THE MAJORITY of the next day passes without anything exciting happening. We walk around the city some more and look for moderately famous people, though we find none. We stop for lunch, but I can only nibble briefly on my real New York pizza. I prefer New Haven, Connecticut, pizza, anyways.
All too soon it is time to return to the hotel and get ready for the ceremony. I find that as we get closer to the hotel to change and get ready, breathing becomes a slight challenge. I get just a little woozy, and then very nauseous. My mom notices and hurries us to the hotel room and sits me on the bed, instructing me to curl up and keep my head between my knees.
“What is this?” My voice is barely audible through the layers of clothing I am speaking to.
“I think it’s a panic attack of sorts,” my mom guesses. “Are you nervous for the ceremony?” I nod in response, and my voice comes out muffled.
“There are going to be strangers listening to me read my poem… and they’re going to see my scars and arm. I’m scared.” I have all of these thoughts at once, and they overwhelm me. My stomach roils.
“When have you ever been scared? This is a first, Carter.” Emmett’s voice floats into my ear, and I find that he is sitting next to me, his legs pulled into a similar position. “Really,” he continues. “You’re always so full of confidence and you walk all briskly and stuff and you have a good idea of what is going on. You write killer poetry, and I envy the color of your hair a ridiculous amount. So what makes you nervous now? This is like the judgment-free hill of flowy clothing but without a hill and white clothes. We’re dressing up for a night on the town and our clothes are better than the judgment-free hill of flowy clothing because I have a motherfucking bow tie… (He apologizes to my mom’s vaguely annoyed grunt) and I think we should enjoy it,” he finishes grandly.
“You couldn’t have hair this color if you tried. It’s all genetic.” I lift my head and elbow him, smiling a little.
“My dear Carter, if I had hair that color I would very likely be a male model. You are well aware of how I made puberty my bitch, no? Except I’d be a terrible model, and I have nothing that remotely resembles the ab-ular muscles.” He pauses for a breath and references the slightest pudge under his shirt.
“But though I’ve gone and made puberty my bitch, Car, you’ve made this entire situation your bitch. I have never met a single other person in my life who has had the experiences in the past months that you have had, but you have come back from it so strongly that you have a new sort of normal, and you have regained and then doubled the awesomeness you possessed before.” Emmett seems done for real now, because this time he flourishes his arms grandly before sweeping me into a hug. I feel suffocated for a moment and begin to pull away, but I force myself to relax and enjoy the hug because I know Emmett means well.
I whisper my profuse thanks and one last playful taunt about my hair to him before pulling out of the hug, grabbing my dress off the doorknob, and disappearing into the bathroom to change. I feel all right again. There is some banging about outside, and I assume Emmett and my mother have some arrangement figured out in which they change their clothes as well.
I try to clear my mind, focusing on pulling off the layers required by an unexpected chilly day. The clothes all hit the floor, and I slip the dress on, keeping my eyes closed the whole time, for once not seeing the scars that dance across my thighs or up my arms. It’s a bit of an unpleasant reality to open my eyes to them, so I take a small solace in not needing to see them for a little while.
After the dress is on, I have to zipper it, and that of course takes some effort because it’s hard enough with two hands, let alone one. The zipper is on my back, and I wrestle with the dress quite a bit before resolving to have my mom help me. I look in the mirror, mussing my hair and gently spiking it up like it was in the interview and take some makeup out of the bag I left on the bathroom counter this morning. I carefully put on lipstick before putting the tube in one of my totally awesome dress pockets and gently put mascara on, successfully not stabbing myself in the eyeballs. I put on a little bit of blush and smear some eye shadow on because it’s not hard to fuck up the basics of makeup. Lastly, I step back to look at myself in the mirror and suck in my guts.
I look almost elegant. It’s kind of nice.