Chapter 2 - The Microphone Stayed On
The microphone was still on. I could hear it.
My breath came through in a small puff, and then again, louder. The black gooseneck was too high and I had to tilt my chin up to reach it. The clear acrylic podium was cold against my stomach where I leaned in. My clutch was right under the mic.
Dad was so close I could smell his cologne. He didn't look out at the tables anymore. He looked down at me, and his smile stayed exactly where it was, but his eyes weren't smiling at all. He leaned in like he was going to fix my hair or say something sweet for the crowd.
"Ellie," he said, quiet, so the mic barely caught it. "Step down, honey. Now."
He kept one hand on the podium like he was steadying it, the other hovering just behind my back, not touching, not pulling. He didn't want to look like he was pulling me. Vanessa stood on my other side. She hadn't moved away. Her fingers had gone up to the pearls again. She held the middle strand gently, like she was protecting it.
I saw Mom then. Past the bright stage lights, past Dad's shoulder. She was halfway out from our round table. Her napkin was still on her chair. She had one hand on the back of the chair like she'd pushed it back too fast, and now she was walking up the side aisle. Not fast. She wasn't running. She was coming, though. Her navy dress caught the candlelight and the expression on her face was the one she got when she was trying not to make a scene.
I didn't step down.
My thumbs found the little silver frame on the clutch. It was the kind with two tiny balls you had to pinch. Grandma's hands had held this same clasp. I'd watched her open it a hundred times at her kitchen table, fishing out a tissue or a hard candy. My hands were sweating and the metal was slick.
I could hear the room. Someone coughing. A chair scraping. All those people in suits and dresses sitting at white tables with their floral centerpieces, all turned toward us. Behind Dad and Vanessa, the big projection screen was still showing that huge photo of Dad in his tux, smiling with his arms crossed. TONIGHT WE HONOR in gold letters. The light from the projector made the side of Vanessa's champagne dress glow.
A man in a black vest and headset came up fast to the edge of the stage, near the stairs. The banquet manager. He looked at Dad, then at me, then at Dad again, waiting for a signal. He had his hand up, like he was about to wave someone over or cut the audio. Dad gave him a tiny shake of his head. Not yet.
That was the moment. Dad could have picked me up. He could have switched the mic off. He didn't.
"Ellie, what are you doing?" he said, and this time he said it into the microphone, so everyone heard. His voice cracked a little on doing. He tried to make it sound light, a dad laughing at his kid. It didn't sound light.
Vanessa's hand tightened on her pearls. I saw her knuckles go white for half a second before she smoothed them flat again.
Mom was closer now. Three tables away. She wasn't calling out. She was just watching me, her bracelet catching the light. She mouthed something I couldn't hear. Are you okay? Maybe.
I breathed in. The mic made it loud. A shaky inhale that went out over every speaker in the room. I pressed my thumbs into the clasp.
Click.
It was a small sound but the mic picked it up. A little metallic pop. The frame of the clutch loosened and the top cracked open, just an inch. Just enough that I could see the white edge of folded paper inside and the black corner of something smooth and small. I didn't pull anything out. I didn't have to yet.
Dad's hand on the podium flexed. I saw the white of his pocket square and the sweat starting at his temple under the stage lights. He leaned again.
"Sweetheart," he whispered, not into the mic this time, angled away, "give that to me. We'll look at it after."
Vanessa didn't say anything. She just stood there, her palm now flat over the pearls, holding them against her chest.
May you like
Mom had stopped at the bottom of the steps. She wasn't on the stage. She had one foot on the first step and one hand on the railing. She was looking at me, not at Dad. Letting me decide.
The guests were quiet. Even the servers near the back wall had stopped moving. The chandeliers hummed faintly. The big image of Dad stayed frozen on the screen behind us, and we were all standing under it, not moving. I held the clutch open that one inch, my fingers shaking, and I didn't step back.
