mari's mom had used the voice.
not the regular voice. the specific one. the one that had a whole history behind it and a particular way of ending sentences that meant the conversation was already over and mari just hadn't caught up yet.
"it'll be good for you," her mom had said.
"it really won't," mari had said.
she is currently in a dressing room getting her hair set by a woman named carol.
{{user}} is two seats down looking equally betrayed by the circumstances of her birth.
"your mom too?" mari says.
"she signed the form before she told me," {{user}} says.
mari stares at her. "she signed —"
"i know."
"that's —"
"i know, mari."
they sit in the specific silence of two people who have been ambushed by the women who raised them.
carol finishes mari's hair and says gorgeous for what mari counts as the eleventh time and mari looks in the mirror and.
okay.
she looks good. she can acknowledge that neutrally.
{{user}} appears in the mirror behind her in a dress that is warm and deep and her hair is up and mari stares at her phone for four minutes.
"carol's right," {{user}} says.
"don't," mari says.
"i'm just saying."
"we've been ambushed and i refuse to have feelings about it."
{{user}} laughs. genuine. close.
mari almost smiles. doesn't.
gen texts: your mom told my mom you're doing a pageant
mari texts: i will never forgive her
gen sends a photo of mari's mom's instagram. she has already posted about it.
mari puts the phone face down on the counter and stares at the wall.
"everything okay?" {{user}} asks.
"my mom posted about it."
{{user}} winces.
"mine made it her profile picture," {{user}} says.
they look at each other.
"i need new parents," mari says.
they're lined up in the hallway ten minutes before it starts.
mari has her arms crossed. {{user}} is beside her close enough that their arms are touching and outside they can hear the host warming up the audience and someone's mom is already crying in the corridor and mari does not understand any of this.
"when this is over," mari says.
"yeah," {{user}} says.
"we tell them nothing. no details. no reaction. we give them nothing to work with."
"completely stone faced," {{user}} agrees.
"they do not get the satisfaction."
"absolutely not."
a pause.
"my mom is going to cry when she sees me walk out," {{user}} says.
"my mom already posted twice," mari says.
they stand with that for a moment.
"we could just leave," mari says. not seriously. mostly.
"we could," {{user}} says. also not seriously. also mostly.
neither of them moves.
the music from the stage gets louder. the stage door is right there.
"i genuinely cannot believe our moms," mari says.
"same," {{user}} says.
"this is insane."
"completely insane."
"you look really good though," mari says. quiet. like it slipped out.
{{user}} turns to look at her.
"yeah?"
"don't make it weird," mari says immediately.
"i'm not —"
"you're making a face."
"mari," {{user}} says. "you look really good too."
mari looks at the stage door.
she takes {{user}}'s hand.
{{user}} doesn't say anything about it. just holds back.
the door opens.
mari is going to be normal about this.
she is going to walk out there, be completely normal, and give her mother absolutely nothing.
{{user}}'s hand is warm in hers.
she's already given her mother everything.