"Do you really want this internship, Lexie?"
My advisor, Miss Bliss, stared at me from over the rim of her horn-rimmed glasses. I hadn't known that people actually wore those kinds of things outside of Hollywood.
"Yes, Miss Bliss."
She shuffled a few papers in front of her, as if she could find the answer to my plea for help inside them somewhere.
"Then you're going to need to beef up your resume."
"I've been taking those free classes online on how to use Microsoft Word and Excel so I can put them on my resume—"
"That may help," she interrupted me with a pompous air. "But you need more. This is an extremely competitive internship. Winning it could guarantee you a slot right into the publishing business. That is what you want, isn't it?"
"Yes, Miss Bliss."
Miss Bliss wore a grayish blonde bouffant I thought I'd once seen Doris Day wear in the old romances that Mom and Kenzie loved. Complete with the jewelry dripping from her neck and the hot pink lipstick stains on her teeth, Miss Bliss lived the definition of eternal spinster.
"I've sent students to this internship before, and have never heard from them again, which is just what we want. It helps them disappear into the publishing industry in New York and pursue their dreams. But first you need to demonstrate that you have an exceptional talent and eye for words yourself."
My forehead ruffled. "How do I do that?"
"By winning a writing competition. Or two. Two would be great. Or one big one."
Writing wasn't new to me; I wanted to be an editor, after all. But writing for other people to read it? That didn't interest me. I wanted to be the person behind the scenes. The one that read the story, made it perfect, and enjoyed the secret feeling of knowing that another person's success had been aided by my expertise.
"I don't write for competitions."
She leveled a narrow eye on me. "Then you don't win competitive internships with publishing companies."
"I want to edit, Miss Bliss. Not write for other people. I'm not good in the spotlight. I don't like attention on me."
"Fine. But you can't be a good editor if you don't know good writing. No publishing company is going to hire an editor that hasn't proven her mettle somehow."
I opened my mouth to counter, but had no way to do so. She was right; proving that I knew the industry would help. Padding my resume with a few competitions, classes, and writing or editing conferences could help. Even get me a ticket out of my town and away from my mom.
"I see what you're saying," I admitted reluctantly. Miss Bliss licked her thumb and pulled a piece of paper from the pile in front of her.
"I took the liberty of printing off a few competitions that I think would be good for you to enter. Winning anything would be nice, but something bigger would be better. Enter as many as you can. We have four months until the application is due. Let's make the best of it."
She smiled with her smeared teeth in a self-congratulatory way, no doubt convinced she was the best advisor on the planet. I had to give her some credit; she was certainly more helpful—if not forceful—than I had expected.
"Thank you, Miss Bliss," I said, folding the paper up without looking at the list. "I'll get to work right away."
___________
A long sigh escaped me later that night. I sat at my desk in my basement lair, the list of writing competitions unfurled in front of me and resting on my keyboard. Most of them were guaranteed to have thousands of entries. A few were local enough to only merit around one hundred. But still . . .
Lexie Greene did not share her writing.
With another sigh of uncertainty, I shoved the list of contests into my top drawer and leaned back in the chair. Rachelle sent me a text announcing she was on her way over to watch a movie, and I tried to mentally prepare myself to refuse the massive bag of buttery, salty popcorn delight I knew she'd bring with her.
The familiar little chime of a Facebook message broke through my reverie.
Are we both busy or something? Bradley asked. I feel like we never really chat anymore.
I smiled. We used to talk every night. But now I was busy doing . . . well . . . life. It was a new experience for me. One I wished I'd participated in more often.
We must be. Sometimes I feel like I never stop studying or working at the pub. What's going on with you?
He sent a sheepish smiley face with a blush. I'm studying and deciding whether I want to switch my major to engineering . . . and feeling guilty because I still haven't read Frankenstein the way I promised.
I laughed and glanced at the book on my desk. Neither had I.
Don't worry. I've been too busy also.
How's the diet going? I'm not doing too hot over here in the food department, but I've been working out every day.
My throat constricted. Although the ice had been broken with Bradley, I still felt uncomfortable talking with him about what food I did or didn't eat. That topic came far too close to my secret life of devil's food cake and oatmeal cream pies and skirted the edges of my less-than-perfect appearance.
Not so bad.
Still plan on outrunning me when I get there? ;)
"Uh . . ." I whispered shakily. "Only if you run 20 minute miles."
Obviously, I boasted, feeling obligated to keep up with the arrogance of it all. My hands shook as I responded. I look forward to it.
All right, tough girl. I need to get going. Later.
"HEY!" Rachelle's voice boomed from the top of the stairs. She sang in an exaggerated, horrific, opera impersonation. "I have arrived!"
She stumbled slowly down the stairs—girls like us just couldn't move gracefully while walking into gravity—in a long flowing gown and her hair done in a riot of curls.
"Let me guess," I drawled, glad to close Facebook and spin the chair to look at her. "You brought Phantom of the Opera to watch? Are we going to have to rewind and watch The Point of No Return three times?"
She pulled a DVD from the depths of her ample cleavage. "Duh! What else are we going to watch on a Saturday night? The only man I want to spend any weekend with is Gerard Butler. And yes. We'll watch it as many times as is needed."
I stood up to take the movie, but a funny look crossed Rachelle's face and stopped me. She stared at me, appearing puzzled.
"What?" I asked self-consciously. "Do I have something on my face?"
"No, it's just that . . . you're different."
"Different?"
Her expression fell. "Your face looks . . . thinner."
I sucked in a breath and tried to hide my excitement with a careless facade. "Oh?"
"Yeah. Are you still doing that salad thing?"
"Sure. It's kind of become a habit."
She gestured to my clothes in a helpless way. "I haven't seen that shirt before."
I glanced down to find an old concert t-shirt that Kenzie had brought me when she went to a Backstreet Boys show with Mom. It was the largest size available and I'd had it for years. Dad and I had stayed behind to watch a football game from the safety of our couches because neither of us liked crowds.
"I found it in my drawer."
Rachelle blinked, staring at me in a rare moment of vulnerability. "You aren't going to change on me, are you? You aren't going to be too good for me if I'm not skinny?"
My expression softened. "What are you talking about? You're my best friend. You always will be. Jean size doesn't apply."
She scrutinized me with extreme attention. Apparently finding my response agreeable, she bounced over to the ratty old couch with a giant bag of popcorn in tow.
"Great! Let's get started. My future husband awaits!"
"I gave you my mind blindly."
Raise your hand if you're in love with Gerard Butler in the Phantom?
Thanks for reading! I'll see you Thursday, guys. Click that little star, leave a comment, and MUAH.
