Page 84 of This Time It's Real
It’s like a bad habit you can’t shake off, a stray dog that keeps showing up outside your door for scraps, even when you have nothing left to give. Every time you think you’re rid of it at last, it manages to sneak its way back in. Take over. Cling on.
And though Iknowthis all too well, I still can’t help feeling a sharp, bright spark of hope when my phone rings the next morning.
A video-call invite from Zoe.
I pick up so fast I nearly drop the phone, but I manage to set it up on my bedside table, position myself in front of the camera just as Zoe’s face fills my screen. And it’s just—
Hope.
There’s so much hope in me.
“Hi,” I say.
She smiles. It’s an awkward smile, but earnest. “Hi.”
I’m suddenly reminded of that day in eighth grade, the first time we really spoke. I was new but already loved by the English teachers, and Zoe was the long-reigning star student in every subject, so most people thought we’d hate each other. But then, after I’d read one of my creative writing pieces out loud for a presentation, she’d approached me. She’d been smiling like this as well, while I was wary and hopeful and nervous—until she opened her mouth and said, “God, your writing is so beautiful.”
That’s how we became best friends.
It’s actually funny, looking back at it. How writing has always been the string tying me to people.
“I read your message,” Zoe says now. “Thank you. Really. And—sorry. I know things have been kind of weird . . .”
“You don’t have to apologize—”
“No, no, but I do.” She sighs, long and loud. “It’s just been so hectic over here with college applications and it’s—well,youremember how competitive it was. People ready to kill each other over a good grade. Now imagine that, but like on freaking steroids. And then this new girl, Divya—I’m not sure if you know—”
“I remember,” I tell her.
“Yeah, so it turns out she’s applying for the same collegeandmajor as me, and—I mean, it’s still competitive as hell, but it’s also nice having someone who understands, you know?”
I nod, letting her talk.
“And meanwhile, you’re going out with acelebrityand doing all this cool shit and I didn’t want to pile my stress on top of yours so . . . So, yeah,” she finishes, giving me that stiff, awkward smile again.
“Wow.”
“I know it’s—”
“Wow, Zoe.” I shake my head and laugh. “Are you kidding me? You once let me rant to you for an hour about those mini shampoos they give out in hotels, but you didn’t want to bother me with your very valid stress about your literal future?”
Finally, her smile widens. Turns into the grin I know so well and missed so much. “Well, when you put it like that . . .”
“I’m right. You know I’m right.”
“Isupposeso . . .”
And maybe hope isn’t so terrible after all. Because we spend the next hour chatting and catching up, and even though it’s notexactlythe same as it used to be—there are more pauses, and those small hints of awkwardness—I don’t think I’ve lost her.If only it could be like this with Caz too, a small voice whispers in the back of my head.If only I could just fix everything.But I quickly drown it out. Zoe’s been my best friend for years. Caz Song, on the other hand, is ranked in the top three of China’s biggest heartthrobs; the distance between us is irreconcilable.
Before I can dwell on it longer, the conversation turns to Craneswift, and my writing.
“It’s going horribly,” I tell her up front. “I sent Sarah my final article, and she thought it was the worst thing in the world.”
“Idoubtshe said that.”
“She strongly implied it.”
“Come on,” she says once she stops laughing. “You’re talented, I know you are. Did she tell you what was wrong or—”
