The few people who know about my anxiety always say the same things: that it’s okay, that they’ll watch out to make sure I don’t get uncomfortable, that I don’t have to worry. But that’s never how it works. I don’t know how to communicate a panic attack in the middle of one.
“I just want you to tell me if I do anything that freaks you out,” he says. “I— Well, I know I can be too much sometimes.”
I don’t know if I should laugh or roll my eyes. He’s not overwhelming, exactly, not in the same way people at school or strangers can be. I guess he’s still a stranger, but it’s not the same sort of anxiety. Marius just seems different. I like being overwhelmed by him.
“You’re not.” I stare down at the ground. “It’s— She’s not really supposed to go around telling people that.”
“Sorry. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that, if it makes you feel better.”
“No.” I shake my head, glancing back at my notebook. “You don’t bother me, anyway, so you don’t have to worry about it.”
It’s just looking at him that bothers me. I’m afraid to do it for too long because I might never look away. It’s not fair that I’m supposed to be professional when he seems so cool.
“Oh.” He pauses. I watch him rub one thumb over the other. “That’s good, right?”
“I mean, it only gets hard around people I know or really care about.” I wince. That definitely didn’t sound good. “Not that I’m saying I don’t care about you. It’s just— Usually interviews are easier because I’m interested, but it’s not like I’m talking to the same person every day for the next four years, you know?”
“So school must be hard.”
I glance up. There’s something understanding in his eyes. For a second, I forgot he went to an actual school. I want to ask what it was like, if he knows how it feels to be so interested in something that people don’t usually care about, if he was the odd one out.
I don’t get the chance to say anything at all, because Christina and Meghan come whirling back in. Marius glances over at them but smiles at me again. It doesn’t seem like smiling takes any effort on his part. He just gives smiles away.
“Christina, could we play music?” he asks. “It’s really quiet.”
“Of course.” She waves a hand at Meghan, who puts down her notes and walks over to a stereo in the corner. “I have to warn you, though. I’m not sure we’ll share the same taste in music.”
Something light, with lots of harps, fills the room. I go back to doodling in my notebook. I realize, twenty minutes into this fitting, that I probably should’ve been recording. What an idiot. I guess that’s one more thing to remember for next time.
“Josie.”
My eyes snap up. Marius isn’t yelling, but he’s the only one speaking. There’s also the fact that him saying my name is like catnip or something. I hate it. I’m still not sure how to get rid of the tightening in my chest when he does it.
“I like A Tribe Called Quest,” he says, hands in his coat pockets. “Do you like them? Have a favorite song?”
“Of course I like them,” I say. All Black parents from a certain generation play their songs at parties. “I, um, like ‘Check the Rhime.’ ”
My favorite ATCQ song is actually “Electric Relaxation,” but the entire song is about sex, and I definitely don’t think that should be playing right now.
Christina and Meghan work on him for a little longer, “Check the Rhime” playing in the background. It might be because of the song, but I actually feel safe. Safe enough to get up and wander around.
“Do you mind if I look at these?” I ask Christina, gesturing toward a rack of clothes. “I won’t rip anything.”
She waves a hand. I take that as a yes.
Christina makes colorful clothes. They aren’t bright like Skittles, more like those variety packs of twenty-dollar colored pencils. I don’t think I’d wear any of them. They seem too loud, calling too much attention. Maybe that’s what famous people want. I definitely don’t.
There is one dress. It’s short-sleeved, black with roses embroidered all over the place. There’s also a long slit that would reveal leg, Angelina Jolie–style. I guess it’s the type of dress to call attention, but it isn’t as bad as the other ones, at least to me. It’s beautiful. I run my hands over some of the roses. They’re different colors—red and orange and yellow—contrasting against the black background.
“You should try it on.”
Marius is next to me. I don’t yelp, which I consider an accomplishment. He’s not wearing the suit jacket anymore, just an undershirt. I can’t tell if he’s joking or if he actually thinks this would look good on me. Of course it would look good. It’s a beautiful dress. But that doesn’t mean I’d look good in it.
“I don’t think so,” I say, letting my hands run over it. This isn’t about me anyway. “There’s no way it would fit.”
“Well, yeah,” he says. “They never do at first. My jacket doesn’t fit.”
For a second, I let myself stare at him, hoping. I shouldn’t. I’ll expect this dress to fit me, to look beautiful, to look like it was meant for me. And then it’ll hurt even more when none of those things happen.
“Christina,” he says, turning around, “don’t you think Josie would look beautiful in this dress?”
Oh God.
I’ve been called beautiful before. My parents and my sisters tell me—at least, one of my sisters does. Even Cash tells me, after we spend the night together reading stories about princesses, the same ones Mom and Dad used to read to me.
But it’s different coming out of Marius’s mouth. Maybe because it feels like he’s lying. Maybe because people never say it to me unless they’re trying to make me feel better: “You’d be so beautiful if
