Collared(87)

When I nod, she opens the door and waves me through it. When I start to leave, Mom falls in right behind me, hanging so close she’ll crash into my back if I slow down.

I hear a bunch of noise coming from my living room, but I also hear Dad’s and Sam’s voices. That makes it easier to keep going when I want to turn around and tuck back into that closet I’ve spent more than my first night in. I focus on the good and let it propel me forward instead of letting the fear pull me back into its cave.

I glance in the kitchen as I come to the end of the hall. I can’t help but smile at the coffeepot propped on the counter. Maybe one day I’ll get a chance to use it. I’ve figured out how finally.

When I turn into the living room, I roll to a stop. All of my stuff’s still here: the couch, tables, old chair, pictures, and throw pillows, but it looks entirely different. Not only are there at least a dozen unfamiliar faces squeezing around each other in the small space, there are twice as many foreign objects. Lights, cameras, other tech-looking things I can’t name . . . all of it’s overflowing in my little room.

I feel my heartbeat quicken and my palms dampen. Am I ready for this? Am I really ready for this? The reporters camped outside have shrunk in number but not in tenacity. I don’t get followed for quite as long by quite as many of them anymore, but I still can’t have a single private moment in public without feeling like a camera’s watching me.

I finally agreed to this big interview with this giant station with this legend of a reporter because once my story’s out there, I’ll be left alone. Or at least a little more left alone. I guess it’ll still be months before the cameras leave my front door, and years before I can stuff a hot dog in my mouth without having to worry about a camera snapping at the worst possible time.

I can do this. I want to do this.

I repeat that to myself as I position a smile into place. I say it silently as I force my feet to break through the roots keeping them in place. Sometimes I have to pretend I feel brave before I actually do. Sometimes I never make it past the pretending part. But those days are getting fewer and further between.

“Miss Childs.” The reporter who is just as flawless and poised in person as she appears on TV notices me and approaches. She’s wearing a dark skirt suit with a few pieces of gold jewelry popping out.

I glance at my mom with a raised brow, and she sighs. Even the reporter has shown up to the interview like she’s attending a funeral. Black.

No more black. I’m done with it. At least willingly letting it into my life. I’m done letting it strangle me without fighting back.

“I can’t tell you how honored I am to be the one you’re ready to tell your story to for the first time.” She holds out her hand when she stops in front of me, and I shake it without thinking about it. I can shake people’s hands and brush by them and not feel like it’s a giant invasion of privacy.

“Thank you for coming here. I know it must have been a huge inconvenience.” My voice wobbles a little, but if she notices, I can’t tell.

“If you wanted to do this interview on the moon, it wouldn’t have been an inconvenience.” She smiles, and I get the feeling it’s a real one.

This is part of the reason I requested her—because of the genuineness she seems to embody in a profession I can’t exactly say with a lot of confidence personifies that quality. Plus, she actually seems to give a shit about what she reports and the people she interviews. Giving a shit is important.

Dr. Argent taught me that.

“We’re ready when you are, but feel free to take as much time as you need. I know this has to be difficult for you.”

I swallow. I try not to think about the questions she’s going to ask me. I try not to think about my answers. “A little.”

“Everyone I’ve ever interviewed has been nervous, so you’re not alone. Just try to forget about all of this stuff and pretend it’s just you and me having a conversation.” She leans in and points at someone playing with a big camera that’s facing the chair I’ll be in. “If that doesn’t work, just look at Cameron’s beard. That always gets a laugh.”

Hearing his name, Cameron sighs and strokes what I guess some people might consider a beard. “The beard again? Really? Aren’t you a reporter? Fresh material should not be a foreign concept.”

The reporter chuckles and starts toward the chair she’ll be sitting in across from me. “That is not a beard. That is a thirteen-year-old’s peach fuzz.”

Mom and Dr. Argent are laughing, but Mom’s trying to rein it in, I guess for Cameron’s sake. Or Cameron’s beard’s sake.

My feet are able to move, and even though every step becomes harder to take, I keep going.

Dad and Sam are standing off to the side, leaning against the back wall. They flash me a couple of thumbs-ups when I look over. Mom and Dr. Argent join them against the wall. This way, they’ll be right here, just in the corner of my eye.

Everyone’s here—even Patrick and Maisy are milling around somewhere, but now that she’s two, she has a tough time with the whole staying still thing.

I guess almost everyone’s here. One is missing. Today isn’t just my birthday—it’s a Sunday. Since it’s eight o’clock, he’s probably just about to start early mass. Torrin’s suspension ended ten months ago, and he’s gotten back to doing what he does best—being him. He’s helped people, he done the right thing, he’s spreading good like it’s going extinct, and he’s shone a light everywhere he’s gone.