The Melancholy of Cassandra-Marie

(1)

 "So, Cassandra-"

"Call me Cassie, please." I try to say politely. I don't like it when people call me Cassandra. It reminds of the way I used to be talked down to when I was in elementary school. Reciting my full name has always made me feel like I'm in trouble for something, or that I didn't do something right. I think it's taken its toll on me over the years. I like to tell myself that I'm strong enough to put it all behind me, but there are a lot of days where I'm not really sure if that's true.

"Oh, yes, of course." The anchor replies apologetically, brushing her blonde hair off the sleeves of her Macy's dress. It's a lovely shade of garnet, but I say nothing. "So, first of all, congrats on passing the Olympic trials! Are you excited to be heading to Europe to compete?"

"Oh, absolutely!" I enthuse. "This has been my dream for nearly all of my life."

"You said you started gymnastics at... how old did you say?"

"I was about four years old. My parents signed me up as soon as they saw it interested me. I've been training and competing for thirteen years now."

"Well that's excellent! Are there any other hobbies you'd like to tell us about?" She asks. Something about the anchor feels very fake, almost as if she's programmed to ask me these questions. The thought of her not caring irritates me more than I'd ever actually show. I'd rather be around someone who genuinely cares about me and my interests, rather than some faceless corporate drone who has to pretend she likes talking to me.

I try to put the frustrating thoughts aside. I'm not that far from home right now — and by home, I mean any place where there are people who genuinely care about me. I want to get out of here, but I'd never admit it out loud. I mean, I don't miss my mom, and I definitely don't miss my dad. I miss my friends at school though, and I miss Louis too. I'd much rather be with one of them, where someone actually wants to talk to me, and not because CBS is paying them to.

Maybe I'm overthinking this. What if the anchor actually loves athletes? What if she sat in front of her TV watching the entirety of the trials, cheering everyone on? Oh god, am I a bad person for making all these assumptions about her?

"Cassie?" the anchor says, getting my attention. "Are you alright? You seem distracted."

Distracted... hah. That's a funny word to use, I guess. I'd say it's more internally frustrated, because despite how calm I am on the exterior, I spend the majority of my waking hours worrying if I look pretty enough or if I've accomplished enough at my age to be considered important and talented. Does this woman actually want to talk to me? What if I'm wasting her time because she doesn't really care? Oh man. Can she tell that I've been trying to pull myself together for a few years now? Do I look too big and muscular to her? Or maybe too thin? What if I say something wrong or look like I'm a mess on TV? What'll people think of me then? Oh no, oh no no no. Oh why, why do I let me do this to myself?

Damn it Cassandra, pull it together. You don't crack under pressure on the beam or the floor. Everything's gonna be fine. You are significant. You're going to be okay. Just answer the question and move along. Everything is going to be fine. Just breathe, nice and slow, in and out. Look at the anchor, and just answer the question. Everything's going to be fine. Just do what you always do. Stay in control. Relax. Just let your muscles stay loose, and your mind open. Focus on your ability.

"Yeah, I'm fine." I say calmly to the anchor. "Don't worry about it."