Page 140 of Wild Eyes
“Thank you,” I say demurely, smoothing my skirt down while hoping there’s no up-skirt camera angle.
My agent’s words echo in my head.
All press is good press. This kind of exposure only makes you even bigger.
The problem is, I don’t think I want to be bigger.
“Especially on the heels of what’s been an eventful time for you.”
My head tilts and my eyes zero in on the woman. I gave my dad and agent a list of questions I wouldn’t be answering, but I’m sensing they’re going to get asked anyway. “Well, I am thrilled about the nomination. I could not be prouder of this album or this song.”
“But there’s also been the scandal. That’s been the talk of the town. Do you want to explain?” She uses this obnoxious news broadcaster voice like she’s performing some sort of hard-hitting journalism.
I look at her and wonder where she gets off and how she decided this would be the first question of our interview. Then I glance to the side of the stage. My dad and agent are here watching. I didn’t want them to be, but they’re a package deal at this point, and they scheduled the interview. And I’m too numb to care about their presence. Kicking them out would involve talking to them, so I continue to ignore them instead.
All I have to do is remind myself that Ford has these recordings locked down legally, so I know there’s nothing they can touch. And, quite frankly, I’ve grown accustomed to them loitering around me like leeches.
The devil you know and all that.
Plus, my dad has never felt like a parent—I know that now that I’ve seen a great one in action—so my expectations for him are low. Still, agitation flares when he rolls his hand at me, urging me to say something. He’ll berate me for freezing upwhen we get behind closed doors, telling me my image should always be intact. But his reaction begs the question: Did he relay my no-go questions at all?
It was too easy to think I could just fall back into my old role. From the minute I landed, it’s all been out of whack. It feels like forcing my feet into a pair of shoes that are too small.
Like a wrecking ball, it hits me that it’s bizarre to allow them here. To allow them access to me at all. To roll over and show them my belly like a beaten-down girl who came slinking back when her trial run at independence didn’t work.
I may not have West, but I still have my wits. I still own all that growing I did out in Rose Hill, and it kicks in all at once.
“Skylar?” the other host asks in a gentle voice. “Are you?—”
I know he’s about to reference me freezing up, so I cut him off. “Am I horrified that you’d invite me here, then ask me to explain myself on national television as though I’ve done something wrong? I am not a scandal. I’m a victim of a despicable breach of my privacy.I’vebeen violated, and you want me toexplainmyself?”
A manic laugh bubbles up in my throat as I straighten to turn and face the pink-faced talk show hosts. “This”—I point between them—“this is what the media does, to women especially. It’s not my job to take accountability for someone else’s shitty behavior. I don’t owe anyone an explanation. I don’t owe anyone insight into my private life or consensual love life—least of all vultures like you. Asking about it? Searching for it? You’re just as guilty as whoever leaked those photos for perpetuating it.”
“Skylar…” The man tries to placate me while the woman turns the most satisfying shade of dark red. Like my favorite fucking lipstick. The one my agent told me was “too vixen” for this interview.
Fuck them all.
I can see my dad’s ruddy face and my agent rapidly shaking his head, but I don’t care. I feel like Cherry that day she flew between West and me.
It’s impossible to forget how flying feels.
“No.” I reach back and yank the cord off my back. The mic unit crashes to the floor with a single angry tug. “I’m done here. Want to boost your ratings?” I can see the camera people and producers gesturing wildly. They won’t capture this next part quite as loudly, but it won’t stop it from spreading like wildfire on the internet. And I won’t ask Ford to lift a single finger to stop it. “You can quote this. Go. Fuck. Yourselves.”
With that, I spin on my three-inch heels and strut off the stage, straight toward my dad and agent. One sickly white, the other red like a rage-infused tomato. I hold up a hand to cut them both off. “Don’t waste your words on me.” I face my agent. “You’re fired.” Then I turn to my sperm donor. “You’re fired andcut off. I never want to see you again.”
His jaw works as he struggles to swallow his rage. “Skylar, you’re having a nervous breakdown.”
I snort. There’s the gaslighting. I see it now for what it is. I see him for who he is.
And I see myself for who I’ve become.
My own woman.
“No,Dad. I’m having an awakening. I already had the nervous breakdown, and it was really fucking low. This is my rebirth. And you’re not my daddy anymore. You’re not my manager. You are nothing without me, and that’s exactly what you deserve. Expect to hear from my lawyers.” I add the last bit with extra flourish. I don’t have my own lawyers yet, but I’m marching out of here to get them.
I leave the studio with only my purse and my pride. I skip the town car and duck into a cab. When it pulls away, I sigh andpull out my ridiculous flip phone. The first person I call is Ford Grant.
He answers on the first ring with, “Fuck yeah, Skylar,” and I instantly know he was watching the show. Ford has never told me what to do, only empowered me to do it. I’m not sure how I’ll ever thank him for taking a chance on me.
