The North PacificBoard

I've performed in sold-out arenas, but never in a race against time—now, I'm late for dinner, and it feels like the whole world’s watching. How did this happen? I wonder.

“Ughh…” I groan to myself, as I sit up. My body betrayed me, and I succumbed to my exhaustion nearly two hours ago. That also meant I was two hours late to dinner, and I’ve just woken up.

I glance to the Victorian nightstand to my left, with its intricate wood carvings and marble surface. Upon it sat the room keys, forgotten yet impossible to ignore. Its dull metal gleamed faintly in the soft light, as though it had been begging for my attention all this time.

“Uh oh…” I mutter. The door had been locked this entire time; that’s probably why no one woke me up. They couldn’t get in.

My managers are going to kill me. I think to myself. I thought of Daan’s short, angry demeanor, and how he’ll tell me how much money we’ve lost. I used to be scared of him, back when he had the power to fire me. But that was also back when I was treated like a person, a part of the company. Now, they all treat me like I am the company. I guess that would be correct, but I don’t like it. As I sit up, I think of what I had just dreamt of. A vivid memory in my mind, my childhood, of the time I almost cut my thumb off. The dirty studio, my mom’s favoritism, and our general poverty. All things I now know my coworkers could never relate to. I hold up my thumb, smirking slightly at the white scar lining its center.

I could almost smell my mother’s cigarettes. I remember sitting on the curb with my sister, Nikoletta, waiting for the ambulance. My sister was always there for me; she was basically my second mother. Now, Nikoletta works at a fishermen’s hostel up in Eluþera, about as far away she could get from Mom without leaving the country.

10:28 PM.

A brutal thud rings from the door, a deafening assault on my silent thoughts. “Marge! Open the door!”

It’s Daan. I know from his angry, high-pitched voice.

“Shæz!” I scream with annoyance, finally lifting myself from the bed. Not bothering to brush my hair, or even put on shoes, I stomp over to the door, rolling my eyes. I reach for the doorknob, quickly shifting my demeanor as I suddenly smile.

Opening the door, I say “Give me ten minutes.”

“Fine, but I expect to see you…” Daan’s gaze shifts to his watch briefly.

I side-eye him, keeping my wide smile. “Uh-huh…” I follow softly.

“At 10:38 sharp. No later. You have to eat, then immediately sleep. We are on a strict schedule tomorrow; the Neuwborgers expect to see your face at noon.” Daan says in a nasal tone, his square sunglasses hiding his facial expression.

I nod one final time before shutting the door. As I walk to the bathroom, I roll my eyes. I give myself a look in the mirror.

“Holy Ogier!” I exclaim; I couldn’t get my eyes off my disheveled face. My appearance was an unfinished symphony, the harmony of my neatness fractured into jagged lines of disarray, all within just two hours. My smeared make-up, baggy eyes, rumpled clothes,and complete mop of a head. I slept on my face, it’s no wonder.

“What if I just went out like this? ‘Scare away all those princes.” I joke to myself. I neatly brush my hair, before quickly curling it. The heat of the curling iron meets my strands, the warmth slowly sinking into each lock and correcting their imperfections. I look a little better, smirking to myself. I check the clock; it’s 10:31. I drench my face in water, as the foam of the cleanser spreads across my face, smooth and silky, relaxing my pores as I massage it in. I take a long moment to rinse it off completely, forced to hold my breath as to not inhale the foamy mixture. I blot my face with a towel. I look to the counter, eyeing my toiletry bag. I probably spend 5 minutes applying the rest— toner, serum, eye cream, and moisturizer.

However long it took, I look presentable again. Probably not presentable enough for the harsh gaze of the public eye, but presentable enough for this waterfront hotel. I check the clock yet again; 10:37. Shæz.

“Marge! Margoræ!” It’s Daan. It’s always Daan. His voice is in some almost-whiny tone that irks me. There’s a loud repeating knock on the door.

“I-I’m not dressed! I need my clothes unpacked!” I yell, lip gloss in hand. I roll my eyes, as I paint a thin layer of gloss over my lips. I stare at myself in the mirror, almost amazed at how quick my improvement in appearance was. If it weren’t for the fact I was practically forced to learn that skill.

“Open the damn door! Your clothes are in the purple suitcase!”

“Alright! Alright! Give me a moment!” I set the lip gloss on the counter, swirling my hand in anger. I exit the bathroom, sliding the door closed. I stare at the room, admiring its velvet-plated walls and sculpted wooden baseboards. Upon the floral-sheeted bed sits my suitcases, the “purple one” situated between at least ten others ones. I audibly groan.

“Daan, just wait downstairs! I’ll be there in five minutes. You cannot reasonably expect me to be ready in just ten minutes!”

…

No response. He’s obviously gone. If he was here, he’d be whining for the entirety of those five minutes. Daan was probably so tired from stuffing his fat face that he ran out of energy to scold me. Thank god.

10:41 PM.

After a few minutes of “heavy lifting,” I had successfully removed the purple suitcase. Sitting it on the marble-topped footboard bench, I rummage through its contents. Skirts, sundresses, gowns, everything. I decided on a slim maxi dress. I slip the cotton over my head, admiring its simplicity and maroon color. As I pull it down, it settles around my ankles, the weight of the dress giving me a feeling of normalness again. I slip into some black kitty heels, as I gaze into the elegant mirror before me. My eyes trace over the aged golden rim of the mirror, before focusing on myself. I look much better than twenty minutes ago, but maybe not two hours ago. I certainly feel better— kind of.

“Marge!”

Or maybe not…