fifteen.

MONICA

Jonathan’s gaze was a continuous companion. He owned me with it. He called his pilot to go to Nashville with his eyes on me. He undressed me slowly by the brightest lamp and made love to me so tenderly it hurt. He touched my neck all the time, drawing his fingers over the bumps in the collar and his thumb over the lock. The next morning, his gaze peeled me open from across the room, and he watched me go out the door as if in a state of utter gratification.

I worried on the way to Mrs. Yuan’s that everyone was looking at me with hunger. I felt undressed.

She had a pink hibiscus in her hair. I’d seen them growing outside, and I resisted the urge to touch it to see if it was real.

“Is that going to constrict you?” was the first thing she asked. Not a surprise.

“I don’t think so.”

She turned to Sherri. “Was she wearing it last night?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Well,” she said, turning back to me, “from what I understand, we have nowhere to go but up.”

My face got hot. Sherri wouldn’t look at me even when my eyes burned holes into her.

“It was pretty bad,” I said.

“Good,” she said, surprising me. “I’d hate for you to peak too soon. And it’s out of your system. You survived it. Nothing can hurt you now.”

I felt inexplicably relieved, as if she’d given me some sort of indefinable permission I’d been unable to give myself. Not permission to succeed or fail. Permission to just do the thing without calling it a name.

She removed her fork from the box. “Let’s start with some scales. Then work on our transition to banner.”

I tilted my head right then left, feeling the collar bend with me.

“You will be good,” she said.

I lowered my lids, as if I had to see her through a narrower opening. Had she said something nice? “I’m still not Whitney Houston.”

“No, you are not Whitney Houston. You’ll do it without changing the phrasing.”

She tapped her fork before I could absorb what she’d said, and I hit the note, working back and forth as we’d done for two weeks.

The rehearsal was light and more positive than usual. Mrs. Yuan had more exhortations up her sleeve than I’d given her credit for, and she didn’t look at the collar once more. But she and Sherri were the only ones to see me, and I’d made plans to be in public that afternoon to get my mind off the evening.

Once in the car, I checked my texts.

Yvonne:

—I’ll be at Earth in twenty—

Jonathan:

—Having coordination issues in Nashville. They’ll get it here before you sing. Or I’ll get a locksmith to break it.—

Well, no. The collar jammed my uncomfortable places, but I had to admit it was nice. I liked it, and I didn’t want it broken. He said he’d buy me another, but I didn’t want another one. This was the one he’d gotten me, it was the one I wanted, and I wanted it exactly the way he got it.

Whole and with a key.

—I don’t think I can make Earth today—

—Bullshit - you show up. Today it’s my problems—

—What happened???—

—Men are shit—

I touched the collar. I hadn’t been out in public with it. Not really.

Sometimes I was left alone and treated like any other Angeleno, and sometimes the paparazzi showed up. I never knew when I was watched and when I wasn’t. I took a deep breath. It was too hot for a scarf or turtleneck. Even if I ran out and got a lightweight neck wrap, covering my collar with it would only announce that I was ashamed. The only thing worse than wearing it in public was broadcasting shame over it.

Fuck it. Yvonne needed me.

sixteen.

MONICA

—Lil’s driving me to Santa Monica at five. Picking the key up myself – but it’s going to be close. I’m sorry—

Santa Monica Airport to Echo Park on a game night, at rush hour, on a Friday, during the school year. Game time was seven. Close didn’t begin to cut it.

I’d heard Yvonne out and tried to soothe her. Cursed every penis-owning human in the universe while simultaneously exonerating Jonathan in my head. I hated seeing her in pain and didn’t even know what to promise her except my devotion.

On the way out of Earth, I ran into a herd of paparazzi, and what the waiters didn’t notice and the patrons ignored, the paps caught immediately.

What’s on your neck, Monica?

Is that a lock?

Moooniiiiiicaaaaaa

Turn so we can see it!

I smiled and waved, trying to keep the pounding of my heart out of my expression. But one girl pap with rings up and down her fingers leaned over my car and got an angle no one else had. The shutter slapped over and over.

Fuck it.

I moved my hair so she got a clear shot of it. Print that, bitch.

She moved her camera so I could see her face. “Thank you!” And she disappeared into the crowd.

I got in the car before any of the rest of them could get a clear shot. Because, fuck it. That shot should be worth real money to someone.

The stadium was a short hop away, at least by Friday traffic standards.

But I checked my phone when I parked by the players’ entrance, and my collar was all over the gossip pages. How did I feel, seeing what everyone else was seeing? Me pulling my hair away to show off a chain mail locked collar?

I felt like his.

It was as if he was standing beside me next to the Jag, holding my hand to make sure nothing bad happened. It was a buffer between the world and me, a shield against people’s eyes and intentions. It attracted stares, yes. But in a way, it warded them off. Drained them of their power. Protected me from anything I didn’t embrace.

Did it only work in photos? Or—if I changed my attitude—would it work in person?

Only one way to tell.

I twisted up my hair, checking in the rearview for strays, and sang of the braaaavvveeeeee into the mirror.

Sounded good. I was ready to go.

seventeen.

MONICA

Another day. Another dressing room. I worked on my intervals and scales, tuning my voice to a vibrating fork, and checked myself in the mirror. I felt ready. My dress came just below the knee and two inches above the cleavage line, sleeves covering me tight to the elbow. The beads looked dull and lifeless in the flat light of the cinderblock room, but would flash in the stadium lights.

And the collar, well…the collar was another thing entirely.

It made me look like I’d been captured in the wild and brought to heel, and behind a closed door, alone, I liked the idea that I was an animal that needed taming.

Jonathan texted.

—We’re on the 110. I’m getting out and running—

—NO! not safe!—

A knock came at the door. I checked my watch. It was go time.

—Freeway’s a parking lot. It’s safer than crossing La Cienega with the light—

—Please please please be careful.

He didn’t answer. Someone knocked again and said. “Two minutes.” Gary. The pregame coordinator.

“I got this,” I said, smoothing my skirt. “I got this.”

***

Last year’s Cy Young Award winner stared, absently tossing the ball up and catching it. I felt as if I didn’t need a key at that point, because people’s eyes were burning a hole in the collar already. Since Jonathan had texted that he was running into traffic to deliver the key, I’d met eight players I admired, including one whose batting stance I wanted to correct every time I watched him at the plate, and the manager, who I wanted to slap over the previous year’s play-offs.

“My wife is a huge fan,” the pitcher said. “If you sign this, we can trade.”

Perfect little athlete smile as he handed me the ball. We were in the cinderblock hallway leading out onto the field. Jonathan hadn’t texted since he told me he was running across the 110 with the key to my collar. If he was a grease spot, I would kill him.