Circle of Death (3 page)

“Last time I checked,” Emma says, raising a fair eyebrow, “They forfeited their right to this graduation nonsense when they reneged on paying for your education because your major didn’t suit them.”

She does have a point. By all rights, I should have no qualms about ditching graduation despite my parents’ desires. I’m the one who financed my degree through a half dozen scholarships (and about 50K in student loan debt, of course). My mom and dad always told me when I was growing up that they’d be more than happy to pay for my college education, provided that I studied something “practical” like medicine or law. But when I decided to major in marketing and communications instead, their offer of financial assistance was snatched away right quick.

“Why would we pay for a degree that’s just going to leave you jobless and living in our basement?” my mother had scoffed at the time.

And much to my chagrin, she seems to have had a valid argument. I’m graduating from college at the end of the week, and I’ve spent the better part of the past year sending out resume after resume to every media and publishing outlet in the country. In that time, I’ve had exactly four lackluster interviews and zero job offers. I’m about to step into the real world with a boatload of debt, no job, and a rather fatalistic attitude about my prospects. Just like my mother predicted way back when.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up,” Emma sighs, sitting down next to me on the bed. I watch as she tucks her slender legs beneath her, nimble as a kitten. I’ve always been slightly covetous of my best friend’s tiny frame. I’m a relatively tall young woman, 5’ 9” to be exact, and was an early bloomer, as far as curves as concerned. I’ve come to love my fuller, voluptuous figure, but I never heard the end of it from my mom when I was growing up. She was born in Japan, and always boasted a super-slender figure. My older sister, Juliet, inherited her body type, but I took after my English-born father. You can’t pick your parents, and you certainly can’t pick what you get from them out of the genetic grab bag.

“At least you’re graduating at the top of your program,” Emma points out, “I don’t even think they bother to rank us in the Fine Arts department, but if they did I certainly wouldn’t want to know about it.”

“That’s true,” I allow, “I did kind of kick this degree’s ass, huh?”

“I’ll say!” Emma smiles, “You even managed to snag a minor in psych like some kind of academic superhero.”

“To be fair,” I point out, “My psych classes were mostly introductory. And all we did for the most part was fill out weird personality quizzes and try to psychoanalyze our parents.”

“No wonder you had such an easy time of it. Think about all the material you have there,” Emma smirks.

“Ha, ha,” I say, shrugging out of my ridiculous green gown, “You’re a regular laugh riot, Emma Sanders.”

“I’m here all week,” she mugs, laying out across my bed. “Aren’t you glad you’re going to be stuck with me for the foreseeable future?”

“I really am though,” I tell her sincerely.

Emma and I have been living together since sophomore year of undergrad, when we were randomly assigned to the same dorm room. You’d think there wouldn’t be much for us to talk about—she’s an abstract painter, I’m an aspiring media type. But in a school overrun with Greek life and hardcore athletics, we were lucky to find each other. We stuck together for the rest of our undergraduate careers, and just found a tiny two-bedroom apartment to share after graduation. Emma’s already snagged a job as an artist’s assistant here in Boston, and while I haven’t been so lucky job-wise, I’m determined not to move back home with my parents. I don’t care if I have to sling coffee, or walk dogs, or babysit some horrible rich kids. I’m going to make it work.

“Come on,” Emma says, rolling onto her feet, “It’s already three minutes past five. I need a drink.”

“Yeah, OK,” I agree, gathering my long black hair into a bun and securing it with my signature hair sticks—the only thing passed down to me from my mother, besides raging social anxiety. “I could really use one, after today.”

Emma skirts off to find her purse as I drop into my desk chair, absentmindedly checking my social media pages and favorite blogs. Not much to see on Facebook and whatnot, as per usual. I don’t exactly have a large group of friends. Or any group of friends, for that matter. There’s Emma, sure, and some people from my study groups and classes, but not many people that I’d consider honest-to-god friends, despite what Facebook might call them. But to be honest, my lack of close friends makes perfect sense.

It’s sometimes said that sisters are built-in best friends, and for me and my sister Juliet, this was absolutely true. At least, it was when we were little. She’s two years older than me, and I absolutely idolized her when we were growing up. Juliet was always leading me off on epic adventures and insanely fun antics. Whether we were staging full-scale Spice Girls musicals in our shared bedroom, teaching each other how to do cartwheels in the backyard, or breaking into my mom’s makeup case for surreptitious (and poorly executed) makeovers, there was never a dull moment with Juliet around.

But as we grew older, that adventurous spirit turned rebellious. My mother was a strict taskmaster, and my father let her rule over the household—and us girls—with an iron fist. She and Juliet butted heads ceaselessly from the time my sister hit her teenage years. And the harder my mom tried to hold on, the more desperate Juliet grew to fly away. By the time she was seventeen, Juliet was totally out of control. Partying every night, drinking and smoking, sleeping around—engaging in every bit of destructive behavior imaginable. I begged her to be careful, to take care of herself. I loved her more than anyone on Earth, but my love wasn’t enough to make her stay.

The day she turned eighteen, Juliet ran off. She’d fallen in with a local biker gang, a really hardcore group of guys. She left us a note saying that she’d decided to join up with them as some sort of groupie, and that we shouldn’t come looking for her. She was a legal adult, and too damn stubborn to reconsider, so my parents had no choice but to let her go.

I was devastated by her abandonment, and resolved to never be anything like her. I dove headfirst into my studies, my writing, and did my best to put her out of mind. But no matter how well I did in school, how many prizes I won, how many colleges I got into, no accomplishment was good enough to dispel the ghost of my departed sister from my parents’ hearts. It wasn’t until I went away to school that I finally felt free of her lingering, stifling presence.

But as much as I hate to admit it, I’m still feeling the impact of what Juliet did. Because of her betrayal, I keep my heart safely locked away. I’m immediately suspicious of anyone who wants to be my friend, and insanely selective about the guys I’ll even consider dating. I can’t stand the thought of coming to love someone, the way I loved Juliet, and having them leave me behind. I’ve sworn never to let myself get hurt like that again, and so far I’ve managed just fine. I may not be the most popular girl in school, or have the most notches in my bedpost, but at least I’m seldom vulnerable to heartbreak.

Of course, being safe from heartbreak means being safe from love, too...but that’s a conundrum to tackle another day.

I’m just about to close my laptop when a new email pops into my inbox with a ding. I glance at the message, expecting some junky advertisement for penis enlargement or the like. But the email’s subject line makes my heart skip a beat.

Interview Request from Advance Media, Re: Logan Farrah

“Holy shit,” I whisper, hastily opening the message. I sent my resume to the media giant Advance on a wishful whim a few months ago. Could they seriously be reaching out to little ol’ me about an interview? I read the email with bated breath.

Dear Ms. Farrah,

We have received your resume and are very impressed with your scholastic record and achievements. If you are available, we would like to schedule an interview with you in the coming days. One of our popular media outlets is currently seeking editorial contributors. We think you would be a wonderful fit for the online publication,
FootSolider
. If you are interested, please let us know so that we can forward your information to
FootSoldier’s
managing editor. We look forward to hearing from you—

I can’t even read the last few lines of text—my vision is swimming with excited glee. I let out a squeal of joy, leaping out of my chair and dancing ecstatically around my dorm room. In a flash, Emma is right back in my doorway, staring perplexedly at me as I jump and jive all over the place.

“What the hell is going on?” she asks, befuddled by my outburst.

“I just got an email from Advance Media!” I cry, clasping Emma by the shoulders.

“Okay...?” she replies. Emma is not exactly the most plugged-in person on the planet.

“They own, like, every blog and online publication on the East Coast. At least the ones that are worth reading,” I babble on. “There’s an opening at one site,
FootSolider
, and they want me to come in for an interview!”

Emma may not have any interest in blogs, but even she recognizes the word “interview”.

“Logan, that’s wonderful!” she cries, throwing her arms around me, “I knew something was going to come through for you. You’re too brilliant not to get snatched up.”

“Well, I haven’t been snatched up yet,” I laugh, “But I’ve been reading
FootSoldier
for years. I really dig their aesthetic, and I think my writing style is right up their alley.”

“In other words, they’d be crazy not to hire you,” Emma grins.

“I’m definitely a good fit for the job,” I allow.

“Ugh. That modesty thing is going to be the death of you,” Emma laughs, releasing me from her bear hug. “This calls for a celebratory drink!”

“Weren’t we already going out for a drink?” I ask.

“Well yeah,” she shrugs, “But isn’t it nicer to be justified in it?!”

“I’ll say,” I laugh, grabbing my purse and trailing Emma out the door.

We step out into the warm May evening, arms linked. My body feels weightless as we make our way through the streets of Boston. It’s like I can breathe freely for the first time in months. Finally, I’ve got a lead on a job that might actually pan out, a job I’d kill to have. Maybe I won’t have to crash land into post-graduate life after all.

Chapter Three

The powers that be at Advance Media waste no time, that’s for sure. Mere hours after I respond to their first email, they schedule me for a meeting with
FootSolider’s
managing editor, Elliot Simmons, to take place the very next day. My stomach does a triple axel when I read my appointment time, and I hardly sleep a wink that night. I know that I have to walk into
FootSoldier’s
Boston offices with all the confidence I can muster, but I can’t help but be nervous. There’s so much riding on this interview going well, far more than I’d care to admit. But while I’m busy worrying about the impending meeting, the fitful night passes. Time to rise and—hopefully—shine.

“You’re going to kill it,” Emma assures me that morning, thrusting a cup of coffee into my hands. I raise the mug gratefully to my lips, running through all the typical interview questions in my head.

What are my strengths and weaknesses? Where do I see myself in five years? What made me apply to Advance Media in particular?

The only problem is, my answers seem pretty thin all of a sudden.

I’m great at stonewalling affection and terrible at emotional availability. Hopefully not sleeping on a bean bag chair in my parent’s basement. Because I really really really need a job please just hire me.

Yeah. This thing should go great.

I run my fingers through my artfully tousled hair.
FootSoldier
is an edgy, ballsy publication. Its stories are always one step ahead of public opinion and awareness. The writers who do well there are mostly millennial and slightly hipster, but also often female, which is a huge deal for any popular site. I tried to dress accordingly, in black skinny jeans, a white slouchy tee, and charcoal cardigan. And of course, a swipe of my favorite red lipstick—the one thing I never leave home without. I’ll just have to hope that I blend in with the natives.

“OK. Time to face the music,” I say, plunking my drained coffee mug in the sink.

“That’s the spirit. I think,” Emma replies, giving me a swift hug. “Don’t come back here until you’ve got yourself a nice, cushy job.”

“But no pressure, right?” I mutter, setting off to face the day.

By the time I arrive at the interview, my mind is racing a mile a minute. I’ve made the mistake of pinning too much on this one interview. I can’t psych myself out like this—if I do, it’s game over. Standing outside the unassuming refurbished warehouse that serves as the
FootSolider
offices, I force myself to pause and take a breath. You can do this, I coach myself. Remember, they called you in for a reason.