If I'm Being Honest(79)
“Go.” She speaks quietly and carefully. “Just go.”
I have no choice. I force down the throb in my throat, nod once, and turn, passing a completely oblivious porcelain-skinned woman as she approaches Elle’s van. I hear Elle greet her with YouTube-trained brightness, and for a moment I’m back in Elle’s bedroom, excitedly positioning lights and watching when she hits Record. The thought is wrenching, nearly enough for me to turn back.
But I don’t.
I won’t force forgiveness on Elle. I’ve given enough apologies to understand the point is not to cross out the wrong, not to pretend it never happened. That’s just the hopeful side effect. The point is only to let someone know they’re worth your remorse. I won’t push for more from Elle, though I desperately hope she forgives me. I really, really want my best friend back.
But it’s her choice. Not mine. I have to be okay with that for now.
I thread through the tables of trendy merchandise back to where I parked. In the car, I have to calm my ragged breathing for a full two minutes—inhale, exhale—before I reach into my purse for my notebook. With a hand nearly as even as Elle’s, I write a thin line through her name, the final on my list.
Thirty-Eight
FOR THE NEXT THREE WEEKS, I SPEND every lunch with Brendan, helping him beta test his game for the UCLA contest. In between being murdered by the sexy sorceress, I give him design feedback. Thanksgiving comes, and because my mom’s on a cleanse, I go over to Paige and Brendan’s. It’s nice, nicer than I ever remember the holiday being, even if I catch Mr. Rosenfeld glaring at me twice.
I’m sitting in front of my mirror on the first Friday of December, straightening my hair.
It’s definitely not the pre–winter formal ritual I envisioned. Normally, I’d be in Morgan’s bedroom before a dance, trying on dresses from her endless closet and having Elle do my makeup. But tonight won’t be the night I’d planned, and I’m learning to be okay with that.
I couldn’t convince Paige to skip her annual Anti–Winter Formal Party. But Brendan’s thrown himself into preparations for the dance with endearing enthusiasm, texting me about corsage colors and what tie he should wear.
It has me looking forward to the night in a way I’d never expected. I finish straightening my hair, permitting myself to admire my work in the mirror. I stand up, inspecting my outfit—my prom dress from last year, with the little rip next to the zipper.
I’m reaching for my heels when I hear my phone vibrate. I figure it’s Brendan here to pick me up. Putting on one shoe, I glance at the screen distractedly.
It’s not Brendan.
The sender line reads: Bright Partners—Human Resources. It sends a jolt through me, exhilaration or fear. My brain doesn’t have time to decipher which. Without pulling on the other shoe, I hurriedly open the screen.
It’s probably true that the contents of every important email ever sent could be understood from the first few words. This one, definitely.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Summer Internship Program
Dear Miss Bright,
We have reviewed your application, and while . . .
Everything past “while” could be in hieroglyphics. I force myself to read every word anyway, feeling the hot flush rising in my face.
We have reviewed your application, and while we were impressed with your coursework and achievements, we received an unusual number of applications for this year’s program from highly qualified candidates. Unfortunately, we could not offer you a position with our company this summer.
I read the email twice. Then a third time.
Without this internship, I won’t have the chance to spend the summer with my dad. The thought registers only faintly in a corner of my mind, overshadowed by a realization I feel with a bite a hundred times deeper.
He rejected me. He rejected me. My dad knew I’d applied, knew I’d eagerly enrolled in Economics in the Entrepreneur’s Market and requested a fucking Economist subscription for my birthday. He knew I wanted this. He knew I was trying.
And he rejected me.
With a shaking hand, I set the phone down. My stomach roils, and I feel like I’m going to throw up. Maybe it would help. Maybe this feeling is something I can force out of me over a toilet bowl. Cold sweat beads on my forehead, ruining the foundation I spent twenty minutes applying.
He doesn’t think I’m good enough. Everything I did to please him—the courses I took, the grades, the hours I spent teaching myself—it wasn’t enough.
It shouldn’t matter. I told myself I was done trying to live up to everyone’s expectations. When I kissed Brendan and turned down Andrew, I made the decision to do what I wanted. I hate Economics—why do I care that I’m spared a summer of spreadsheets and market projections?
But in the bottom of my stomach, I know why. Because it’s my dad. If there’s one person whose approval I should have, it’s his. I understand he and I don’t have a normal relationship. Years without visits, absent phone calls on my birthday, emails from his assistant—I’ve accepted that. But this? I know he pulls strings for colleagues’ friends. All it would have taken was an email from him and I would have had that job. I would have been spending two whole months with him over the summer at his office.