Page 22 of This Time It's Real
“Yeah,” I say, doing my best to sound flippant. “Of course. Are you?”
He laughs, and only then do I realize how dumb my question must sound. Whywouldn’the be fine? He’s an actor, a celebrity. Attention is his version of normal.
The bell rings again—a final warning. Everyone seated is staring at us.
I avert my eyes and hurry to my usual table in the middle, where I always sit alone. To my surprise, however, Caz drops into the empty seat beside me, as if he’s done this a million times before.
The staring officially turns into open gawking.
“What are you doing?” I mutter out of the corner of my mouth. Though there aren’t any formal rules about it,everyone knows the classrooms are strictly divided into different territories: the overachieving, academically gifted kids at the front, the popular and sporty kids at the back, and everyone else in the middle. Caz moving over here from the back row is like the high school equivalent of someone crossing the North Korean border.
“It’s easier this way” is all he says, tipping his chair backward.
Mr. Lee strolls into the classroom, does a small but visible double take at the sight of us sitting together, and starts handing out worksheets. Caz immediately tears off a corner of the reading activity on burial rites, scribbles something down on it, then slides the crumpled note over to me.
He does all this while keeping his eyes straight ahead, his expression bored and blank.
I can be that good an actor too. I pretend to be busy jotting down the date on my worksheet as I smooth out the note, shielding it from view with one hand.
His phone number is written across the center.
Right. I write down my own number in the space below, tear it off, and wait for the teacher to turn his head before sliding the note back.
My first time exchanging numbers with a boy, and it feels like I’m organizing a bank robbery or something. Then again, it’s probably for the best. The only way this arrangement will work is if we keep things purely professional.
Back in my room later that afternoon, I reply to Craneswift’s email.
It takes me a whole hour just to draft three sentences. Half that time is spent trying to figure out where to put my exclamation marks and how many I should use. In my defense, there’s a very delicate balance to strike. If I use two exclamation marks in a row, for example, I’ll risk coming across as over eager and needy. But if I usenoexclamation marks, everything I say will sound strangely flat and cold. In the end, I decide to play it safe and add only one exclamation mark after thethank you.
Then I lose another half hour debating which sign-off is most appropriate (one article online recommendsSincerely, while another is morally opposed to it).
If this is what being a Working Professional is like, then honestly, no thanks.
Once the email’s sent, I change out of my uniform and plop down on my bed, not expecting to hear another word from Craneswift until at least the next morning. But then my phone dings with a new email.
Sarah Diaz wants to call.
Like, right now.
“Oh my god,” I say, shooting to my feet. My heart is already racing in a mad staccato. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.”
She’s attached her number in the email. I enter it carefully into my phone, double-checking every digit, then press the call button with trembling hands. While the call dial plays, I stare at the blank whiteness of my bedroom wall and try to focus on my breathing.
Sarah picks up on the third ring.
“Hello?” My voice sounds way too high and shaky. I sound like aseven-year-old.I clear my throat. “Can you hear me?” No, now it’s too low.
Before I can remember how to speak properly, Sarah Diaz says, “Hi, Eliza, I can hear you,” in this smooth, crisp, super-professional tone I’ve heard Ma adopt whenever she’s speaking to clients.
“Hello,” I repeat, for literally no reason.Get a grip on yourself.“Ms. Diaz. It’s so nice to meet you.”
“Oh, you can just call me Sarah.” Then, maybe because she can sense my nerves and raw awe through the phone, she lets out a small laugh. “Sorry to schedule a call so soon. I hope you’re not too busy—”
“Oh, no, not at all,” I hurry to respond. “I had no plans whatsoever. I’m, like, super free. I’m always free.”
“Well, that’s good to hear,” she says, and she sounds like she means it. There’s the low hum of a printer in the background and the clack of keyboards, and I imagine her seated behind a sleek black office desk with a clear view of the city below, a steaming cappuccino and glossy magazines spread over a coffee table. What must it be like, to live a life like that? To be someone like her? “I guess I wanted to first tell you how much I enjoyed your essay, and how glad I am that you’ve agreed to our internship offer. As you might already know, we’re really hoping to expand our readership and attract the younger demographic, and we think you’d be theperfectperson to help us achieve this. Your writing has this really authentic, youthful energy to it that’ll be sure to resonate with teens, while also having the depth that appeals to our older, existing readers . . .”
Okay, listen to this, I tell myself, pressing the phone as close to my ear as possible, the screen warm against my skin.Reallylisten.Memorize every word. You’re not going to have the chance to be praised by someone like Sarah Diaz again.
