Page 111 of Faux Real
“Thought about it but I don’t think it’s a good environment for me right now,” I say, itching for a cigarette. “Plus, I don’t want to corner her. I want her towantto talk to me. Of her own accord.”
“‘Kay, that’s fair,” Max says, scanning my face. “Just hang in there, okay? She’ll come around. Maybe focus on something else in the meantime?”
“Like what?” I ask, my gaze flicking to my drumsticks. “I don’t have anything else now.”
“You didn’thaveto quit the band, Ollie,” Max notes. “You could’ve stayed.”
“No, I couldn’t have,” I mutter. Not with Raven always around. The booze. The drugs. “Not if I want Kennedy back.”
“I dunno then,” Max sighs, heading to the door. “But do something, cause stressing ain’t gonna help you, kay? See you Monday, Ollie. Try to relax.”
“Thanks, Max,” I say as she leaves the room. I spin around in my chair and power on my laptop, a few new email notifications from my professors popping up. I suppose I should check my grades.
Surely I can’t be failing inallaspects of my life. Just the ones that matter.
I got an A.
I have never gotten an A in anything. Icouldget As, easily. You know, if I cared to actuallydothe schoolwork or pay attention in class, which I don’t. Not often at least. But somehow, I got an A. Perhaps it’s an error. Maybe Mr. Takanaki’s finger slipped. Or he fell asleep on the keyboard. All possible alternatives. All probable. I blink, staring at the photograph of Kennedy I submitted for the portrait assignment, my lips curling into a soft smile. That was a good day. She was worried she’d look stupid. But she doesn’t. Not even a little. She looks...radiant. So carefree. I scan the photo, taking in the colorful leaves flowing around her, the wide grin on her face, the life in her eyes.
This is her.
Unmasked. Unguarded. Uninhibited.
If I really did get an A, it’s because of her beauty. Not my skill.
Must be.
Taking another sip of Coke, I glance at the clock. It’s 10 p.m. on a Saturday night and I’m sitting in bed, fingers covered in chip dust. Nice. I’m a fucking loser. Seventeen and a loser. Fantastic. Truly. I put on another episode of Bosch and relax into the bed. Whatever. This is my life now. Twenty minutes into the episode, I get an email alert. Pausing the show, I open my inbox and read the mail from Mr. Takanaki.
See? He’s going to correct the grade. I knew it.
Mr. Knight,
I hope you’re having a nice weekend. I would like to schedule a meeting with you on Monday at 9 a.m. to discuss a possible internship at Quinox Magazine. A friend of mine is the Editor-in-Chief, and she was captivated by the photographs you’ve submitted over the past few months. This is a fantastic opportunity and seeing as you have not applied to any colleges (according to the career counselor), this may be the perfect alternative for you.
Think about it.
Regards,
Mr. Takanaki
I scoff, rereading the email. Me? Doing an internship? For a bloody fashion magazine? That’s ridiculous. He must be wasted right now. Or his friend is wasted. What a joke.
I Google Quinox Magazine and scroll through their website. Hmm. I mean, it’s not totally awful. I kind of like the darker esthetics. The style is good, I guess. Tolerable, at best. My eyebrow quirks up when I click on the music tab. Huh. They cover concerts. Interesting.
For the next hour, I peruse the website, silently judging the photographs and recreating the shoots in my mind. Maybe theydoneed me. Technique you can learn. Style, you’re born with. Take this one—
My phone rings, and I mindlessly answer it.
“Hello?” I mumble, chewing on a Cheeto.
“Y’know, I looked at flights back to thegreatUnited Kingdom and some of them were super-duper cheap, so I don’t know why you’re still hanging out here when you could fly home and get out of my life. ‘Cause, really, I am so tired of seeing you everywhere, it’s like you’re a fucking Starbucks!”
I choke, propping myself upright. “Kennedy?”
“And another thing,” she slurs. “Ihatethe way you say my name. Kennedy. Kennedy. Kennedy. God, it’s so annoying.”
“What would you prefer I call you?” I ask, treading lightly.
