicaragua, each of these people deserves a round of applause.”
Marisol clapped along with everyone else, but the platitudes were only that: hollow nods to the work she’d done. The work her mother had done. The work Felipe had done.
Their mother must have called him—begged him to fly out to California and rescue Ahora from Marisol’s mess. She wanted to feel indignant, to be monstrously offended that her mother had suddenly done an about-face on this whole “I believe in you” nonsense. Except she needed to be rescued.
The first day in Los Angeles she’d pulled a thread that led to one snag after another after another. And now she sat here, in this stuffy room, trying to smile as she waited for the affirmation she’d secretly known was coming all along: she couldn’t do this. She wasn’t professional enough. Polished enough. Well-versed in spreadsheets enough.
She wasn’t enough.
“You okay?” Clint whispered.
“How did you know my brother was here?”
His eyes shifted to the filmmaker onstage—and his laborious speech. “Your brother is here?”
“Clint.”
He took a long swig of water. “What?”
“May I have the envelope please?” Onstage, the man waved a pale blue envelope around while the more tipsy of the conference bunch drummed on their tables. “Oh. I already had it right here.” He laughed at his own joke. Way too hard.
From the corner of her eye, Marisol caught Felipe and Annie shuffling along the back wall. She sent out one last prayer—more of a grovel really. Maybe someone had seen the light after watching the Pube’s horrible movie. Maybe someone had been so moved by Marisol’s presentation they’d overcome the rabid hatred the last interviewer seemed to hold. Maybe, just this once, something about this damn trip would go as scripted.
“And the winner of the Della Simmons grant, worth twenty thousand dollars, is…”
More fake drumrolls. More pleading with the universe.
“Appalachia Together!”
Applause erupted, and beside her Clint froze.
“You won,” she whispered.
“Whaaaa…”
“Are you having a stroke? You won. Go.” She clapped along with everyone else, feeling as dumbfounded as Clint looked. But lighter and less rage-filled than she had only a few moments ago.
“They said we were disqualified,” he said.
“You need to go up there.” She elbowed him. Her heart pounded as the applause faded, but, bit by bit, a smile crept across her face.
Clint jerked out an arm, bracing himself on the table to stand. “I can’t believe it. They said we were disqualified.”
“You were supposed to be disqualified.” Pube One glared at Pube Two.
“Go,” Marisol said. “Before they take away your money and give it to the Pubes.”
The applause was on its last breaths now, and people were starting to look at them sideways.
“What did you call us?” Pube One asked.
Marisol ignored her. “Go.” She elbowed Clint again.
“Okay. Okay.” He shook himself off—returning to the shiny, composed, supermodel version of himself—and took a single step.
Plates clattered. A pitcher of water landed on its side. A basket of bread tumbled onto the floor.
Marisol pushed her chair back, missing most of the tidal wave streaming from the overturned pitcher. Clint wasn’t so lucky. The water spread over his pants in the worst possible way.
The room fell silent.
“I tucked the table cloth into my pants,” he whispered. “I do that when I get nervous.”
“Just. Go.” Marisol held her hands to her mouth, keeping in whatever else might come out. At this point her emotions were riding on overload, and she had no clue what might escape. An earthquake-inducing sob? A giant hee-haw?
Clint grabbed his suit jacket from the back of his chair and tied it around his waist like a weird kilt. The applause started again, and Marisol joined in. Clint deserved this, probably more than any of them.
She gave him a tiny nod as he started his acceptance speech and slipped out. If anyone asked, she could say she needed to wring out her skirt in the bathroom. Which was true. Also true: a serious need to lock herself in a stall and hang her head in shame. Maybe after a few minutes, she’d splash some cool water on her face and come away refreshed and ready to face her brother.
She put her hand on the knob as she double-checked it was the women’s restroom.
“Mari, wait.” Annie’s voice echoed through the empty hallway.
Felipe’s followed, lower and in Spanish, but otherwise carrying the same weight of worry as Annie’s tone. “Where are you going?”
She stared straight ahead and pushed open the door. “Be right back.”
Two seconds. That’s how much peace and quiet she managed to steal in her stall before the bathroom door swung open again.
“Mari?”
Maybe she could pick up her feet and pretend she wasn’t there. Or climb through the tiny window near the ceiling. Or through the ceiling vents like in all those movies. “Sí.”
“You okay?” Annie asked.
“Only need to wring out my skirt. Someone spilled water.”
“Yeah, I saw.” Annie’s red curls appeared under the stall, followed by her face.
“What are you doing?”
“Seeing if you’re okay.”
“I think you are seeing more than that, no?”
“You’re standing against the wall, fully clothed, with a wad of toilet paper in your hand.”
Marisol sighed and unlocked the door. “Your head is going to fall off if you stay like that.”
And then Annie had her wrapped in a bear hug. “I missed you so much!”
“Can. Not. Breathe.”
“Sorry, sorry.” Annie released her death grip. “I’m sorry about the grant. They were stupid not to pick you.”
“No, they weren’t.” Marisol wiped her eyes with the wad of tissue. “Is Felipe still out there?”
“Probably.”
“And he knows ever
ything?” Her voice cracked.
“Well, you know Felipe. He always thinks he knows everything. But I think we’re both a little lost on what’s going on here. He got this phone call—”
“Of course.” She’d been right. Her mom had finally caved and called him to swoop in and fix everything. Too bad she’d been a little too late.
“Come on,” Marisol said. “I want to get this over with.” She grabbed Annie’s hand and tugged her toward the door.
“Wait.” Annie planted her feet. “Real girl talk before we go out there. This Evan guy? This is the real thing isn’t it?”
“Evan?” Why was Annie asking about this now, with everything going on outside the bathroom door?
“Yeah. Not just for TV, right?”
Marisol bit the inside of her cheek. For a while, it had felt more like the “real thing” than anything she’d experienced. At home, all of her flings had a two-week shelf life. Maybe a week or two more if they were stuck together on a brigade. But even then, she’d usually be bored and itching for the guy to get the hell out of Nicaragua by the second week. That must be it. We never made it to two weeks.
“It was only for television,” Marisol said.
Annie crossed her arms and leaned against the sink. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you might need to tell him that.” Annie pulled open the bathroom door. “Because his emails were definitely not only for television.”
“Emails?” Marisol’s feet stuttered, and she stopped in the doorway. There, ten feet down the hallway, Felipe stood with his arms across his chest looking mildly amused as he spoke with a guy standing on crutches.
A guy with stray blond curls and a certain perpetually rumpled look.
Evan.
• • •
Everything hurt. His head—a side effect of too little sleep and too much crazy. His armpits—a side effect of using the ancient crutches he’d found in the attic. His broken ankle—a side effect of, well, no side effects. He’d opted for a hefty dose of over-the-counter stuff so he could be coherent enough for what he was about to do. But Evan was starting to wish he wasn’t so coherent.
“You’d just have to narrate a few things. Tell a couple of stories about what’s being shown on the screen.”
