Chapter 8

You're Still Here? 

Diana

Waking up at seven in the morning on a Sunday is, at minimum, violence against the body. At maximum, against common sense, which our family apparently did not possess, judging by the noises coming from behind my bedroom door.

I don't know how Sunday starts in other apartments, but in ours it almost always began the same way:

"Moooom! Have you seen my elbow pads? I'm late for practice! They were under the bed, but now they're not there!"

"Check the balcony, under the drying rack! Or in your backpack! I wiped them down and put them away, but I don't remember where!"

"Mooom, do I have clean sports shorts?"

"Check the drying rack!"

"And socks?"

"Did you look in the dresser?"

"Yes, they're not there!"

"What about under the dresser?"

"Mom, but then they aren't clean!"

"Then what are they doing there? Building nests for spiders?"

"Come on, Mooooom!"

"Stan, take new ones from Dad and wake Diana! Let me wash my hair!"

"Where does Dad keep new socks?"

"Tony!"

"Natasha, I can't step away, my cutlets will burn!"

"Diii!" The door to my bedroom flew open with a bang, and my brother's rumpled head poked inside. "Do you know where Dad keeps new socks? I'm late for practice!"

I opened one eye, peeled my cheek off the pillow, and yawned.

"In the entryway, in the closet on the bottom shelf next to the memory vitamins. Just don't take the red ones or you'll forget everything again. Take the blue."

"Very funny! Mom asked me to wake you."

"I heard. I'm getting up..."

Stan disappeared, but a second later his outraged voice came from the corridor:

"Damn... Mooom! Did you put salt by the door again? I spilled it! What do I do now?!"

"Take off your pants and sit on it. Then you'll definitely make it to practice on time!" Dad called cheerfully from the kitchen.

"Leave it, I'll clean it up!" Mom cut in. "It's protection against energetic parasites so they don't get into the house. A light cleanse won't hurt your aura, Stasik!"

"Mom, I'm fifteen. I have acne and no aura! Just tell me how I'm supposed to get salt off my socks now!"

I rolled onto my side, pulled the blanket over my head, and buried my nose in the pillow, dreaming of a couple more minutes of sleep. But as soon as the front door slammed behind Stan, the alarm started playing under my pillow, and it became clear: Sunday had officially arrived. For me, with no chance of escape.

God, those cutlets smelled amazing from the kitchen. And I was so hungry. Mom really had gotten lucky with Dad, which meant my brother and I had too. I don't want any princes. Give me a guy who cooks like a god, loves me for my weirdness, and I will give him my hand and heart. And even the right to make shared life plans... fine!

I had barely managed to grope for my phone and turn off the alarm when Mom peeked into the room with a towel on her head and a Tarot card in her hand. She waved it in the air, glowing as if she had won a ticket to a BTS concert.

"Diana, honey, get up quickly! Just look what card I drew for your day!"

I threw back the blanket, sat up in bed, and lowered my feet to the floor. Pushing my hair away from my face, I mumbled sleepily:

"Mom, don't tell me it's the Tower. Actually, no, tell me it is, and I'll stay home."

"No! Of course not! It's the Lovers!" Mom bounced. "Amazing, isn't it?"

Amazing?.. That was one word for it. I was ready to be impressed any second now if only I could rub my eyes first.

My gaze fell on the gray jacket I had hung over the back of my computer chair the night before, and the whole previous day surfaced in my memory at once. The show, Demond, the contract... and mandatory attendance at the second date. Today.

I wanted to groan and collapse back into bed, but Mom's face shone with such enthusiasm that instead I heaved a sigh:

"Are you sure the card isn't reversed?"

"I'm sure! Upright as upright gets!"

"And?" I drawled, already guessing that wasn't all.

 "And this came with it! The Eight of Wands!" Mom, like a magician, pulled a second card out of thin air, and the imaginary concert tickets became two. "Diana, honey, you don't need to worry!" she babbled tenderly. "A choice awaits you, fateful feelings, and... a strong connection! I can feel it! True..." Mom faltered, "the third card was the Chariot, so it seems... today won't be easy."

"Great. Just perfect. Complications are exactly what my life is missing right now."

Concern appeared on Mom's face.

"Well, I can look again. Want me to?"

I got up, yawned, kissed Mom on the cheek, and headed for the bathroom. Already closing the door behind me, I asked:

"I'll handle it, Mom, don't worry. Just please don't draw any more cards. At least until lunch, okay?" 

***

Around nine in the morning, I was already standing outside the filming studio, by the girls' entrance, wearing a hat with my backpack on my shoulders, monotonously stepping with my boot heels on a puddle that had frozen overnight and acquired a thin layer of ice. The ice cracked under my heels, and that was far more interesting than listening to the affected chatter and laughter of retro-blonde Margot, who had gathered a little company of other girls around her. Or the dry, haughty remarks from her friend Yvette.

At last, small passenger minibuses pulled up, with the show's logo on the doors, and our presence was checked against a list. Then we were seated with the accompanying crew and driven out of town.

The drive took about an hour, so by the time we pulled up to a beautiful mansion with little towers, like something from an ad for British tea, the view outside the window had changed from apartment blocks and city buildings to a forest belt, and then to snowy fields with pine copses.

I took out my phone and was just about to photograph all this beauty when the minibuses entered a fenced property called "Pleasenville Palace," and our phones were taken away. Then we were led into one of several TV company trailers already parked on-site.

The trailer turned out to be a mobile makeup room, where the stylists were already waiting, drinking coffee and discussing something. Inside, everything looked like a movie: several separate chairs, mirrors with lights, clothing racks, and a snack table the stylists had already half emptied. Greg was the tallest among them and, once again, the first to spot me. Dressed in a black shirt with rolled sleeves and narrow trousers in a tiny check pattern, he stood out sharply with his muscular build and dark tattoos on his neck and hands. The girls who climbed into the trailer immediately started glancing at him and fixing their hair, as if Jason Statham had appeared in front of them with a makeup brush instead of a gun.

I smiled at the young man and awkwardly waved, surprised to find I was happy to see him again.

"Hi, Greg!"

"Did you sleep?" the stylist asked right away, dragging me by the shoulders toward his chair and studying my face. "I can see you did," he nodded with satisfaction, taking my backpack and jacket off me. "Sit." He put me in the chair, turned me toward the mirror, and set the general pace. "We have one hour to create a look, so sit still, don't interfere with the work, and remember: time waits for no one."