Page 94 of Tilly in Technicolor
“Fabulous,” Ellen says. “I started reading your Babble posts. It certainly seems like your summer adventures gave you plenty to pull on for that.”
“Some could be better classified as misadventures,” I say, hoping I sound witty and not like I’m sweating so badly I need to change my shirt. And my underwear. Thank God I have so many pairs.
Ellen laughs, and it sounds genuine. “I was particularly drawn to your essay on traveling withADHDand some of the obstacles it’s presented. How you’ve coped with it.”
This makes my breath catch. “R-really?”
“Oh yes. Mental health and carving out our own safe spaces in the world is an incredibly important topic,” Ellen says. “And one that’s gaining more public discussion. Lots of catching up to destigmatize it, but I’m hopeful.”
I nod, even though she can’t see it, feeling both daunted and thrilled at what she’s saying.
“To get to the point, I loved your application,” Ellen continues. “The position would be reporting directly to me. At this point, the work would likely end up being more part-time than full-time, but I imagine as we continue to grow as a media source, work will pick up. Aspects of it are, admittedly, rather unglamorous administrative tasks that come with the role—content scheduling, ad copy, meeting and event organization—but the role would also involve regular writing for the website, and we try to be as flexible as possibleon allowing our staff to cross over to different editorial sections if they’re inclined.”
I’m feeling a bit out of my depth here, and can’t get any words to come out.
After an awkward beat of silence, Ellen continues. “What I’m getting at here is that I’d love to offer you the job. I have this vision of you writing a regular column about the reality of being a Gen Z woman navigating the edge of adulthood and being neurodiverse. Obviously, there are so many angles and approaches to such a broad and meaningful topic, but to start, at least, we could narrow the lens to specific beats that speak to you.”
More awkward silence as I try to process this.
“Wait… really?” I manage to choke out. Wow. So professional.
“Of course,” Ellen says, giving another tinkling laugh. “You have a freshness about you. An earnest vulnerability that I think will resonate with readers.”
“I…” I really don’t know what to say. “Thank you. So much,” I finally land on.
“If I can be honest with you,” she says after a moment, her voice a bit softer. “I also have ADHD, and the openness with which you discuss it really resonates with me. I spent so much of my early career masking to try and make headway, until I burned out and had to start from scratch. That burnout was, essentially, whereIvywas born, and I’m glad for it, but I wish I’d been able to be more open about my experiences. More true to myself.”
“I know what you mean,” I whisper, sharp memories of every failed social interaction, every exhaustive collapse from masking so hard I didn’t even recognize myself, hitting me at once.
“I don’t want that cycle to continue,” Ellen says, voicestronger. “I think we need to amplify those voices instead. That’s what we aim to do with every writer on the team. It’s our mission atIvy.And we’d be so thrilled to have you be a part of that. What do you think?”
What do Ithink? My head is so full of excited, buzzing thoughts, I don’t know that there are actual words to explain them. I mean, this is kind of incredible? Like… absolutely huge? I’m being offered a chance to write, the thing I want to do more than anything. Let my mind frolic and play in new thoughts, stretch it until I come up with something clever and fresh and meaningful. Make others—especially those like me—feel seen.
But I technically have a job. Would it hurt Mona if I took this position? Could I somehow manage both?
A voice in my head—one that’s loud and practiced in doubt—immediately tells me no. I’m not organized enough to pull something like that off. Not clever enough to create content for two jobs. Not worthy of both opportunities.
I chew on my lip as I think about this. Just because this voice is louder than the one telling me Icando it, doesn’t make it true. I don’t have to do what it says.
“When can I start?” I manage to ask, making Ellen laugh once more.
“Oh, Tilly, I can’t tell you how pleased I am to hear that! We actually have a team meeting next Tuesday, where we’re discussing our end-of-year goals and visions as we prep for the final quarter, and it would be so wonderful to have you there.”
“That would be incredible!” I say, a few searing, happy tears rolling down my cheeks. “I’ll be there.”
“Wonderful.”
“Oh, wait,” I say, realizing that I’m, uh, technically onvacation and actually not quite sure where their offices are located. “What’s the company’s address? Probably something I should know.”
“We’ll send you an email with onboarding information,” Ellen says. “But, as I’m sure you saw on the application, we’re right in the heart of the greatest city on Earth. Paris.”
Chapter 40This One Hurts
TILLY
Paris. Paris. Paris.
The city, which once sounded so magical and wonderful, plays on loop in my head until it’s nothing but two terrifying, beautiful syllables.
