Page 28 of Say It Isn't So

With a final glance in the mirror and swipe of a blush brush across my cheeks, I spun on my heel. I was ready.

Nothing and no one could ruin this moment for me.

* * *

Countdown to show: 5 minutes

All around me were models, hair stylists, makeup artists, stylists, photographers, and, of course, my team.

Cameras were clicking non-stop, so much so that it became background noise. I barely noticed the cameras until I all but ran into a guy holding one. “Sorry! Sorry!” he yelled, because the dramatic music that had begun playing out front was deafening.

“Rina!” I heard my name being called from the front of the line the models were forming.

Just as I began walking over there, though, I heard, “Rina!” from another direction and then, “Rina, this is all wrong!” from somewhere else.

Geez, everyone needed to hold their horses because I couldn’t very well make carbon copies of myself. But this was what I had a staff for. “Paula!” I called. When I saw her head pop into view, I pointed to one of the people who needed my help. “Assist there?” Then I called for, “Sandy!” I didn’t know where she came from, but she appeared right behind me. “Over there.” I pointed to a corner.

There was no time to take a deep breath like I wanted, so I just continued, walking to the woman I was eyeing since she called my name. Finally, I made my presence known. “The lip color is all wrong.” The makeup artist didn’t question me, only brought out two new shades for me to choose from. I shooed them both away and placed a hand on my chin, thinking. “We need a darker lip with a lighter liner. What we have doesn’t make the look come together nicely, but that will.”

She nodded and did as I instructed. I couldn’t stay to see the result, though, just having to go with my gut (as I did most times in this industry) because I was already being called elsewhere.

“Rina, the sleeve ripped,” one of the women said in a panic, on the verge of tears.

I rolled my lips together. “Don’t you dare cry,” I ordered. “We don’t have time for that. Let’s just go with the flow here. Maybe it’s for the best, right? Let’s get rid of the sleeves and make it look intentional.”

“But this dress,” she started, her voice shaking, “won’t look good sleeveless.”

My head snapped to her and I gave her a say-that-again look. She didn’t dare say anything else. Instead of saying another word, I simply clutched the sleeve in my hands and yanked, tearing it off completely. Then I did the same with the other one. “Yes, that’ll do.”

Before leaving, I yelled, “The show must go on!” and it was for anyone who needed to hear it. Including myself, to be honest.

I wanted to live in the moment and truly remember this for what it was—a miracle that it was even happening. To me, I meant. There had been a point in my life when I didn’t think it would, but I never gave up, and I’d quite literally given up everything I had to make this one dream (my biggest dream) a reality. So everything—and I meant everything—needed to be perfect.

Click. Click. Click.Cameras went off rapid fire.

“Oh, my sweet girl!” I heard my mother’s distinct accent.

Yael Blum was a strong woman, a woman who was not to be ignored, so of course I turned to her. And if you thought I was wrong, then let me tell you what she was wearing—my new signature leopard print trench and black leather knee-high boots—and she looked fabulous for a woman her age. My mother might have had all her dreams crushed, but she was still a woman of grandeur, and it was apparent.

“Mom,” I gushed, “you’re a vision in that.” I leaned in and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I hope you’re telling everyone who stops you who you’re wearing.”

At one time we had been a spitting image of one another, but not anymore. See, she still had shoulder-length blonde hair, but I had dyed my hair red and cut it into a layered bob with side swept bangs that had a deep side part. Not to boast or anything, but it looked fantastic when I blow-dried it. Most importantly, it suited the new me.

She arched a brow and took off her black gloves, placing them in her purse. “What do you think? Of course I’m telling everyone this design is my very talented daughter’s.” She sighed and pursed her nude-colored lips. “Rina, this”—she looked around, her eyes watering—“this is what I’ve always wanted for you.”

“I know, Mom,” I answered, proud of how far I’d come, too. I smiled at her. “This is all because of you, you know.”

She shook her head and closed her eyes momentarily. “No, this is all because of you.” She enunciated that last part, widening her eyes. “I gave you your start in New York, but you got here because of your drive and tireless dedication.”

“Rina!” The sound of my name being called had my gaze darting elsewhere.

Whoever it was, didn’t they know I was sharing a moment with my mother?

A man walked over to us with a model. “Rina,” he said my name again, though he didn’t need to because he clearly already had my attention.

I blinked when I really saw the model. “Why is she wearing glasses?” I asked, pointing to her.

She opened her mouth to speak, but was cut off by the stylist, who explained, “Her contact ripped andsomeonedidn’t bring a back-up pair”—he turned and gave her a pointed look—“but the glasses hide the smokey eyes.”

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