Page 2 of One on One
She beams. “Have a great first day, Annie!”
I drift down a weathered flagstone path past the dorms, gawking at the scenery. It’s familiar and foreign at the same time. I snap a quick photo of the ornate arched entryway of Cloughley Hall, where Cassie and I shared a room our first year, and send it to her.I can practically smell the mold from here, I add.
Aww, memories!Cassie responds immediately.
I’m about to drop my phone back into my bottomless pit of a tote bag when it vibrates again. This time, Cassie is calling.
“Hi, Cass.”
“Hi! Did you drink the tea this morning?”
Ugh, the tea. It’s some kind of calming yet invigorating herbal blend Cassie dropped off at my new apartment last night as a supportive gesture. It could’ve been worse. I halfexpected her to show up this morning to escort me to work like it’s kindergarten orientation day. Luckily, Ardwyn is on the Main Line, in the idyllic suburbs outside Philadelphia, and Cassie had to be at her office in Center City by eight o’clock.
“I had an Irish coffee instead,” I say. “Great for the nerves.” Ah, there’s the source of the apple cider donut smell: A group of sorority sisters is hawking them at a table in front of the dining hall, with a handmade sign touting a fundraiser for a local animal shelter.
“Yeah?” Cassie asks, like she’s pretty sure it’s a joke, but not one hundred percent sure. I can picture her face, her tawny brown skin, a wrinkle forming between her eyebrows, her cloud of curly hair falling to the side as she tilts her head in concern.
“I drank the tea,” I lie.
“Good,” Cassie replies, satisfied. A faint voice filters in from her end of the call. “Hold on a sec,” she orders me. “Don’t hang up!”
“Is that your boss? I want to talk to him for a minute,” I say. “Give. Cassie. A raise!” The partners at Cassie’s firm call her a “rock star,” which basically means they wouldn’t be able to function without her but still don’t pay her enough.
Cassie stifles a laugh. “Shush!” There’s a rustling sound, and then a muffled conversation with some guy on the other side of the glass ceiling.
It’s partly her fault I’m here. I was drugged up on sentimentality at her and Eric’s wedding this summer. It’s not every day your best friends marry each other. As the after-party wound down, the three of us sat around a fire pit in a courtyard full of greenery, perfectly tipsy and content. Eric,an assistant coach at Ardwyn, caught me off guard when he turned serious. “Come back and work for us,” he said. “We’re shaking things up. Coach wants to revamp the video program.”
He made some good arguments. And I was desperate. It had been forty-two days since I’d impulse-quit my latest soul-sucking job, a gig creating instructional content for a refrigerator company, after makingHome Appliance Magazine’s 35 Under 35 List. Which had been as embarrassing as a Jumbotron proposal from someone you don’t want to marry. My health insurance coverage was about to lapse, I was running out of money, and for the first time ever, I was struggling to find work.
Apparently, the Internet knows what it’s talking about when it says job-hopping is a “résumé red flag.” Despite seven jobs in eight years, I’d always managed to bullshit my way through questions about my history during interviews, until this time.Flaky?one HR person scrawled at the top of my résumé, the question legible across the conference table. I didn’t get a callback.
Despite all that, I hesitated. Part of me thought I might be better off calling time on my video career and moving on to whatever happens after you accept that you’ve utterly failed to live up to your potential.
“Sorry, I’m back,” Cassie says. “Anyway. How’s campus?”
“Weird,” I say. “I didn’t anticipate how strange it was going to be to come back.” My voice gets stuck on the last word, and I clear my throat.
A pause. “Annie. Are you sure this is what you want?”
I grit my teeth. “Do I ever do anything without thinking it all the way through first?”
Cassie says nothing. She’s taken enough depositions to know not to answer the question.
I was on the fence when Eric offered me the job, until somewhere in his fervent speech, he mentioned Ben. “He just won a big ESPN award,” Eric said offhand. “Young Front Office Leaders, or something.”
Ben Callahan, team data whiz. We worked side by side for the Tigers in college, leading the crew of student managers that kept the whole operation running. Until, for me, it all fell apart.
That could’ve been me.I felt something hot in my chest I didn’t recognize, and the words flew out of my mouth: “I’ll do it.”
Three years of penance, then get the hell out. Three years is long enough, I think, to prove to other employers that I can be reliable. I know I’m lucky to have a friend who can give me this opportunity. And I swear onHome Appliance MagazineI’ll try my best to build something more permanent once I’m done here.
The peals of the campus church bells ring out from across the quad, snapping me out of my thoughts. It’s too loud to talk over the noise, so I say, “Hang on,” into the phone and hope Cassie hears it.
While I wait, I finally allow my eyes to settle on the Church. Not to be confused with the actual church with the bells. The Church is the nickname for the Simon B. Curry Arena, where the Tigers play. Towering over the treetops, it’s a giant, crumbling pile of red bricks with a pointed roof that makes it look like a cathedral.
I swallow hard. Basketball was my first great love, and nothing else has come close, not even my ex Oliver. I neverreally played, but I grew up courtside and adored everything about it: squeaking shoes and sweat, the arc of a perfect shot sailing toward its inevitable destination, the camaraderie among the players and staff. The dopamine rush of winning.
I haven’t seen Ardwyn play since I graduated, and I haven’t watched a basketball game at all since Dad died two years ago.
