Page 31 of This Time It's Real
I raise my brows. “Whoa there, no need to sound so enthusiastic.”
He laughs, but even that lacks his usual wry humor. “Yeah, well . . .” For one second he looks like he’s going to make a confession, tell me a secret, and an unbidden spark of anticipation shoots up my spine. But then he kind of shrugs and shakes his head. “It is what it is.”
“Again. Your enthusiasm is overwhelming.”
We both lapse into silence as I search around for the right college application topics. The prompt this year is pretty typical, if not disappointing in its lack of originality:Tell us about a particular experience where you struggled. What did you learn from it?
“Yeah, sounds good,” Caz says when I show him, giving the prompt the most cursory of glances.
I stare at him. “That’s it?”
“What else do you want me to say? Excellent identification of prompt? Exemplary organizational skills?”
“No—” I huff out a sigh, trying my best to keep my frustration at bay. “That’s not what I mean. If I’m going to help you write this essay about your struggles, you need to actually give me some source material. Tell me about a time where you, you know. Struggled.”
Caz merely lifts a hand over his face, blocking out the sun, his knife-cut jaw and cheekbones cast in sudden shadow. “Why can’t you just make it up?” He turns back to me, a gleam in his eyes. Which just seems wrong, scientifically. How can his eyesgleam like thatif there’s no light? “Isn’t that kind of your area of expertise?”
I choose to ignore the jibe. “It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?”
“Because,”I say, exasperated. “My essay only worked because I still included real-life details—like searching for apartments in my compound, or the grocery store near our school. I still had my main personality traits, my voice, my—my defining characteristics. So anyone who’s read it would believe it was written by me. Right now I don’t knownearlyenough about you to create an entire essay out of nothing, especially if it needs to be factually accurate.”
Writing is simply a form of lying; I’ve always known this to be true. But to tell agoodlie, aconvincinglie, one that is both logically constructed and consistent and emotionally resonant—that takes time and effort. Attention to detail. And in this particular case, it also takes cooperation.
“Look, Caz,” I say as diplomatically as possible. “I can’t write this essay if you won’t give me one solid, realistic example—and please don’t tell me you haven’t, because literally everyone struggles in some way at some point—”
“What a profound statement,” he says dryly. “Did you get that from a musical?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
But he elects to stay silent instead, and with every second that passes, I can feel my already-threadbare patience wearing thinner and thinner.
“This isyourcollege essay,” I remind him. “And it shouldn’t even be that hard to write in the first place. It’s hardly rocket science.”
“Not for you, maybe,” he shoots back.
“Well, maybe if you tried—or cared even the slightest—”
“Iamtrying.” He sighs. Rakes his fingers through his hair, but it’s less his famous, calculated, heartthrob gesture and more genuine agitation. “See, this is why I don’t like—” He stops himself.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, tell me,” I insist. “Why you don’t like—what? Studying? Planning for the future? Doing things you’re bad at?”
He doesn’t answer, but a muscle works in his jaw at my last guess.
I almost laugh, torn between sheer frustration and amusement. “Caz,” I say. “I know there are people who’ll literally worship you for drinking water, but you realize you don’tactuallyhave to be perfect all the time. I mean, I’d probably like you a lot more if you weren’t so perfect. You’d be way more—I don’t know,human.Not just some shiny product of the entertainment industry.”
Surprise flashes over his face, though it’s quickly clouded by something like wariness. “Is that how you see me right now? As a . . . shiny product?”
“No,” I say, then pause. “Well. Sort of, yeah.”
He falls quiet, his eyes trained on a splash of color in the cloudless sky. A kite. It’s shaped like a dragon, with golden bells for eyes and painted Peking opera masks making up the rest of its body, its long, flared tail undulating in the breeze.
“I guess . . . that’s fair,” Caz says, yanking my attention back to him. He huffs out a small laugh. “It’s funny, because after I landed my first role, I promised myself I wouldn’t become one of those bland celebrities who only give corporate answers and sidestep any meaningful questions about themselves.”
