Page 13 of This Time It's Real
But today, so many messages come flooding in that my phone freezes for a solid minute. My heart freezes as well. People I haven’t spoken to in years—people fromprimary school—have reached out to me, all with screenshots or some variation ofomg you made it!A few have followed up with questions likeHow has life been?orIt’s been ages!but the distant politeness of it all, compared with the keyboard smashes and emoji spam we used to send one another without thought, only drives another pang through my gut.
And all I can think is:Thank god for Zoe.
She’s the only one left in my life. The only one who’s stayed over the years. And the only one who’s messaged me with a completely unrestrained number of exclamation marks demanding an explanation.
I shoot back a quick message promising to update her on everything the next time we call, before moving on to my inbox with quivering fingers. My mouth feels too dry. I can barely swallow.
At least twenty emails from journalists and writers for all kinds of media sites pop up, some requesting interviews, some asking for more exclusive material, including a couple selfie. I imagine myself posing with one arm around nothing but air, or one of those cardboard cutouts of a K-pop idol, and hysteria rises to my throat.
But the absurdity doesn’t stop there. A few people have sent me links to think pieces inspired by my essay. “The Teen Love Story People Can’t Stop Talking About: Joy in the Age of Cynicism,” one reads. Another has tied the “surprising success” of my essay to the revival of rom-coms, as well as my generation’s “growing disillusionment” with dating apps like Tinder. Yet another has somehow managed to drag my racial identity into their analysis, warning that the whole thing could be an elaborate ruse designed by the Chinese government to “soften the image of the rapidly emerging global superpower.”
Despite the dread churning in my stomach, I can’t help it; a laugh of disbelief bursts from my lips. This is by far the most ridiculous thing to have ever happened to me. That probably everwillhappen to me, period.
But then a new email comes in with a faint ping, and my incredulity gives way to pure awe when I see who it’s from.
CHAPTER FOUR
Dear Eliza,
I hope this email finds you well!
My name is Sarah Diaz. I had the tremendous pleasure of reading your viral essay “Love and Other Small, Sacred Things” last night, and I found myself extremely moved by your love story (a rare thing for a cynic like me). At times I laughed aloud; at other times I wanted to weep, in the best kind of way. All of this is to say that I think you have real potential, and I’d love to offer you an internship opportunity with us here atCraneswift.This will be a paid position, for a total duration of six months, and I’d be most pleased to write you a letter of recommendation at the end of it, should you choose to accept . . .
I read over the email for what must be the hundredth time on the car ride home, my breath caught in my throat.
Craneswift.
I’m scared that if I exhale, the words will dissolve. That the people at Craneswift will send me another email, telling me it was a huge mistake, that they’ve read over my essay again and realized their judgment was wrong.
Because this—this is everything I’ve ever wanted. I mean, I didn’t evenknowI wanted it, since I never would’ve dared dream of getting to intern at Craneswift. The publication behind some of the most successful writers in the world.
And Sarah Diaz is one of the best writers they have. Maybe one of the best writers I know. I have a whole notebook filled with annotated quotes from her published essays and articles alone, carried it with me from city to city. Two years ago, she’d offered up a thirty-minute writing consultation for some kind of auction, and the highest bidder had paid over five grand for it.That’show badly most aspiring journalists crave her feedback.
If she really wants me to work for her—to workwithher—then how could I say no?
But what am I going to do about my made-up relationship if I say yes?
“Jie, why are people at school saying you have a boyfriend?”
My head snaps up.
Emily is watching me curiously from the other side of the back seat. It’s only the two of us in the car right now, plus Li Shushu, who’s busy listening to his favorite Peking opera radio station.
Thank god. I’m not sure what I would say if Ma or Ba were here.
“I don’t know,” I tell her, attempting to laugh it off as a joke. “Don’t listen to them.”
“Butdoyou have a boyfriend?” Emily presses, eyes wide.
“That—that’s none of your business.”
Wrong thing to say. Emily loosens her seat belt and edges closer toward me, despite my protests.
“It is so my business,” she says, drawing herself up to look taller, more important. “I’m your sister. You have to tell me.”
“You’re only a kid.”
She shoots me an indignant look. “I’m ten years old.”
