In the Wake of Wanting (6 page)

I swallow, knowing that she caught me. After clearing my throat and wishing my skin was tanned like hers, I talk to fill the awkward silence that’s about to strangle me. “Any questions you want to ask me? Anything I can do to improve your impression of me?”

“What made you interested in writing?” She smiles, acknowledging that she’s cutting me a break.

My body relaxes at her question. “My friend, Max, and I used to play together a lot–superhero things, good guy-bad guy make-believe things–and I loved making up the stories. I never really thought they were anything spectacular, but my parents would sometimes listen to us play and just revel in the creativity. I was probably eleven or twelve at the time. They suggested that I start writing our plots down for fun. Those turned into short stories, which turned into slightly longer stories, which turned into a couple mediocre short books. And then I wrote a few articles for our school paper. They were so-so. Nothing spectacular. I wasn’t really feeling it… and then one of my close friends died of cancer my sophomore year. That was rough, and it hit me hard.

“Anabel was my first kiss–like, back in preschool or something. And then, just a really good friend for all the years that followed. I had a hard time coping with the emotions, but I sat down and wrote about her, and the piece was cathartic for me and really special to her parents. They used it in a memorial for her.”

I don’t intend to tear up, but it’s been awhile since I thought about my friend. I quickly change the subject.

“That was what got me started on the blogging. My parents suggested I do volunteer work over the summer and write about my experiences in an effort to get more donations for the organizations. Having empathy for the people involved and putting that into words… it’s something I’m really good at, apparently.”

“You are,” she affirms quickly.

“You follow it?” She nods. “Do you have a favorite post?”

“Hands down, A Kinder New York.” It’s my favorite, too. It was written about the non-profit anti-bullying agency my uncle Matty works for here in Manhattan. It was a very personal article for me to write because it focused on Callen and his struggle to come out to his parents, both very religious people who had always been against homosexuality. Callen was adamant about coming out so he could be with Max. My two best friends had spent the summer before our junior year apart when they’d so desperately wanted to be with one another. It was a painful thing to watch, but then a rewarding thing to witness when they finally got together. I’m still sad that it ended–and the way it did. “All of your posts are very personal, Trey, but you could tell you had a vested interest in that one. You know,
that
was clearly a biased piece. Any reader knew how you wanted everything to turn out.”

“That’s definitely an opportunity of mine, to learn how to be more unbiased. It’s something that Professor Aslon has talked to me about, and it’s something I’m working on.”

“Or maybe that’s not the kind of journalist you should be.”

“I want that to be my decision, though. I want to excel in all facets. I want to be great at editorial journalism, but I also want to be able to write the facts. I want to be good at both: investigative and editorial as well. I want to decide which one makes me happiest and make the call as to which one I want to pursue. Whether it’s all the time, most of the time, or a little of everything.”

“I respect that,” she says. “I think that’s a good goal to have.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I want to be a poet.” She’s dreamy-eyed with her pronouncement.

“And I want to be the president,” I counter with my own pipe dream.

She chuckles and shrugs her shoulders, taking another bite of her muffin. Having learned my lesson, I look away and eat a little of my own. “Realistically, I like how you write on your blog. I like that you’re an advocate for so many companies that need a voice, so I was thinking maybe I’d work for a PR firm or something like that.”

I shake my head at her, but wipe the grimace off my face as soon as I realize I’m making it.

“What’s wrong with that?”

“It’s like advertising. It encroaches a little bit on falsehoods, don’t you think?”

“It’s no different from what you do now.”

“It’s very different,” I argue. “When you’re at a PR firm, you’re answering to people and they’re paying you for that. What I do–nobody pays me for my blog so everything I say is truth. It’s what I want to write, and there have been a few times that I volunteered and didn’t write about it because I didn’t like the way the place was run, and I told them that. I’ve written articles before without publishing them. I’ll just give them to the person I’m working with because I don’t ever go with the intention of hurting an organization. My goal is to help the people bring in more money for the causes they believe in. When I see things that don’t feel right, or I see corrupt people running things, that’s when the investigative side comes in, and I’ll call it out. Right now, I’m just a college student, though, so what I say doesn’t hold much power. In a few years, people will know me. I’ll have a voice. I’ll be able to turn my story into a news station. I’ll be able to cause problems for people and hold them accountable. That’s something I want to do.

“But for a PR firm, you’re always worried about your client’s image and you want them to look good. That’s the only thing you care about. That’s what you’re hired to do. Like, I could never work for a PR firm.”

Coley bites the inside of her cheek in thought. “Maybe we’re just different that way.”

“Maybe we are,” I agree. “It takes all kinds. Everyone needs a job and there are people skilled to do that. Maybe there are companies that hold people accountable, or PR companies that would encourage people to make changes when they see something wrong. What do I know? I’m a nineteen-year-old guy in college. I don’t know how anything works. This is just my assessment of it.”

“Right,” she says. “I don’t think all PR firms are evil.”

“I didn’t mean that they were.”

“I know.”

“I suppose you wrote in high school.”

She thinks about her answer before responding. “Yeah, a little.”

“Anything I can read?”

She crinkles her nose. “You’ll see my stuff soon enough. I mean, I was obviously good enough to get into
The Wit
, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“True. It’s not easy to get on the paper here. You had to impress
someone
in your first semester English class to get on staff. And you had to have some good samples from high school, too. I know that from experience. What course did you pick in the fall?”

“Sentimentalism,” she tells me.

“Interesting choice.” I grin at her. “We could have some interesting discussions.”

“Why, what did you take?”

“Transcendentalism.”

She shakes her head. “But, see, I already know you let your emotions guide you. You’re incredibly empathetic. You’re a scholar who likes to learn things. I respect that.”

“So they’re
scholarly
discussions.”

“I’m game. Name the time and place,” she says just before she takes the last bite of her muffin. As I start going through my calendar in my head, I realize what I’m doing.

“First, let’s get through this assignment. Do you think you have enough dirt on me to write something?”

“Pretty sure I’ve got this in the bag.”

“Confidence. That’s what I like to hear. Keep that up and we’re going to have a very successful semester.” I look at my watch, letting her know that it’s time to go. She looks surprised when she realizes how late it is already.

“Oh, wow. Time flew!”

“Yeah. Do you know where you are?” I tease her. “Need help finding your next class?”

“We’re already in Pulitzer Hall. I just start out here for everything and wander aimlessly until I stumble into the right building and room with people talking about things that sound interesting. Eventually, I’ll get lucky.”

My mind goes places it shouldn’t.

“As long as you have a plan.” I grab my things and stand up. “Good luck on your article. Make it good. And
positive
. I think I was pretty nice to you. The coffee and muffin weren’t a bribe, necessarily–unless they need to be.” She bites her lip when she laughs. “Don’t say shit about me to Professor Aslon. She thinks I’m a saint,” I tell her on my way out the door.

“I’ll make sure to set the record straight!” she hollers to me, waving goodbye.

I head back to
The Wit
offices to meet up with Asher since we both have an hour before our next class. He’d invited me to take a look at proposed layout design changes and give my input.

He brings me a bottle of water from our break area and closes the door to the graphics room.

“Wow. You hit the freshman goldmine with that one,” Asher says casually as he pulls up the pages in InDesign.

“Who, Coley?” I ask him, her name likely one of the first words to have escaped my lips no matter what he’d said because I can’t stop thinking about her.

He huffs, then mimics me. “Who, Coley? Yeah, Coley. She should be modeling… maybe Victoria’s Secret? Or something a little trashier.” I grit my teeth and scoot my chair a few inches away from him. “I’m pretty sure I saw her thong.”

“She doesn’t wear a thong.”

“Oh?” He kicks my shin lightly, goading me. “And how would you know that?”

“She’s too sweet to wear a thong.”

“I see.” He leans in and speaks softly, pointing into my chest. “You
think
she’s too sweet to wear a thong. That’s the best kind of girl.”

“Shut up, Asher. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Are you gonna go for that?”

“For what? The underwear that I am ninety-eight percent sure is
not
a thong?”

“For Coley, you jackass.”

“Oh, sorry. Because when you used the word ‘that,’ it implied you were speaking of an object and not a person. You meant ‘her,’ then.”

“You know what I meant. I’m not
that way
.”

“I like to think you’re not
that way
, but sometimes you say shit that makes me wonder.” I glare at him as he rolls his eyes. “Of course I’m not interested in her.
Zaina
, remember?”

“So you don’t care if I go after her?”

“You don’t need my permission,” I scoff. “I’m just her copy editor.”

“Alright, cool,” he says. “Did you get her number?”

“No.”

“I’m sure Professor Aslon has it. Maybe I can contact her on a little unofficial
Witness
business later.”

“You don’t think she’s a little young for you?” I ask him.

He looks over at me. “We’re both in college. I’d say anyone’s fair game.”

I nod my head. “Cool. Just asking.”

“Unless she’s, like, child-genius-sixteen or something and it would be illegal when we hook up. Is she?”

“I–I don’t think so. She’s smart, but she didn’t mention that.” If he wants to know her, he can do the legwork himself. “I mean, you may want to make sure.”

“You didn’t talk age?”

“The assignment was for her to write about her first impression of me, so she steered the conversation that way,” I tell him, even though I learned a lot more about her than I’m letting on,
including
her age.

“I’ll clear that tiny hurdle,” he says with a self-assured smirk. “Thanks, man.”

“Sure.”

I stand up and start to pace behind him, shoving my fists in the front pockets of my jeans to make sure I don’t punch anything, because all of a sudden, I really want to hit something.

“So, what do you think?”

Admittedly, I want to change my response to him and tell him I
do
mind. “I don’t like–” I start, and then realize he’s asking me about the layouts. “Ummm…” I walk closer to the large-screen monitor and point to a photo placeholder. “I don’t like the size of that and how it cuts so much into the second column.”

“Yeah, I told them the same thing. The word-wrap is going to look hideous if there are any words over four letters in that section.”

“Exactly. Maybe just a vertical picture in the third column. They could go a little taller,” I suggest.

“I like that. I’ll make a note of that,” Asher says, documenting it on his iPad. “New masthead. What do you think?” He scrolls to the beginning of the document.

“Really? That font?”

“You don’t like it?”

“I’m not a designer. I’m probably not the one to ask. But it looks like the same typeface they use for the
National Enquirer
. Has anyone checked that?”

He pulls up the website and compares the two.