Page 20 of Fifth Avenue Devil

My body goes into autopilot mode. I feel my lips lift in a smile as I scan the catwalk. It's a good thing my body decides that it still knows how to walk, because I am paralyzed inside.

I walk to the end of the catwalk as women in dresses and men in daytime suits look up at me from their seats. I pass my mother. She taps her shoulder, drawing it back, reminding me to have good posture.

Yeah, I got it, Mom.

I manage to make it to the end of the catwalk. I hear my name being said over the PA system. "Stop right there, if you don't mind, Miss Gellar."

I look around the room full of my peers, trying to locate the voice. A man waves to me and I focus my attention on him. "There you go. Miss Gellar is an exceptionally bright young woman who graduated from Yale two years ago. She loves fashion, watercolors, horseback riding, and traveling first class. She's fluent in French?—"

None of the attributes that the emcee has ascribed to me are true. Did my mom make them up? Seems like a Monique Gellar move to me.

A man in a dark suit puts a paddle up. "Ten thousand." With the bright stage lights, it's hard to see his face. But I know his voice. I would recognize it anywhere.

It's Nate Fordham. Oh my god. Half of me is deeply embarrassed that he’s here to witness my humiliation. And half of me is thrilled that he’s here.

God, what the hell is wrong with me? My face flushes more and I press my lips into a thin line.

"Okay. I have more on the card—" the emcee says.

A middle-aged man cuts him off by raising his paddle. "Eleven thousand."

I squint to find that this man is Don Young, our company's VP. With his thinning, dishwater blond hair and his tall, stooped frame, he resembles a scarecrow. Don has never shown an interest in me before outside of talking enthusiastically about his oceanic exploration trips once. I feel in my heart that my mother has to be putting him up to this.”

I clear my throat, feeling like a complete fool.

"I have eleven," says the emcee.

"Twenty," Nate says. "It's for a good cause."

A woman timidly raises her paddle. "Twenty-one."

"Twenty-two," Don volleys back.

I squint at Nate Fordham, expecting him to offer more. He locks eyes with me, smirking.

"Twenty-three," the woman says. "I'm bidding to win the weekend for my daughter, who is in high school. She could use a good SAT tutor."

Don stands up. "Twenty-five."

The woman also stands up, her jaw squaring. "Thirty."

They go back and forth for a minute. Thirty-five. Forty. Forty-five.

Nate finally raises his paddle. "Seventy-five thousand."

My jaw drops. Seventy-five thousand dollars just for a date? He must be joking.

"Wow! That is the most money ever bid here at the thirteenth annual New York Endowment for Movement Arts Bachelorette Auction!" the emcee gasps. "Do we have any challengers?"

Don glares at Nate. The woman sits down, a sour expression on her face. The emcee says, "Going once? Going twice?"

Don sits down and the emcee shouts, "Sold!"

The audience breaks into applause, but I barely hear it. I just stand there, looking directly at Nate. He looks pretty smug right now, even more so as the emcee shoos me off stage.

How could Nate Fordham think this is even a remotely good idea?

As I clomp offstage and straight to the wardrobe department to replace these painful high heels, all I can feel is dread.

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