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I shake my head. No, that’s nonsense. Maybe this is the new fashion in their circles. Who knows? And even if they are pimping me out, at least it won’t be to Sean. That’s an improvement, right?
A relief.
So I put on the damn dress, the heels and the necklace, and stand in front of the mirror.
A wince twists my face. The dress sticks to me like cling wrap, and it’s so short I’ll be flashing anyone walking behind me on a staircase. Sitting down will be tricky. The fabric shimmers as I turn. I feel… exposed. Naked.
I feel like I’m about to sell my body to the highest bidder. It’s not exciting. It’s not good. It’s scary. Makes me feel sick.
Quickly, before I change my mind, I take out my make-up bag and get to work. I learned the tricks from my mother’s beautician—how to use foundation to cover any skin imperfections, how to use eyeliner to make my eyes look larger. How to cover up every flaw.
Being Rich 101.
I apply the make-up with practiced moves, then wait until my hand steadies before I apply the eyeliner, shadow and mascara. Keeping my mind blank—or trying to—I put on some red lipstick to match my dress, and slip on golden earrings and my golden Gucci watch.
Red and gold. Gift-wrapped, like a Christmas present. For whom?
I blink in the mirror, my eyes the only blue in the picture, the fear in them strident. A contradiction to the confidence the ensemble projects. Here I am, my hair held up, blond curls framing my face, my lips and nails red, all of me red, like passion and fire, like blood. A wannabe Marilyn, while inside I’m cold and terrified.
Why am I scared? I stomp back into my bedroom and stop, taking deep breaths. I’m a grown woman. Nobody can force me to do anything I don’t want.
Like go to the gala? Wear this dress? Heck—study what my dad wants and marry a man who will control my every move?
I hang my head. That’s not what this is about, I remind myself, or rather try to convince myself. There’s no reason to be afraid of going to this stupid gala. I’ve been to so many I’ve lost count. There’s nothing to it.
I’m good. I’m used to this. I know what to do, and nothing can hurt me.
Repeating the mantra in my head, I grab my coat and purse, and head out.
***
The gala is being held at the magnificent Monona Terrace, by the lake. I slow down, and a valet approaches to take the car. I step out, give him the key and receive my ticket. Then I walk the small distance to the entrance in my new, painful shoes. By the time I’m let inside, my feet are killing me. I’m used to high heels, but these are so tall I teeter on them, permanently off balance.
It’s really not helping. Hell, I already feel like I’m not in control. Swallowing the urge to kick off the shoes and run away, I enter the covered grand terrace with its gigantic mullioned windows, and move through the sparkling crowd, looking for my parents.
Here I am. I’ve kept my side of the bargain. I dressed up according to their wishes, and showed up. They need to see that, and keep their promise. Talk to me. Let me talk. Agree on something.
Focused on my parent-finding mission, I almost crash into a short, rotund man who yelps, and then laughs.
“My dear Miss Leon. So nice to see you,” he says and steadies me with a hand on my arm.
I look down at him from my vantage point, perched on my skyscraper heels, and try to place him. “Mr. Walker?”
“In the flesh. Call me Mason.” He grips my arm in his surprisingly big hand and pulls me toward a
colorful display. “So kind of you to come. Your mother did mention you’re interested in the topic.”
“Really?” I look up at the display—and gape. Distantly I knew this was a charity event. These galas organized by the Jensons usually are—a way to save on taxes and do business under the cover of goodwill. And yet this… This is exactly what I’d like to get involved in: donating to finance an archaeological dig in Guatemala, partly by paying locals to work there.
My heart pounds with excitement, and for a moment I forget the reason I’m here and the awful slutty dress I’m wearing. I forget about Mr. Walker and the people milling around us.
That’s what I’d rather be doing, what I can imagine myself doing. Digging into ancient history. Helping people in the present. Crafting a future.
“There will be a training program for the locals,” Mr. Walker—Mason—is saying. “We can’t train them to be archaeologists, but we can train them to be specialized workers and overseers, and explain to them how preserving their heritage can profit them. How they can create an eco-tourist complex around the archaeological site, which will respect both nature and history. How the long-term benefits are so much better than the immediate profits of looting and selling what they find.”
“It sounds great,” I say in all honesty. I finally remember who Mason Walker is: owner of the exclusive Walker Suites Hotel chain, involved in many third-world country projects. “I’d love to help.”
“You will be donating, I assume?”
