Free The Tour by Shelby Rebecca Page A

things to say underneath them. “ She’s so pretty up close .” Others not so nice. “ Let’s do a good old fashioned slut shame. ”
    It burns in my stomach, and I realize I am not in charge of my image, at all. My image is what belongs to them. All I can hold onto, and guard, is the real me—what I know to be true about myself. When those people were looking at me at the mall, it was as if they didn’t really see me. It was the weirdest feeling. How did it become okay in their minds to pull my hair, or take my picture without my consent, or chase me and Riley out of the store?
    It’s in this moment I realize, in my haste to provide for Riley, I became a public plaything. They’re allowed to do with my image what they want to—love it or hate it. Put it down, put it on a pedestal and then knock it off at will. Gina can try to sway their opinions, but, in the end, it’s out of my hands what they think of me.
    This is my new reality, and as the features of this life become clear, the sharp edges of my cage seem to pull up around me. He warned me, didn’t he? He tried to talk me out of it. I sink into the chair, my shoulders feeling the weight of the worlds’ opinion. The overwhelming solitude that this career, this lifestyle, this boyfriend, will really mean for me rusts over all the fluff I’d imagined would be on the other end of success.
    “Aren’t you tired?” Manny asks and I shrug. “What’s wrong?”
    “I don’t want to, uh, bother Kolton, and I don’t know where to sleep.”
    “You can have the guest room,” Devon says, but his head is cocked to the side like a dog when it’s trying to figure out a person’s expression. “This couch pulls out into one of those sofa beds and that chair is a futon pad, so one of us will sleep on it.”
    “I think that would be perfect for me,” I say.
    “No, I meant one of us two.”
    “You’re both too big,” I decide. I don’t wait for them to talk me out of it. I yank the futon pad off of the wooden frame and pull it over by the long table. “I’m going to sleep right here.”
    “You sure?” Devon asks. “Don’t you want to sleep in the master bedroom?”
    I stick my bottom lip out and shake my head.
    “Suit yourself,” Manny says. “I’ll flip you for it,” he says to Devon, pulling a quarter out of his front pocket. “Your call.”
    “Heads,” Devon declares, taking a sip of his Coke. Manny flips and slaps it on the back of his hand, and Devon’s arms jolt up into the air. “Booya!” he cheers, obviously winning the more comfy bed in the third bedroom. I’d peeked in there earlier—it’s a guest room with art materials on a table and a desk. I think it was a place his parents shared to work on their different passions. His mom’s art stuff; his dad’s business stuff. And then a twin bed for company.
    After Devon claims his prize, I shuffle off to find Manny and me some blankets and pillows. The linen closet has that old sheets smell. I don’t like it, but I don’t have much choice. I help him put the sheets on his mattress and put a pillow and felt blanket down for him. I take the yarn blanket in its many shades and shove the bench out of the way so I can put my little pad under the table. It just feels safe, cave-like.
    It reminds me of playing fort with my mom and dad when I was really little. We’d pull the dining chairs out and drape blankets over them to make a tent. Mom would bring me apples and peanut butter to eat. She’d climb under the dim light of the fort and we’d make up stories that had to do with my toys, usually.
    One time, Dad came home when the tent was still up. He awkwardly slid himself under, and told me a story about when he was a little boy growing up in Alaska, and his family went on a fishing trip that lasted a week. One night, a bear had come into their camp. He said it smelled worse than anything he’d ever smelled, including an outhouse. The only thing they could do was be extremely still and