“At least you’re graduating at the top of your program,” Emma points out, “I don’t even think they bother to rank us in the Fine Arts department, but if they did I certainly wouldn’t want to know about it.”
“That’s true,” I allow, “I did kind of kick this degree’s ass, huh?”
“I’ll say!” Emma smiles, “You even managed to snag a minor in psych like some kind of academic superhero.”
“To be fair,” I point out, “My psych classes were mostly introductory. And all we did for the most part was fill out weird personality quizzes and try to psychoanalyze our parents.”
“No wonder you had such an easy time of it. Think about all the material you have there,” Emma smirks.
“Ha, ha,” I say, shrugging out of my ridiculous green gown, “You’re a regular laugh riot, Emma Sanders.”
“I’m here all week,” she mugs, laying out across my bed. “Aren’t you glad you’re going to be stuck with me for the foreseeable future?”
“I really am though,” I tell her sincerely.
Emma and I have been living together since sophomore year of undergrad, when we were randomly assigned to the same dorm room. You’d think there wouldn’t be much for us to talk about—she’s an abstract painter, I’m an aspiring media type. But in a school overrun with Greek life and hardcore athletics, we were lucky to find each other. We stuck together for the rest of our undergraduate careers, and just found a tiny two-bedroom apartment to share after graduation. Emma’s already snagged a job as an artist’s assistant here in Boston, and while I haven’t been so lucky job-wise, I’m determined not to move back home with my parents. I don’t care if I have to sling coffee, or walk dogs, or babysit some horrible rich kids. I’m going to make it work.
“Come on,” Emma says, rolling onto her feet, “It’s already three minutes past five. I need a drink.”
“Yeah, OK,” I agree, gathering my long black hair into a bun and securing it with my signature hair sticks—the only thing passed down to me from my mother, besides raging social anxiety. “I could really use one, after today.”
Emma skirts off to find her purse as I drop into my desk chair, absentmindedly checking my social media pages and favorite blogs. Not much to see on Facebook and whatnot, as per usual. I don’t exactly have a large group of friends. Or any group of friends, for that matter. There’s Emma, sure, and some people from my study groups and classes, but not many people that I’d consider honest-to-god friends, despite what Facebook might call them. But to be honest, my lack of close friends makes perfect sense.
It’s sometimes said that sisters are built-in best friends, and for me and my sister Juliet, this was absolutely true. At least, it was when we were little. She’s two years older than me, and I absolutely idolized her when we were growing up. Juliet was always leading me off on epic adventures and insanely fun antics. Whether we were staging full-scale Spice Girls musicals in our shared bedroom, teaching each other how to do cartwheels in the backyard, or breaking into my mom’s makeup case for surreptitious (and poorly executed) makeovers, there was never a dull moment with Juliet around.
But as we grew older, that adventurous spirit turned rebellious. My mother was a strict taskmaster, and my father let her rule over the household—and us girls—with an iron fist. She and Juliet butted heads ceaselessly from the time my sister hit her teenage years. And the harder my mom tried to hold on, the more desperate Juliet grew to fly away. By the time she was seventeen, Juliet was totally out of control. Partying every night, drinking and smoking, sleeping around—engaging in every bit of destructive behavior imaginable. I begged her to be careful, to take care of herself. I loved her more than anyone on Earth, but my love wasn’t enough to make her stay.
The day she turned eighteen, Juliet ran off. She’d fallen in with a local biker gang, a really hardcore group of guys. She left us a note saying that she’d decided to join up with them as some sort of groupie, and that we shouldn’t come looking for her. She was a legal adult, and too damn stubborn to reconsider, so my parents had no choice but to let her go.
I was devastated by her abandonment, and resolved to never be anything like her. I dove headfirst into my studies, my writing, and did my best to put her out of mind. But no matter how well I did in school, how many prizes I won, how many colleges I got into, no accomplishment was good enough to dispel the ghost of my departed sister from my parents’ hearts. It wasn’t until I went away to school that I finally felt free of her lingering, stifling presence.
But as much as I hate to admit it, I’m still feeling the impact of what Juliet did. Because of her betrayal, I keep my heart safely locked away. I’m immediately suspicious of anyone who wants to be my friend, and insanely selective about the guys I’ll even consider dating. I can’t stand the thought of coming to love someone, the way I loved Juliet, and having them leave me behind. I’ve sworn never to let myself get hurt like that again, and so far I’ve managed just fine. I may not be the most popular girl in school, or have the most notches in my bedpost, but at least I’m seldom vulnerable to heartbreak.
Of course, being safe from heartbreak means being safe from love, too...but that’s a conundrum to tackle another day.
I’m just about to close my laptop when a new email pops into my inbox with a ding. I glance at the message, expecting some junky advertisement for penis enlargement or the like. But the email’s subject line makes my heart skip a beat.
Interview Request from Advance Media, Re: Logan Farrah
“Holy shit,” I whisper, hastily opening the message. I sent my resume to the media giant Advance on a wishful whim a few months ago. Could they seriously be reaching out to little ol’ me about an interview? I read the email with bated breath.
Dear Ms. Farrah,
We have received your resume and are very impressed with your scholastic record and achievements. If you are available, we would like to schedule an interview with you in the coming days. One of our popular media outlets is currently seeking editorial contributors. We think you would be a wonderful fit for the online publication, FootSolider. If you are interested, please let us know so that we can forward your information to FootSoldier’s managing editor. We look forward to hearing from you—