Page 23 of This Time It's Real
But I’m so focused on reminding myself to listen to Sarah talk and marveling over how strange it is that I’m on the phone with her that I don’t actually process a single thing she says.
Next thing I know, she’s asking, “Does that all sound good with you, Eliza?”
“Um . . .” I try not to panic as my own confused silence fills the line with static. Either I just say yes and find out later what I’ve agreed to, or I ask her to repeat everything she said in the past five minutes and risk looking like an idiot. Crap. What would Ma do? “Sorry, um, could you just clarify that last part? I want to make sure I fully understand everything before deciding to proceed.”
“Oh, yes, certainly,” Sarah says, still maintaining that same pleasant, professional tone. “So right now we’re looking at a weekly blog post on our site, in the Love and Relationships category: Think of it as a sort of follow-up or update on your relationship, what you’ve been doing together, where you’ve been going out on dates. The more details the better, really; we want our readers to feel like they’re really on this journeywith you. And it’d be great to cross-post on social media too—preferably on Twitter, since that’s where your following seems to be growing the fastest, but it’s up to you. Altogether, it shouldn’t take more than a time commitment of fifteen hours per week. Oh, and toward the end of the six-month period, we’dlovefor you to write a longer article on any topic of your choosing; we’ll print it in our spring edition. What do you think, Eliza?”
“Okay,” I agree slowly, as if I could possibly say no to her. “That sounds good.”
“Oh, wonderful!” Somehow, I can almosthearher beaming. “And you’re sure your boyfriend won’t mind? I understand that it’s a lot of publicity, especially given that you’re both still quite young . . .”
From the sound of it, she doesn’t know about Caz yet. I’m tempted to tell her right now—she’ll probably be ecstatic; after all, what’s more newsworthy than dating a semi-celebrity?—but I make myself wait. It’s better if she finds out through some secondary source. It’ll be more convincing that way.
“I don’t think he’ll mind at all,” I reassure her. “Publicity is, like, his thing.”
She laughs out loud, probably thinking I’m joking.
After we confirm the internship contract details and I hang up in a daze, I check my email, still half-convinced I’m hallucinating about all this. But there it is—the contract she promised, with my name written at the top.It’s real.Craneswift. My favorite publication wantsmeto work for them.
I stare and stare at the email until my eyes blur and my heart threatens to burst. Then I collapse back onto my bed with a soft, strangled laugh.
“What even is life,” I whisper out loud to myself.
CHAPTER SIX
For the second time this week—and two days in a row—I find myself standing inside a janitor’s closet with Caz Song.
“We really need to find a better meeting spot,” Caz mutters as I lock the door behind us. It’s still early in the morning, before classes officially start.
“It’s not my fault you’re so popular,” I tell him, trying and failing to conceal the faint creep of irritation in my voice. A few minutes ago, I had to literally grab him by the elbow and steer him away from a crowd of excited students like some kind of bodyguard. “And anyway, this place isn’tthat bad.” I gesture to the four different brands of disinfectant on the shelves and tray of yellow-green sponges beside my feet. “It’s actually pretty, um, well supplied. Very practical. Like, if there were an earthquake or something, we’d do really well in here, you know?”
Caz makes a quiet sound that could either be a laugh or a scoff. “Okay, stop trying to sell me this janitor’s closet or whatever it is you’re doing and tell me why we’re here. Again.”
“Well, I just wanted to make sure we’re both clear on what we’ll be doing today. Dating-wise.”
He gives me this look like,That’s it?“And you couldn’t have simply texted me about this?”
“I was busy yesterday,” I reason. Which is true—I spent ages going over the details of the contract, and another two hours trying to word a professional-sounding reply to Sarah—but not the full truth. There’s just something about directly reaching out to him via phone, outside school, that’s mildly terrifying.
Okay,reallyterrifying.
Caz shakes his head. “What even is there to discuss?” Before I can reply, he suddenly stills with fake horror. “Wait, don’t tell me you have another PowerPoint ready—”
“No,” I say, rolling my eyes, even though I did actually consider the idea for a moment last night. But he doesn’t need to know that. “And there isso muchto discuss; consistency is key to a believable lie. Like, I don’t know, are we going to be walking to class together? Are you planning on sitting next to me in every class? Will we be having lunch together? Is having lunch together going to be, like, a permanent thing from now on? Do you introduce me to your friends? Should I know who your friends are, since we’re supposed to have been together for months already? If someone asks about your parents or something, do I act as if I’ve met them? If someone asks me whether or not you have abs, do I say that you do?”
“For the record, yes.”
I stare at him. “Yes?”
“If someone asks whether I have a six-pack, tell them yes.” He makes a long, leisurely stretching motion with both hands, like a cat in a warm patch of sun. He’s so tall that his fingers almost scrape the closet ceiling. “It’ll be good for my image.”
“Fine. Thenyoubetter tell everyone I’m a great kisser.”
He grins then, slow and wide and teasing, and for the first time, I notice that he has dimples. A useless discovery. And yet . . . “You got yourself a deal.”
“Okay. Then . . . great.”
“Great.”
