Emma
Emma had entered college thinking everything about it was going to be interesting. She envisioned worldly people from different backgrounds, states, countries. But it seemed almost everyone in her dorm was white and their idea of a hobby was spinning class. Outside Hoden House, there was more diversity, so she chatted up people in class, at the cafeteria. She got a lot of one-word answers and apologies for having to go. It turned out it wasn’t that easy to ask people if they had any unusual hobbies. It was like asking them if they were freaks and wanted to confess their serial killer traits.
So after a solid month of searching and praying to God to send her a fellow student who did taxidermy in the common room or made moonshine in her bathroom, she wondered if she had simply been deluded about college.
Emma had been friendly-ish in high school with Lizzie Burton, a girl whose mother travelled constantly on business, who threw parties on weeknights and ditched school to go see foreign films and bought her essays on the internet and was always dating someone in a band. College was just full-on Lizzie Burton.
The best she could come up with were a few Adderall addictions and girls doing boys’ laundry for money. She pictured Jason’s face closing like a bud when she said the word laundry. No. That was too small, she thought. Finally, she found a group of Irish dancers who practiced in the corner of the gym every Tuesday, but when she’d pitched it to Jason, he’d said someone wrote about them last year.
It took her a while to realize that her interest wasn’t just rooted in journalism but rooted in Jason. She wanted to be the person he saw in her. There was something about his quiet calm, the way he tilted his tortoiseshell glasses up onto his nose delicately, with one slim finger. The way he spoke with just the right number of words, no adjectives, nothing extraneous. The smart boys she’d known before seemed to flaunt their brains like chess pieces. Not Jason.
Since Emma wasn’t coming up with any original ideas, Jason had asked her to edit other people’s stories. This meant being on call before deadline, being a good speller, and having a fast, decisive touch. She liked the responsibility, enjoyed the chime of the alerts. She’d say to anyone nearby, “Gotta go. Jason needs me.”
But after a few weeks, Jason asked her to come into the office to talk. She’d dressed carefully for that meeting, trying to look pretty without looking like she was trying to look pretty. A plaid shirt in shades of green and brown that matched her eyes. Boots that made her look taller, since he was tall. She had to be careful about being too intentional. For he was observant, too; she didn’t want him to notice her ministrations.
When she arrived, he was typing quickly but lightly, his fingers almost dancing across the keyboard. Most guys she knew pounded the keys with the wide pads of their fat fingers.
“Just a sec,” he said without looking up. “Okay,” he said at last, flipping his laptop screen down. “Sorry about that.”
“No worries,” she said.
He sighed. “I hate that phrase.”
“Oh. Well, I’d never use it in my writing. Still, you don’t think it’s useful?”
“No. Not with ‘that’s okay’ or ‘fine by me’ still in the vernacular. We don’t need to take anything from Australian surfer culture to supplement.”
She blinked.
“You did know that, right? That the phrase migrated from Australia?”
“Well,” she replied, “‘cheers’ is British, and everyone says that. So I don’t think we’re at any risk of becoming less American. Besides, people hate Americans, so why not dilute?”
“You’re awfully cynical for a freshman.”
She shrugged. She didn’t know if cynical was good or bad.
“Well, Emma,” he said and paused, and she realized it was the first time she’d heard him say her name. He said it softer than others did, not emphasizing the e, sliding the m’s.
“I know you signed up for the blog. But you’re a good editor. And we need someone next semester, because Robb is going abroad.”
She opened her mouth, but he held up his hand.
“Just hear me out, please,” he said as he put his hand down, and the please made her forgive him a little for that hand. A little. Her mom, she knew, would never let a man hold up his hand to silence her. “It’s harder to find editors. Everyone can write a hashtag, but they can’t form paragraphs. And no one can spell. It’s a lost art, like good handwriting.”
Emma wondered if she confessed at that very moment to having good handwriting—because she did, in fact, have beautiful, loopy, Instagram-worthy handwriting—if he’d demote her further to addressing invitations to their holiday parties.
“I appreciate your confidence in me,” she said. “However, I don’t want to give up on the idea of blogging.”
“The idea of blogging,” he repeated softly.
“Okay, on blogging.”
“Well, you’re not blogging, so you were right the first time.”
She felt her cheeks turning red, which she hated about herself. It was such an Irish thing, and his family was probably totally bougie and English, and her family had probably been their maid and butler a few centuries ago, and she felt all those things at that moment and wanted to die.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “That sounded cruel, but—”
“No, you’re right,” she said. “I haven’t come up with something to write, and writers write, right? But I will.”
“Okay,” he said.
“You don’t believe me.”
“The world frequently surprises me. But a little advice? Stop looking so hard. There’s probably a story close by.”
She nodded perfunctorily, promised to be in touch, left quickly, and fumed all the way home. He had given her the most basic, vanilla advice. Write what you know? Jesus! How stupid did he think she was?
And she was so angry, she didn’t know whether to prove him wrong or prove him right, but one thing was for sure. She wouldn’t need anyone to edit her story. Whatever subject she chose, she’d do the work of two, and he’d appreciate her twice as much.