Chapter 9 - Flashlights That Would Not Lower
I didn't notice the lights at first because I was too busy trying to disappear.
Mom had me tucked against her side, her arm locked around my shoulders, and I kept my face down toward the dark blue of her dress. Water dripped off my hair onto her sleeve. I could feel it soaking through. I kept thinking I should move away so I wouldn't ruin her, but she wouldn't let me.
Then I heard it. That little click sound phones make when they start a video, only multiplied. And I looked up.
They were everywhere. Past Dad's shoulder, past Mom's arm, a half-circle of people I didn't really know, all in suits and shiny dresses, all holding their phones straight out at us. The flashlights were on. I remember that most. Not just recording, but those bright white circles right in my eyes, so I had to squint.
I had never seen so many cameras pointed at me. My hair was stuck to my cheeks and my dress was clinging to my legs and my shoes made a wet squeak every time I shifted. Cold water ran down my back. I put my hand up to my face without thinking.
"Don't," Mom whispered. Not mean. Fast. She pulled me closer.
Dad was still right there in front of us in his tuxedo. I could see the sweat on his forehead under the chandelier light. He glanced back at the people filming and then back at Mom, like he was deciding which problem was bigger.
"This is enough," he said, low. He put his hand out, palm down, the way he did when he told me to settle down in the car. "Put those down. Now."
Nobody put anything down. If anything, a couple more phones went up. A woman in a black dress behind him shifted to get a better angle around his arm. A man near the wood doors lifted his phone higher so the light hit us full on. I blinked and turned my cheek into Mom's shoulder.
That was when I understood what they were seeing. Not just Mom and Dad fighting. Me. Soaked. Crying. My wet hair dripping on the marble. My light blue dress gone almost see-through at the hem where the water had soaked heaviest. I grabbed at it and tried to pull it away from my legs, and that only made my hands shake more.
"Mom," I said, and my voice sounded tiny. "Everybody's — "
"I know," she said. "I know, baby. Look at me."
She moved then. She shifted her body square in front of me and brought her hand up to the side of my face, her palm covering my cheek and ear, guiding my head into her collarbone. Her other arm stayed around my back, her hand spread wide on my shoulder blade. I could smell her perfume and the damp coming off me, and I could hear her heart beating fast under her dress.
"Don't look at them," she said, close to my hair. "You look at me."
I did. I stared at the little seam on her shoulder where the sleeve met the dress. My breath was coming short and loud in my own ears. The lights were still there — I could see the glow bleeding around the edges even with my face turned. White bouncing off the marble floor, off the chandelier glass, off the wet spots my shoes had left.
A man’s voice from the crowd said, "Is she okay?" Someone else shushed him. The phones didn't waver.
Dad took a step closer. His shoes clicked on the marble. "Elena," he said. "You're making this worse."
Mom didn't move her hand from my face. Her fingers were steady even though her arm was trembling from holding me up. "No," she said. She wasn't loud. She was clear. "You did that already."
I felt her look past him toward the doorway. I couldn't see Eleanor from where I was hidden, but I could feel that Mom was measuring the distance. Her hand tightened just a little on my shoulder.
"We're going," she said to me, so low only I could hear it. "Keep your face down. I've got you. We just walk."
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I nodded against her. The lights swam in my eyes. My wet dress stuck cold to my thighs when I took a breath to move.
She started to turn us, her hand still shielding me, steering me with her shoulder toward the gap in the phones.
