In the Wake of Wanting (5 page)

“What do you mean?"

“Can you get her caught up, Trey?” Professor Aslon asks me.

“Of course. Since you were late–"

“Oh, my God, I’m so sorry,” she says to me, looking genuinely remorseful as all the hair on the right side of her head comes free of the clip. She hurriedly removes the accessory, gathers all of her fine hair together, twists it, and fastens it back up. Tendrils in the front remain uncooperative, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

“Don’t apologize to me… but you missed the explanation. Every freshman starts off as a feature writer, and you’re assigned a junior copy editor. So you’ve got me."

“For a story?” she asks.

“For the semester,” I clarify.

“Oh, my God,” she gushes, putting her hand over her heart.

“Is that going to be okay?"

“Oh, my God. I think so.” She’s completely out of breath.

I smile at her. “If you’re
really
good after your freshman year, you go on to be a junior copy editor your sophomore year. After that, you go to copy editor, then managing editor, or if you’re lucky, editor-in-chief. Editors write stories as well, with an editor above them. But for your first year, they want you to focus solely on writing."

“Cool,” she says.

“Any questions so far?” I ask her.

“All semester?” she asks.

“Yes, you’ll focus on writing all semester.”

“No, I mean you’re my editor all semester?"

“Yes,” I reiterate. “I thought we established that already."

“I’m sorry, I’m so nervous."

“Why?” I ask her.

“Why?” She looks at me incredulously. “Why?!” she repeats. “You’re only
Trey Holland
. The miracle child born to Jack and Emi Holland.”

“
Miracle
child, oh boy…”

“They’ve done so many things for so many people. And you, too, with your volunteer work, and your blog.”

“So you know a little about me, huh?” I ask her, squirming in my seat.

“
And
you’re the brother of the most talented artist in the world.”

“Don’t ever say that in front of Livvy. Jon has enough problems with her ego already,” I tease, referring to my brother-in-law, who’s about the only person equally matched for my gifted sister. They are an art and architecture tour-de-force. Separately, they are at the top of their fields. Together, their work is incomparable and in demand by the wealthiest and most well-known celebrities in Europe, Asia, South America, and here at home.

“I saw them once with their adorable little girls. Livvy is so poised and perfect.”

“You can never,
ever
meet Liv.” I start laughing at the way she’s gushing over my family.

“I think I’d be scared to!”

“You’d be so disappointed to learn that she’s normal. Probably just like you.”

“Everything okay?” Professor Aslon asks the two of us.

“I think Coley reads too many Manhattan gossip rags,” I respond, slightly amused and only mildly frustrated with my partner.

“A little star-struck Miss Fitzsimmons?"

“I never expected to even see him on campus, much less be in a class with him… and he’s my editor…” 

“Yes, he is your editor. Trey, why don’t you take Coley for a cup of coffee and prove to her you’re human? Decaf, maybe…”

“I was going to suggest that,” I tell her.

“Good. And Coley? For Wednesday, I need an article on your first impression of Trey. Got it?"

My partner nods her head enthusiastically. “Oh! Who’s my audience?"

“Me,” my professor says, and I smile, knowing the assignment well.

“Okay, good, yes. One article, due Wednesday."

“One copy, printed, Miss Fitzsimmons.” Coley nods in understanding.

“Let’s go,” I say, waiting for her to put on all three of her bags. I pick up my notebook, pencil, and style guide, leading her out of the class. “Want me to carry your backpack or something?”

“I’ve got it,” she says, but as her body shifts under the weight of her belongings, I stop walking and hold my hand out until she passes it to me.

After we begin our walk to the coffee shop nearby, she looks up at me shyly, her eyes still wide. “So we can just cut class like that?"

“Class time is about collaboration. Our professor doesn’t care where we work – as long as it’s not in our residences – that’s the only stipulation, not that she’d ever know. We call Professor Aslon “Professor As Long As the Job Gets Done.’ That’s her motto.” 

“That’s cool."

“Well, she knows most of the real work will be done on your own time. Most beginning writers can’t write on command like that. She understands that. But if you ever feel inspired when we’re collaborating, you say the word, and you can write. Okay?"

“Okay,” she answers.

“So you got lost. Where were you?” I ask her.

“I don’t know why I thought this would be a class in Pulitzer Hall… but it’s not.” She shakes her head.

“You were way off.” I laugh lightly. “That’s the grad school.”

“I learned. I ended up asking someone in the library where I was supposed to go.”

“You poor thing. Was there no one you could ask in Pulitzer?”

“I was just intimidated.”

“You’ve got to get over that,” I tell her. “You’re going to be a reporter for
The Wit
. You could be interviewing any of those people one day very soon.”

“I can do it,” she says to me, planting her feet into the sidewalk.

“All right then.” I nod toward the entrance of the coffee shop in the building from which she just came, inviting her to continue on our trek.

“I love this place.”

“So you’re a
regular
at Pulitzer.”

“I like to shut the place down–the coffee place, that is. I do my best writing at night.”

“So do I,” I tell her, holding the door open.

“Caffe Americano and whatever she wants,” I say to the barista at Ruvelyn’s Café as I look down at Coley, who stands at least a foot shorter than me.

She smiles brightly. “Caramel Macchiato and a heated blueberry muffin with two things of butter. Please and thank you.”

“Make that
two
muffins with two
things
of butter, if you don’t mind. That sounds good.”

“It’s worth the extra laps in the pool.”

“You swim?” I pay for our snacks, happy that she doesn’t even try so there’s no awkward argument to break the conversation.

“Second in state my junior and senior years.”

“Are you on the roster here?” I ask her as we find a seat.

“I didn’t make the team this year. Apparently, second in Virginia isn’t good enough for Columbia. But I’ve gotten faster on both my freestyle and backstroke, so I’ll be ready for tryouts. I know
you’re
on the team.”

“Of course you know,” I say with a laugh. “So, Virginia? Which part?”

“Arlington.”

“Do you have a parent in the government?”

“Dad’s in the Secret Service.” She grins.

“How much dirt do you
actually
have on me?”

“As far as I can tell, there’s none to be had. But trust me, I never asked him for special favors. I’m interested in journalism, so I did my own research and used my own resources.”

“And what does your mother do?”

“She’s a cop in D.C. My parents are divorced, but still friends.”

“A
cop
? A
secret service agent
and a
cop
? Well, what role does your dad have in the secret service administration?” It’s a big organization. He could do administrative support, for all I know.

“He’s assigned to the President and First Lady.”

“No shit?”

She laughs out loud, covering her mouth, accidentally kicking my shin as she swings her legs under the high table I’d chosen to sit in. “Oh, I’m sorry!”

“I'm such an ass! Is this table too high for you?” I ask, looking beneath the table at the expanse between her feet and the floor. “I didn’t even think… we can sit at a regular table.”

“I’m fine,” she says as she continues to giggle. “I’ve adjusted to my vertically-challenged state over my lifetime. I’m laughing because I didn’t expect to hear you cuss.”

I quirk my brow at her. “Seriously? I grew up in New York City.”

“But you went to Catholic school. Your dad is Jack Holland. He’s so perfect and proper.”

I shake my head. “You must not know many people from Catholic schools, first of all. Secondly, my dad has his faults.” I rethink my argument, because he’s pretty close to perfect
and
proper, and I know I disappoint him every time I curse in front of him. “Well… have you heard of my mom? If I picked up any bad habits at home, it’s more likely I picked them up from her–or Liv, of course.” My sister has never been afraid to say how she feels in whatever manner she needs to say it. She helped me have a voice many times when I was much younger.

“Your mom seems very real.”

“She is. They’re both great,” I admit. “I’m incredibly lucky.”

“So you really do get along with them as well as it looks like you do in public?”

“That’s real.”

“That’s impressive.”

“No reason to fight. I’ve had a good life, thanks to them. What about you? Do you have any siblings? Get along with your folks?”

“We’re not here to talk about me,” she says as our drinks and muffins are delivered to the table. “I have to formulate an opinion about you…” She scratches her head as if deep in thought.

“Yeah, this is kind of silly for you. First impression, my ass. Your first impression of me came, what, how many years ago?” Her tanned skin blushes about seven shades of pink before quickly returning to its normal color. She has freckles around her nose, too, that I see clearly now that my attention was drawn there. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“Yeah, that was rude.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I was joking.”

“Okay.”

After she unfolds the foil on a pat of butter, she sets it close to the hot pastry and picks up a fork. I watch her process as she slices a tiny sliver of butter with the fork and then cuts a piece of muffin, eating all of it together in one bite.

“That’s efficient,” I tell her.

“I was fifteen.”

“And that was… how many years ago?”

“Never ask a lady her age, Trey. You are so much ruder than I thought you’d be.”

“Damn! I’m so sorry!”

“You’re so easy to get!” An airy giggle escapes her lips that makes me laugh with her. “Still joking. And now you’re blushing.”

“You don’t ever need to point it out to me. I can feel the slightest change in color from my ghostly norm,” I assure her. “Trust me.”

“Three.” She holds up three fingers, but not the three you’d expect.

“Okay.” I don’t mind her delayed responses at all. I don’t know if she expects me to forget my questions by way of her distractions, but they don’t work. I don’t work that way. “So you’re eighteen.”

“Yes.”

“Is someone close to you deaf?” I hold up the same three fingers, what I recognize to be the American Sign Language sign for the number three. She jerks back a little bit with her eyebrows raised and her eyes bright, then answers with a few signs. “Wait. I’m not,” I tell her, shaking my head. “I know letters and numbers, and that’s about it.”

“My brother.
Twin
brother. He ruptured both his eardrums scuba diving when we were eleven. He can hear very little now.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Yeah, but we’re not talking about him.” She points both of her index fingers at me. “
You
, mister.”

“So what first impression of me are you going to use?” I ask her. “The three-year-old one, or the one from today?”

“Maybe a little of both, I don’t know.”

“Hmmm,” I say, looking at her sideways, skeptical. “This already seems like biased journalism. I don’t like it.”

“I don’t think you get a say,” she says as she sticks her little button nose in the air.
Oh, if only she knew
. It’d be no fun to warn her, either. She takes another bite of her muffin with the fork, this time twisting the utensil upside down after she slides the cake from it.

I can’t stop watching her mouth as she cleans all the crumbs off the fork with her lips, and with a little, tiny help from her tongue and teeth. A cute pucker hides them both from me at the end of her brief performance. I shift in my chair, my jeans noticeably more uncomfortable than they were thirty seconds ago.
Thank God I picked this table instead of sitting at the counter
. I follow the silver tines as she sets them back down on the plate, and then I blink, moistening my eyes that are dry from staring. When I look up, she’s looking back at me curiously.