Page 1 of You and Me, For Real
1
ASHTON
Sometimes, you have to pull up your big-girl panties and face your fears.
But this is notthatmoment, my friend.
No, this is a moment for hiding on a pile of dog food bags in a dark storage closet while cramming a Snickers bar into one’s mouth. My taste buds temporarily hijack my focus off my looming fate—facing a camera for the first time in five years—and on to the delicious combination of chocolate, caramel, and peanuts.
The door opens, and a beam of light rudely interrupts my blissful sanctuary, ushering in the California Bay Animal Shelter’s overwhelming yet familiar scents of unwashed dogs, excrement, and the bleach that tries to mask it.
I squint into the light. Marissa appears. Her fifty-bajillion Swiftie bracelets jingle as she puts her hand on her hip. “Lynn said it’s time.”
Vehemently, I shake my head like the petulant child I know I’m being and mumble through my mouthful of food escapism, “No fank you.”
Marissa leans on the door, flips her dark ponytail over her shoulder, and crosses her arms. “She said you’d be like this.”
Of course Lynn did. It’s because she’s practically a surrogate mother to me and knows me better than anyone—especially more than my own mom ever did. She’s the reason I even had the idea to start a privately funded rescue to begin with. She gave me a fresh start and a new family, just like I hope to do for dogs.
Illuminated only by the hall light, Marissa’s facial features are unreadable, and yet, I canhearher eye-roll. “She told me to tell you she promises you won’t have to speak in front of the camera.”
Yeah, right.
“She’ll do all the talking for you.”
As the shelter’s manager, it makes sense she’d talk about the adoption day we’re advertising, but she shouldn’t have to speak for my rescue center. I crumple the Snickers wrapper between my hands, clasping my fingers together tightly.
From Marissa’s gentle coaxing, you would think she’s the adult in this situation, but you’d be wrong. I am seven years older than her sweet, sweet, sixteen-year-old self.
I’ve reached a new level of pathetic.
“Okay.” I stand, attempting to obtain a semblance of bravery, knowing I’d be a fool to miss this opportunity. While the news crew may be here promoting the California Bay Animal Shelter’s adoption day, it’s a great opportunity to plug my start-up rescue center—something I’ve been dreaming about for years but unable to make headway on with grant funding. Now, I’m shifting to seek donations instead. It’s a bit hard to do when you mostly interact with four-legged furry friends.
“What’s the big deal? It’s just one news reporter. She seems nice.”
I understand her confusion. To everyone else, this opportunity is amazing. But I’ve had plenty of moments in thespotlight. I’m not eager for it again, regardless of what it can do for the shelter and rescue. I’m quite content in my quiet corner of life, and I’d like to keep it that way.
I, too, used to be trusting and open-minded. But that was a long time ago. I can barely remember my all-too-brief childhood before it was stolen for the world’s entertainment. It’s not Marissa’s fault she doesn’t know about my sordid past with being filmed. I’ve only ever told Lynn about my fears of my mom and sister finding me, and the media connecting me with my past. I wouldn’t dare put my trauma on her delicate shoulders by trying to explain how it only takes a single clip for your life to be turned upside down. Nope. I’ll just bottle up that complicated crazy and zip it tight. Like any normal, considerate person would do.
I turn to the shelves and adjust our spare medical kits. “I’ll be there in five.” I need a few more minutes of breathing exercises and mental pep-talk.
Instead of leaving as I’d hoped, she extends her arm, examining her freshly painted nails. “Lynn said to wait for you.”
Not a care in the world, this girl. I envy her.
Lynn, despite pushing seventy, is sharper than a tack. She knows I’m tempted to bolt out the shelter’s back door to freedom. I shake out my arms and hands in an attempt to fling my anxiety and expel it from my body. I wipe my sweaty palms on my scrubs, ignoring the dog hair that clings to both.
“You look like you’re about to puke.”
Thank you for that accurate insight, Marissa.I shake my head. The candy bar sludge creeps up my throat. Swallowing hard, I lock it down, clamp my lips shut, and force myself into the hallway, straightening my spine.
Behind me, Marissa says, “She said to grab a couple of dogs for the interview.”
I nod, agreeing to the laughable task Lynn has placed on my shoulders. The shelter is overflowing with dogs. Which dog would best promote the shelter? Which would best plead with their innocent eyes, convey “adopt me,” and alleviate the stress from the city shelter’s overwhelming need for adoptions?
Sure thing, boss. No pressure.
I walk the kennels. Marissa trails behind, carrying a couple of leashes in preparation for the lucky star in this news spotlight. Each dog begs for love, a home, and a new chance. I know exactly how they feel. It’s up to me to pull it together and give them the opportunity they deserve.
