Page 35 of Tilly in Technicolor
I watch the text bubble bounce up and down as I wait for my mom’s response, dangerous hope swelling in my chest.
I hope you’re prioritizing your internship though.
Getting actual work experience.
And *poof* the hope is gone, a trickle of embarrassment left in its wake.
I mean… writing is a job for a lot of people, I shoot back, fingers shaky as I type.
Tilly. No. You know that’s not a real job.
I stare at my phone, a hard lump forming in my throat.
Real jobs are steady. Stable. You of all people need that in your life! Mom sends in follow-up. I hope you’re being realistic about what your future needs to look like.
A minute later, one more message dings through. It’s a link to a local Cleveland college still accepting applications.
Two fat, hot teardrops plop onto my lap before I even process I’m crying. I lock my phone and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to press away all the emotion building in my skull. It’s embarrassment and frustration and anger and… and… I don’t know, longing? Nostalgia? This bone-achy desperation for a future that I’m apparently not cut out for? One where I have ideas and I share them and I pour my heart into my work instead of forcing my brain into some shape it’ll never fit.
I take a shaky breath, trying to calm myself.
Sometimes, I hate feeling so much.
I duck my head and pretend to dig through my backpack as an excuse to let my hair fall over my face and hide all the emotion I’m sure is simmering on my skin. The only way this could get worse is if Mona or Oliver or Amina catch me crying.
My fingers brush against the cool, curved edge of my laptop. A small spark jumps up my arm and straight to my chest. It feels like muscle memory, this delicious, tantalizing reminder that when feelings get big, an open page is waiting to be filled.
Without letting myself think too much—pushing at the doubt that’s trying to creep in at the edges—I whip my laptop out and frantically pull up Babble, typing away.
The concept of jobs is so weird to me. Like, we as humans evolved and then said, “Hmm, we get this one life… why don’t we create these things called jobs and make them the focal point of our entire world, and the major determiner of our lives and ability to survive, and also place moral judgment on how much money we make doing it? Oh, what’s money, you ask? It’s also this thing we created for fun that will eventually become nothing more than a piece of paper that we assign value to and watch while some people hoard it while others can barely make ends meet! And yourentire existence will be centered on these two things! Have fun!”
… Woof. Sorry. Unexpected capitalistic rant coming in hot… not where I saw this going.
I mean, yes, I’m fully aware that getting basic needs for survival like food and water and shelter takes work. I’m all for work and everyone doing their part. But jobs? We set ourselves up for misery! What the hell is a stock exchange or cryptocurrency or market analysis? It all seems… fake. Or, at the very least, not more valid as a job than something like painting or poetry or music like society tells us.
I can tell you, I don’t want a job. That doesn’t mean I don’t want to work. Writing is work. Which is funny because I’m told how it “isn’t a real job.” But what does that mean? Is it because it’s not a guarantee for lots of money? Is it because it relies so heavily on creativity? Because it deals in emotional currency instead of pieces of paper? Putting feelings into words, capturing the intensity of moments, that’s hard. That matters… to me, at least.
“I’m sorry, but no.” Mona’s voice slices through my concentration as I read back what I wrote. I glance up.
“Sticking with the staples should still be our approach,” Mona says, gesturing at a piece of paper on the small table in the center of our four seats. It’s dotted with standard (read, boring) nail polish colors. “These are the most approachable options and have versatility for wearers. Buyers will want that for their customers. Something they can sell that is neutral enough for job interviews or dates.”
Amina’s lips are pursed as she stares at the sheet. “That’s a good point, but I’m wondering if we shouldn’t show some of our more unique options.” She’s quiet for a moment, studying the colors, before she looks at me and says, “What do you think, Tilly?”
My head jerks back in surprise. “Me? I don’t know. I have no business sense.”
“Mm, you might not have businessexperience,” Amina says, “but you’re young and fun and have great style. What would you want to buy?”
I close my laptop then knot my fingers in the skirt of my dress, heat crawling up my neck. I feel Mona’s and Oliver’s eyes on me, but I don’t look at them. I keep staring at Amina, who gives me an encouraging nod.
“Those colors are all pretty basic and bleh, honestly,” I say. Mona sucks in a breath but I keep going. “I mean, they’re nice, but they don’t wow me. There’s no reason I would take that red over any other of the millions of red nail polishes already out there.”
“But the store merchandisers need to know we have a strong handle on the beauty basics,” Mona says defensively.
“And you can show them that, but I think you’re missing what yourcustomerswill want,” I say, finding the courage to look at her. She’s frowning at me but it’s not a downright death glare, so I take that as a good sign and keep going.
“Young consumers, like me, aren’t buying boring pearly pink polish for stuffy job interviews or because some magazine tells us some specific shade of red is what we should wear on a first date. We’re buying it to stand out. To have our own little marker that says, ‘Hey, I’m here. I exist and I’m different and I want you to notice, even if I’m not super brave and just showing that in the smallest way possible.’” I wave my fingers, which I’ve painted a shocking shade of orange, at Mona. “We want to be bold, but in a safe way. It’s not always feasible to dye your hair a wild color or have the money to buy a bunch of cool clothes, but nail polish is accessible. It’s something we can make our own. And you’re already showing that with the types of pictures Oliver takes, so why not present it that way in these meetings?”
The group has gone silent, and I squirm then sink into my seat, tracing the flower print of my dress instead of looking at any of them.
