I do my own (headache-inducing) taxes, I pay (most of) my bills on time, I can tell the difference between Merlot and Cabernet Sauvignon (a skill that eluded early-20s Gemma, who only ever drank wine if it came in a box) and I even watched Bigelow, Mrs. Hendrickson’s cat, for a week when she went to visit her grandchildren in Phoenix (and he didn’t die).
Point is, I’m anadult.
I’m equipped to handle a lot.
But I can’t handlethis.
The battery of questions. The onslaught of camera flashes,click click click, immortalizing every one of my panicked expressions on a digital memory chip for the rest of eternity.
Gemma!
Look over here!
Gemma!
Give us a smile, love!
“I have no comment!” I say, over and over, in the vain hopes that they’ll believe me.
Gemma!
Is Chase your boyfriend?
Are you sleeping together?
“Leave me alone! I have nothing to say to you!” I scream, my voice breaking, my hands tearing and clawing like a wild thing as I try to push forward, try to reach my door. If I can just getinside, just getaway…
A camera is shoved into my face, its shutter snapping down in a burst of clicks before I can throw my arms up to cover my face.
“Please.” My voice is scratchy with panic. With desperation. “I just want to go home.”
I try to push through again, but it’s no use.
The swarm is too dense. There are so many of them, crowding in from every direction, I can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but cradle my arms over my head and close my eyes, as though that might make them disappear.
It doesn’t.
Gemma! Over here! Gemma!
Tell us about Chase!
Do you have a comment about the kiss?
Are you dating?
Look over here, Gemma!
Gemma! Gemma! Gemma!
GemmaGemmaGemmaGemmaGemma.
Their voices go static between my ears, suddenly distant, as if I actuallyhavebeen dragged underwater. There’s a buffer between us — one made of fear and defeat — and I feel the breaths getting ragged in my throat as I struggle for air. I’m choking on my own desperation to escape, on my inability to get away, and everything fades out of focus as I slowly crumple into a protective crouch against the dirty pavement.
Gemma Summers, brought to her knees by the bloodsuckers.
Defeated.
How pathetic is that?