Theo rocks back with a laugh that scares away the few birds that were creeping closer to us. It’s the purist laugh I’ve ever heard, and my cheeks hurt from the smile it causes on my face. I did that to him. I made him laugh.
I made him feel.
* * *
My stomach full and my heart oddly happy for once, I fly through the rest of the articles and finish writing up my questions before the workday is done. I print them out and bring the copy to Abby’s office, where she’s talking with an older, heavyset man in a suit and tie. I can tell somehow that he’s a step above the sales manager, so when Abby waves me in, I tug on my jacket and straighten my skirt, wishing like I hell I was wearing anything else so I look like a grownup.
“Lily, I wanted to introduce you to Michael St. James.”
My eyes stretch wide. I feel it, and I can’t help that it happens. Michael is the founder ofTheAffiliate. He started the magazine after selling his stake in a very popular New England football team.
“Sir, it’s so nice to meet you.” I’m fawning, and it must amuse the man because he chuckles and takes my hand in two of his, patting the top the way I always pictured a grandfather would to his favorite granddaughter. I was never anyone’s favorite anything.
“Lily, nice to meet you. Abby’s been catching me up on you, says you’re our intern for the next three months. Hope we don’t turn you off sports journalism by working you too hard.”
“Impossible,” I say.
“Good to hear. Sign her up!” He holds a finger in the air and moves toward Abby’s door. “Let me know, Abby, about that thing we talked about.”
He pats the door frame on his way out, and my body is completely buzzing from the day.
“Are those your questions already?” Abby brings me back down to earth, and I switch gears, shifting into overachiever mode. As much as I’ve coasted through my classes at Welles, I can’t let that happen here. I may not want to shine academically, but this is about my career. In this building, I want to be the best intern they’ve ever had. That way when I head to college in the fall, I might find my way back here again and again. Until they hire me for real.
“Yeah, I got super inspired. I know I have too many, but I thought you could strike the ones you don’t like, or I can ask them all and we can trim. If Ken shows me how to edit, I can help—”
“Okay, whoa. Slow down, Lily,” she says through light laughter. She leans back and scans my document. I try to read her reaction on her face, picking out what question she’s on by the way her lips move silently. “These are great,” she says, spinning slowly in her chair.
I slip into a chair when her back is too me, mostly so my knees can bounce out of her view. By the time she rotates toward me again, she’s done. She lays the pages down in front of me and taps them with her finger.
“This is good work. If you’re game to learn editing, I say do them all.”
I slide them into my hands while my legs jackrabbit with energy behind her desk.
“Really? I’m glad. Okay, yeah. I’ll . . . I guess, meet with Ken next?” If it were up to me I would sprint to his office right now and drag him down the street, take the T, and head to whatever school is closest to nail our first interview.
“Yeah. He should be set on Thursday, and he can walk you through some things. Today was a full day. How did you like it?” She leans back and pulls a cap from one of her pens, twirling it in her hand like a mini baton.
“I don’t want to leave,” I joke.It’s only a half joke.
Her smile broadens.
“Good. I think you’re going to do great here.”
I nod and smile back. Her eyes linger on me for a few seconds, and she shifts in her chair then chews on the cap she was just twirling.
“Before you go, I did want to run something by you.” Her head wobbles slightly as her mouth pulls in tight. My mom does that when she’s about to sell me on bad news, like the way she told me Drew’s son was moving in with us, and that he’d be more suited to my room. I could have the one over the garage.
“It’s bigger,” she said.It’s freezing.
“Sure,” I say, trying my best confident voice on for size.It’s not very confident sounding. And that was a tiny word I uttered.
“How would you feel about documenting your journey . . . back to the water?”
Her question lingers in the air. My mouth hangs open. I’m not sure how many seconds pass since she’s asked it, but I know it’s been a few. I can read the hesitation on her face, the slight wince. If I look hard enough, every little tick in her eyes, gnaw at her cheek, and attempt to speak is a signal she’s reworking her approach.
I feel sick.
“I mean, of course you’ll still do the interviews for the regional section. I was just thinking, you know, because you’re so unique . . . it might be a great format for you to tell your own story, in your own words. As part of this, almost like a soft launch for it.”