Page 18 of Proposal Play

“Yes!” I say, touched Everly remembered that recentassignment. “I did a design stretching across a brick building in that neighborhood representing the small businesses in the area, from glasses shops to restaurants to toy stores. That was the lead submission in the portfolio Angelina submitted for me.”

As we chat, the server arrives with my chai latte. She sets down plates, too—the overnight oats, omelets, and pancakes. “The biggest and the best. Let me know if you need anything else,” she says.

“The chance to paint a huge coffee cup and a plate of eggs and bacon on the wall,” I offer with a bright smile.

The server shoots me a bemused look. “I’ll, um, keep that in mind.”

“Thanks,” I say, since I am not above begging. You never know who’s hiring.

Once the server heads to another table, Everly turns to me. “Is this super-secret job something like the neighborhood association one?”

I hesitate because I haven’t told them who the potential job is with. There’s a reason I’ve been vague—I don’t want to be handed anything. I don’t want them to try to intervene, and they might. It’s one thing for me to drop a mention of my art to a server—it’s another to canvas all my friends and family for a boost.

My mother was a writer, and she taught me both the value of art and the value of self-worth. “If you love what you do, then chase it with all your heart, even when it feels like chasing the hem of a cloud,” she’d said. “Chances are, it’ll feed your artist’s soul. And the artist’s soul is very, very hungry.”

Most days, my artist’s soul is a ravenous beast. I chase my dreams with running shoes on, not jumping the line like a nepo baby. I want to be good enough onmy own. I want it so badly it hurts sometimes. The waiting has been dragging me down for more than a week, and if I don’t share this longing, it’ll weigh me down too.

“I’ll tell you,” I say, warning them, “but you can’t tell your guys.”

Josie lifts a hand in an oath. “Girls only.”

Everly nods solemnly. “It won’t leave this booth.”

Fable says, “Padlocker promise.”

I smile at the name. It started as a joke last fall when we promised we’d be Everly’s padlock when she was tempted by the team’s goalie, now her boyfriend. The name stuck, though, because we look out for each other.

“It’s with the Sea Dogs,” I whisper.

Everly gasps. “You’re being considered for that mural project? I wrote the press release announcing our search for local artists.”

She showed it to me last month and suggested I submit my portfolio. The team is commissioning a fun, cartoon-y mural of San Francisco for the inside of its arena to celebrate its partnerships with the city. One side of the arena’s concessions area is closed for renovations right now, and the team is hoping to reopen it with some city-centric new art. “Yes, you did. And when you mentioned it to me, I immediately told Angelina, and she said I’m already on the list.”

“You didn’t tell me,” Everly admonishes me playfully.

“I know,” I admit. “I didn’t want you to feel like you had to put in a word for me. Also, I wanted to get through the first round on my own merits.”

“That’s understandable,” Josie says.

“So what’s next then?” Fable asks.

“More waiting.” I sigh. I made it through the firstround, but then they cast a wider net. “But it’s fine. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I’m not getting it.”

“Why?” Leighton asks with genuine curiosity. “Why does this mean it won’t be you? Maybe they’re just doing their due diligence.”

“I second that,” Josie says with anI’m with hernod. “Besides, aren’t you the closet optimist? You once told me I shouldn’t be afraid to say my dreams out loud.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “You and your iron trap of a memory.”

My longtime friend stares me down. “Well…?”

“Yes,” I say heavily. “I did say that. I do believe that. It’s just…harder to believe it some days than others. And I don’t want to walk around with my hopes up all the time. So I didn’t say anything. But you can’t tell Wes,” I tell Josie and turn to Everly next. “Or Max.” Then to Leighton, whose father is the coach. “Or your dad.”

She scoff-laughs. “Trust me, I’m not going to tell my dad.”

“Good. I haven’t even told Asher.”

“Why not?” Fable asks with a tilt of her head.

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