Work Me Up

1

Selena

The sound of a phone buzzing penetrates my consciousness suddenly.

With a start, I glance up from the book I’d been buried inside of. The last thing I knew, the castle was under siege, and the gallant prince was riding up on horseback to rescue his bride—my favorite character because she’s more than just a damsel in distress—from the top of the highest tower, where she was launching a counter-attack on the evil king’s invading forces.

The next second, I’m back smack dab in the middle of my narrow apartment living room, sprawled on the couch, my back cramping and my throat parched. I tilt back to pick up the mug of tea that had been steaming beside me, but the green liquid inside it is already cold. How long have I been sitting here?

I squint past the mug around the living room, at the sunlight already starting to fade outside the window. Last I checked it had been early morning. Now it looks like almost sunset.

I shiver and tug at the blanket around my feet when the buzzing comes again, from the side table where I left my cell phone plugged in to charge.

Buzz buzz buzz. A rapid succession of texts that can only be from one person. My mother is one of those single line texters, who sends 20 messages where she could have sent a single, comprehensive one.

Then again, all that repeated buzzing is just about the only thing that gets me to look at my phone, mostly to stop it making so much noise. So maybe there’s a method to her madness.

With a groan, I haul myself off the couch and shuffle over to the side table, lifting my phone from where it lay face down on the surface so as not to interrupt me with any notifications.

25 missed texts. Shit.

I tap on the first one, and my heart sinks down into my stomach.

Selena.

Are you leaving the house yet?

The party starts in 20 minutes.

15 now.

10.

The most recent pair of messages, from a few seconds ago, read:

Have to go prepare.

You better be here soon.

I swallow hard around a lump in my throat. Crap. Mom has been planning this party for months. She practically made me swear on a stack of bibles to attend because she knows how I am about crowds and parties and socializing in general these days. But it’s important to her. She and Dad are celebrating an important new merger of the company they run together—definitely not the kind of party I would normally care about whatsoever, but it means a lot to him and Mom. Or at least, so they’ve spent months drilling into my head. Since their company is a “family-oriented” one, they want the whole family to be there.

Specifically, me. The one who needs to dress properly and be the sweet, polite star of the show.

My stomach churns. I get what my parents are trying to do. Wine and dine and impress their new clients. I just don’t understand why I need to be involved. Why they can’t just keep these kinds of things to business only—why mix business and family?

As we learned the hard way, it never ends well.

I grimace and drop the phone back onto the table, hurrying into my bedroom. Thanks to the fact that I haven’t changed out of these pajamas for the entirety of the weekend so far, all of my clothes are clean. So it shouldn’t take me long to throw together an appropriate outfit.

Let’s see… Something easy and all-purpose… I grab a little black dress from a hook and hurriedly tug off my pajamas to draw it over my head.

As I toss my PJs toward my bed, however, a familiar face catches my eye from a photograph hung near my bedside window. I grimace at the young man, whose normally jovial smile looks vaguely stern right now, as if he’s scolding me. “I’m sorry,” I hiss to the picture, sotto voice. “I’ll do better. I promise.”

It’s up to me to look after my parents, after all. I have one job. I need to focus on it more. I need to be the perfect daughter, the one they deserve. The one who attends the stupid social events of the season they’re always throwing and appreciates the life they worked so hard to build for us.

Even if I don’t believe in it at all. Even if I’d prefer to just sink into obscurity, without any money or the attendant fame and bother that comes with it.

That’s not my choice anymore. I have to do this for my family, because I’m their only daughter.

Finished tugging the dress on, I study myself in the mirror. Decent. I toss on a simple gold necklace and a pair of high heels to go with, and voila. The best thing about A-line, flare-waist dresses is that you look way fancier than the effort required to slip into them.