Could I possibly get into those?
What if I could actually commit to four years of school and become a journalist the right way? No shortcuts. No scheming. Do I have it in me?
Maybe.
My parents believed in me once upon a time. I believed in myself. And I would be lying if I said the Tram Fam wasn’t inspiring this Google search. My guys would tell me I can do it. Apply to a journalism school and work toward an actual degree. Pursue this thing I want and succeed without trying to scheme my way to the top.
Or you might just continue your cut and run pattern.
With an impatient sound, I ex out of the webpage and pull up a fresh document. After a moment’s hesitation, I start typing, my fingers already sluggish with guilt.
* * *
Me Plus Three
by Elise Brandeis
* * *
What do an egomaniacal porn star, an emotionally bullied construction foreman and a rugby coach with crippling mommy issues have in common?
They all slept in the same bed as me last night.
By a simple twist of fate—and a Roosevelt Island tram malfunction—there I was, trapped with a trio of walking red flags…
* * *
A few hours later, I stare down at my unmoving fingers on the keyboard. My gaze lifts to read some of the more provocative lines. In a way, the article is way too personal. In another…it doesn’t sound like me at all. It sounds like my fears trying to convince me that these men couldn’t possibly be right for me. It’s a con list with no pro side.
It’s over-the-top humorous and a little mean.
And it’s not how I truly feel about Tobias, Banks and Gabe whatsoever.
Maybe in the very beginning, but not now. No way I can send it to Karina. Right?
Just because I send it doesn’t mean it’s going to be published.
It could be terrible and I’ll be back at square one. What I should do is delete the whole thing and continue browsing schools. So I can pursue a writing career the right way.
But it wouldn’t hurt to get Karina’s opinion…right?
In the end, my fear of enrolling and subsequently dropping out of school wins. Not to mention, the growing need for someone to tell me I’m not terrible at writing. The need for some positive reinforcement to reassure me I’m not chasing a pipe dream when I research journalism schools in the first place. It feels disloyal sharing this information with even one person, but it won’t go any further than that. Without giving myself another second to talk myself out of it, I attach the piece to an email to Karina and hit send.
Chapter Fifteen
I push the sandwich cart through the lane of cubicles, acutely aware that everyone on staff is staring at me with fresh fascination. Fine, it’s Monday morning and this is the first time I’ve been in the newsroom since the Tram Fam surprised me at work. And I guess it’s not every day that three very attractive men show up to an office and express their interest in the sandwich girl, even if she does have great legs. Eventually, a new piece of gossip will intercept their curiosity, but not today. All eyes are on me for now.
Awesome.
It would be a lot more convenient if these working stiffs accepted their sandwich from me, as usual, without taking their rapt attention from the screens of their Mac. Because I need to speak with Karina again. I need to at least inform her of what I overheard at the party Saturday night, don’t I? The conversation between Alexander and Crouch is way too important. I can’t simply pretend I never heard it, can I? That’s irresponsible as a citizen.
She told me I couldn’t pursue the story—and I won’t.
But if she decides to chase it down or give it to an experienced reporter, their work will be half completed once I show them the picture I’m carrying in my apron. I might not get the byline, but I can still be helpful. Although it’s going to take some fancy footwork to convince Karina that I didn’t actively seek out the opportunity to take this picture. It fell into my lap.
I’m sure she’ll totally believe me.
Right after she tells me “Me Plus Three” is a masterpiece.
A girl can dream.
I stop at the edge of a desk of the woman who always whines about the lack of soup and wait for her to go through her spiel, but she doesn’t. Instead, she is joined by the staff writer behind her in an ambush I see coming from a mile away. “So…Elise, right?” They give me that wink-wink, shoulder juggle that implies we’re girls so we’ve just gotta dish. “Can you settle a bet?”
“I don’t know. Do you want a sandwich?”
The second girl laughs at my abrupt change of topic, but girl one appears miffed. “Those guys who came here to see you last week. Some of us swear that one of them was Tobias Atwater. Was it? I’ll win ten bucks if the answer is yes and it will go straight into your tip jar.”