Page 43 of Eye of the Beholder
I shake my head, but I smile. “It’s not. The root of confidence is completely mental. Mind over matter. I’ve been looking up how to be more confident, and—”
“You have?” she says, looking surprised.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m your teacher. I prepared. So anyway, one thing a lot of people suggest is visualization. So I want you to close your eyes.” When she just looks at me, I laugh. “Come on. I’m not going to tickle you or something. Just close them.”
“Fine,” she mutters. She closes her eyes. “Okay, oh great wise one. My eyes are closed. What now?”
“Now think about talking to Jack. Think about how you would like those conversations to go. Picture yourself being the Mina that talks to Jack with ease and makes him laugh or whatever.” It sounded better before I added the “or whatever,” but Mina doesn’t say anything. She just nods slowly.
“Okay,” she says. “I’m picturing.”
“In detail?”
Somehow she manages to roll her eyes at me even though her eyes are closed. “In detail.”
I just grin. “Great. Now you need a positive affirmation. Something to tell yourself; something that encourages you. Actually…” I hesitate. “I think you might already have one. ‘This is my year.’”
Her eyes snap open. “How did you know that?” she says, her voice as surprised as her face.
“You say it,” I reply with a shrug. “You’ve said it before.”
“Huh,” she says, still looking at me.
“So that’s your positive affirmation. You tell yourself that this is your year. You visualize the way you want your interactions with Jack to go. And then you open your mouth and make it happen. Even if you don’t feel confident, you fake it. The confidence will come as you put in the work to make things happen.”
So the internet tells me, anyway. I don’t add that part.
She eyes me with interest. “Okay,” she says slowly. “I’ll give it a shot. Step out of my comfort zone.” Then her gaze flicks over me. “Where’s your costume?”
I point to my closet.
“You’re not doing some sexy thing, are you?” she says, casting a skeptical eye at the closet door. “Is there a guy version of the sexy costume thing? I’ve always hated that. It’s so objectifying.”
I shrug, grinning at her. “I’m not sure you could handle the sexy costume thing on me, so don’t worry.”
She narrows her eyes and points at my mouth. “You’re doing the smirky thing again,” she says, leaning forward. “The flirty thing. Stop it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, rising out of my chair. “I don’t do that.” I cross the room to my closet and pull the doors open, and I can feel her eyes on my back. I dig through the closet for a second, using my foot to nudge a few dirty shirts out of her line of sight while I do, until I finally find what I’m looking for. I pull it out and hold it up.
“A button-down shirt?” she says, her voice flat. “That’s it? That’s your costume?”
“No,” I say. I pull the shirt on over the one I’m already wearing—a t-shirt with the Superman logo—and button it up halfway. I run my fingers through my hair, tousling it, and then I pick up my glasses from my bookshelf. I go to my night stand and remove my contacts, then put the glasses on. “I’m Superman,” I say, probably unnecessarily. I point at my hair. “I’ve been flying.” Then I point to my crooked nose. “And then I ran into a wall. See?”
She considers me, a slight smile on her face. “I didn’t know you wore glasses,” she says, sounding interested.
I shrug. “I don’t, usually. I keep contacts in. But, yeah. My eyesight is pretty bad.”
She holds her hand out and beckons for me to give her the glasses. She takes her own off and holds them out to me. It’s strange to see her without them on; I’m so used to them that now it looks like part of her face is missing.
I pass her my glasses and take hers from her. As soon as I try them on, my vision swims. “Wow,” I say, squinting. “All right, you win. Your eyes are worse.” I take the glasses off before they give me a headache.
She looks up at me from the bed, squinting through my glasses, and says, “I can sort of make out with your face.”
I freeze, and so does she. Her eyes widen and she flushes red.
“Make out your face. Not—with. Notwithyour face,” she says, her words rushed. She looks completely mortified.
There’s a sharp, palpable silence.
