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Chapter Twenty-Three

“You did great, Samantha.”

I smile and nod as I shake the assistant’s hand. I’m still in shock that I just did the local morning show. Live, no less!

Mom rubs my back. “She really did.”

The assistant looks down at his tablet as he speaks. “Ms. Bellamy was so eager to get your story in front of as many people as possible. I was nervous when you turned me down the first time.”

Kate Bellamy is the morning show host who interviewed me. She’s a local celebrity, and I was a bit starstruck to be chatting with her at all, let alone over something so personal.

This assistant, I cannot remember his name, originally contacted me last week, shortly after my #NoMoreShame video went viral. I honestly thought the buzz would die down quickly and that’s the main reason I chose not to take him up on the offer. It felt like if I did the show and then everybody forgot about #NoMoreShame, people would think I was just trying to grasp at my fifteen minutes of fame. But by the time he reached out again, the day before yesterday, I was eager to accept the offer. I’ve been staying up late every single night, trying to respond to all the comments and videos so victims can feel heard. Knowing that the show would provide me an opportunity to talk to so many #NoMoreShame victims at once, was too good to pass up.

I couldn’t believe it when Mom cleared her calendar to be here with me. Because I’m underage, I had to have a parent or guardian with me, but I honestly expected my parents to ask their lawyer to meet me here. I’ve done a number of interviews via email, and Mom has run several of them through her lawyer before I return them to the blogger or newspapers for publication. It means a lot to me that Mom finds this important enough to make time for.

Turns out, the reason the morning show was so persistent about having me on was because Mrs. Bellamy was a victim of shaming when she was in school. She had buck teeth, and kids teased her about it. She announced on the show that the #NoMoreShame movement has inspired her to start a non-profit to support children who are victims of shaming. Any type of shaming. I almost cried on live T.V. when she revealed the new organization, Shame-Less

She told Mom and me after our segment—quickly, since it was only a commercial break—that she hopes I’ll be involved in her organization. She feels I have strong leadership qualities and that I’m already a symbol to so many girls and women.

“So, I’m sure I’ll be in touch with you for Ms. Bellamy regarding the Shame-Less project,” the assistant says, as he scans the studio.

“Great,” I say. Now that the interview is over, I’m eager to leave. The studio is very chaotic when the cameras aren’t rolling. “You have my information.”

“I do.” He nods. “Have a good day, ladies.”

Mom’s lip is curled as she watches him walk away. “Ten bucks says he hasn’t heard a word of what #NoMoreShame is about. ”

“He does seem full of himself, doesn’t he?” I scan the room behind us. “Hey, want to be in a selfie with me for my Instagram page?”

Mom’s eyes bug. “What? So your one hundred thousand plus followers can see me?”

I grin at her. “Yes. I’m proud of my mama!”

She squeezes my hand. “And I’m proud of my baby. Let’s take a selfie.”

I find a good angle that puts Mom and me in the middle of the picture and shows the large cameras and lit-up set in the background. Mom approves the picture and I quickly post it with a caption telling everyone what I just did.

After I post it, I look up to find Mom staring at me with an inscrutable expression.

“What?” I ask.

“Remember that conversation we had about what it’s like to be a parent?”

“The one where you admitted to being a control freak?”

She chuckles. “Yes, that one.”

“I do.”

“I’m not as worried about you, Samantha.” Mom runs a hand down my hair and gently squeezes my upper arm. “You have proven you know exactly when and where to flex your muscles and that you aren’t afraid to do so.”

I blink away the sting behind my eyes. Besides being a self-admitted control freak, Mom is a force in the business world and in life. Having her confidence means a ton to me. More than she will ever know.

“I’m very proud of you, dear.”

We clasp hands and stride out of the studio and into the sunny summer day.

I spend most of my day searching for #NoMoreShame videos, watching and commenting. I also have a ton of instant messages, texts, and emails from locals about the morning show. Several people are excited to hear about Shame-Less and take the time to share their own stories about being shamed over things like hair color, sexual orientation, fashion sense, so many stories. I point all of them to the brand-new Shame-Less website and encourage them to share their stories with them directly.

There’s a knock on my bedroom door. I frown when I check the time and realize it’s already after six in the evening. When I’m online looking for victims, I get so caught up, I can lose entire days, like this.

“Come in?” I say it like a question, because who can it be? It’s way too early for my parents. Ava or Bek wouldn’t have knocked. Who else is there?

The door cracks open and Ines sticks her head in and smiles.

“Holy cupcakes! My oldest sister is here?” I push away from my desk and run across my room, with my arms held straight out, ready to wrap her in a hug.

“Not just your sister,” Lincoln says, as he follows her into my room.

I tackle them both with a hug. “What are you guys doing here?”

“I hope we’re not interrupting.” Ines wanders around my room, touching familiar things and studying items that are new to her. It has been years since she last came into my room. She smiles and gently strokes the sculpture Bridget made of me.

Lincoln stands by the door with his hands in his pockets, grinning ear to ear. I’m not even sure I know what he looks like without a smile.

“Not at all. I can use a break, actually. I’ve been online all day.”

“That doesn’t seem like a productive use of your time.” Ines has an eyebrow arched like she’s daring me to refute her.

So, I do, telling her about some of the videos and comments I’ve been responding to. By the time I’m done, Lincoln has wandered over to stand next to Ines, and my sister’s mouth hangs open.

“Sam, I had no idea you were doing all that.” Ines bites her lip. “I’m such a bad sister. I only asked you about it that one time, right after I heard what happened.”

I shrug. “That’s fine, Ines. It isn’t like I feel neglected by you or anything. You’re super busy with work and wedding planning and stuff.”

Lincoln puts his arm around Ines and says to her, “I feel even better about our decision now, hon. Go ahead and ask her.”

I look between the two of them. “Ask me what?”

Ines nods at Lincoln. “You’re right. I’m even more excited.” She looks at me. “Sam, instead of giving us gifts for our wedding, Lincoln and I are thinking about asking our families, guests, and friends to make a donation to support the #NoMoreShame project.”

I frown. My mind races through possibilities of what that can mean, but in the end, my active imagination keeps dumping the money into a bottomless bucket.

“But there is no #NoMoreShame project.”

“That’s the thing,” Lincoln says. “We think there should be.”

“I saw you on the morning show,” Ines said. “One of my coworkers ran into my office and told me you were on. We all shoved into the conference room to watch. Sam, I wish you had been there. After the segment was over, everybody started talking about the shame they’ve had to overcome in their lives. There is so much bullying and harsh judgement out there. I had no idea how many people are impacted in big and small ways.”

Tears shimmer in her eyes and I feel a kinship with my sister I’ve never experienced before. “And later in the day, another coworker came into my office. He was born with a bum hand. It’s a condition that has a long fancy name, but I can’t remember what it’s called. The stories he had from his school days were horrible. But the worst part was that it still happens to him. He’s a grown man in his thirties and people still taunt him and make fun of him for a condition he had no control over. That’s when I started to consider a #NoMoreShame project.”

“I don’t understand.” I looked between her and Lincoln. What is she suggesting? It isn’t like I can open a non-profit like Kate Bellamy can.

Lincoln answers. “We can set up an organization called #NoMoreShame. You can raise money under the organization and then donate the money to any cause you wish. Shame-Less would be the most logical first choice, since your movement inspired the organization, and you know the funds will be used locally. But after that, you can choose to support national or even international organizations as well.”

“And you guys are giving up presents to raise money for it?” I ask. That seems like a huge thing to do.

“We really don’t need anything. We were already considering asking for travel money instead of toasters. This feels so much better.”

Then panic fills me. “I can’t start an organization. That’s nuts.”

Lincoln smiled. “If you’re willing to remain the face of the organization, I can help with the rest. It’s what I went to school for.”

I suck in a breath. “I forgot about that!”

“Yeah. I almost did too.” He laughs. “It’ll be great to put the education to use.”

“We realize school starts soon, so you’ll be busy,” Ines says. “I would like to help as much as I can, too.”

“She’s got marketing skeellz,” Lincoln says.

“Will you guys have time for this?” I gawk at them, still unable to process what they’re suggesting. Me becoming the face of the organization? That’s crazy.

“We’ll make it work. But only if it’s something you want.” Ines takes my hands in hers. “This is your deal, Sam. You must be comfortable putting yourself out there.”

Overwhelmed, I look around the room. My gaze lands on the open laptop on my desk. I think of the hundreds, maybe thousands of people who have shared their stories in the last few weeks. The number of bleary-eyed hours I’ve spent on the computer desperately searching for stories, hoping to get them all. But I’m constantly afraid of the ones I miss being those who need to be seen the most.

“We could help so many people,” I whisper.

“We could.” Ines squeezes my hands.

I lock eyes with Ines. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lincoln nod. But it’s her determination that buoys me.

“We could create a safe place for people to share their stories.” I’m suddenly desperate for confirmation. My eyes skim Ines and land on Lincoln. “We could. Couldn’t we? A place that people can log in to tell their stories and know they are safe and aren’t alone.”

“Sure. We can do that.” Lincoln squeezes my shoulder. “We’ll do whatever you need, Sam.”

“It isn’t what I need.” I shake my head and glance over my shoulder to my computer. “It’s what they need.”

“We’ll do it. We’ll find a way,” Lincoln says.

I grab them both into a hug again. But this time, my heart pounds fiercely from the task ahead and I’m crying happy tears.