Page 93 of Tilly in Technicolor
I’ve come to associate the specific ding my phone makes when I get an email with disappointment and rejection. It’s this wild roller coaster of emotions where, at the first trill of the synthy note, my hopessoarand my brain chases its tail around my skull sayingOMG this is it, this is it. Then, a quarter of a second later, I remember that this ding, historically, is bad news. It’s a form rejection on one of the jobs I applied to. A curt but kind decline on an article pitch. And then I’m so overwhelmed with dread, I have to lock myself in the bathroom and talk myself up for a good seven minutes before I can open the email.
But the subject of the one I just got, my phone clutched in my clammy palm as I crouch in the upstairs bathroom, has a new riot of emotions burning through me.
Ivy Application—Time to chat?
With a shaky (and tragically sweaty) thumb, I open the email.
Hello, Tilly,
This is Ellen Yu, withIvy Online.I wanted to connect with you about some of your writing if you have a chance. Is now a good time? If not, when are you free this week?
I reread this message about forty times before I scream and chuck my phone into the sink. I’m glad everyone—minus Oliver, who’s taking some alone time to recharge in the back garden—went into town so they don’t come questioning why I’m shrieking like a banshee.
I get up and start pacing. Okay. This is a little terrifying. Is this Ellen person wanting to tell me—on the phone—that I’m not getting the job? That my writing sucks? Is this a uniquely cruel way to reject me? And, I’m sorry, but who wants to talk on thephoneanymore? Can’t she give me three to five business days plus shipping and handling to digitally respond to whatever it is she has to say?
Maybe she actually likes your writing,a gentle voice whispers in the back of my mind.
I stop my pacing.
Why is that just as terrifying as thinking this is a rejection?
Chewing on my cuticles, I turn and look at where my phone sits in the sink. Slowly, like I’m approaching an explosive, I inch toward it, then pick it up and start typing.
Hi Ms. Yu! Now’s a great time to talk if you’re still available, I type, adding in my number before hittingsend.
I’m gnawing on my cuticles again when a call from an unknown number rings through a few minutes later.
Ohmygawdohmygawdohmygawdokaywowicandothis.
With a deep breath, I accept it.
“Hello?” I say, picking up my pacing again in the small space.
“Hi, Tilly? This is Ellen. So glad we could connect. How are you?”
A nervous laugh escapes my dry throat. “Great!” I say, way too loudly. “How are you?”
“Very well, thanks,” she says in a rich French accent. “I heard that we have acquaintances in common, although through many degrees of separation,” she says kindly.
I boom out another laugh. Oh my God I need to chill. “Yeah, if I’m following the chain correctly, you’re my boyfriend’s twin’s bandmate’s friend’s cousin… twice removed.”
My stomach flips a bit when Ellen laughs. “Something like that. But, the fact remains, I saw your application for the Editorial Assistant position and I wanted to talk with you about it.”
I make a bizarre guttural sound that comes out something like “Ohhmmggmmuu?” which Ellen, thankfully, interprets as me encouraging her to continue.
“I’m not sure how familiar you are with us, but I’m one of the founders ofIvy,a relatively new online magazine. Our articles run the gamut from book reviews to reproductive health to trans rights advocacy to general humor and cat content. Our goal is to create an internet space for people to feel comfortable and truly seen in the content we produce while also feeling empowered for existing just as they are.”
“I love cats,” I blurt out. Wow. Really adding to the conversation here.
Ellen laughs again. “Good. Our team is composed almost entirely of cat ladies. You’d fit right in.”
I laugh, too, and now it’s a breathy, panicked sound.
“But the reason I’m calling,” Ellen continues, “is I wanted to see if you’re still looking for work, or if someone else has snatched you up already.”
I clear my throat and try to tamp down the pukey nervousfeeling in my stomach. I don’t know what to say. My mind goes incredibly blank.
I have a job. A good job. But for some reason, instead of telling Ellen that, I say, “I’m still on the job market, yes,” which I really hope sounds mature and like I have any idea what I’m talking about. “I’ve been doing some, uh, freelancing as well. Primarily for travel magazines.”
