I look to the mirror, turning right and left to get a better view of the jacket. I let out a long huff of air. “What if I don’t get the internship?” I ask her. “What if he thinks my writing sucks?”
Her face gets serious, and she reaches up, turning my face away from the mirror and back to her. “Kyle, you had to hit the reset button not once, but twice in this last year. Your shoulder injury was rough,” she says, taking a deep breath. “But what you went through with that doesn’t even hold a candle to when you lost Kimberly.”
I swallow, my shoulder and scar suddenly aching at the thought of it all.
“If you can get through that, you sure as hell can get through this,” she says, meaning it. “You’ll always find a way to reset if you have to.”
I clear my throat, looking away, while she sniffs loudly, wiping quickly at her brown eyes, an exact copy of my own. “All right,” she says, smiling and nudging me. “Let’s get you a shirt.”
I sling an arm over her shoulder as we cut through to the shirt section.
“Always forward,” she says, patting my chest.
“Never back,” I say, smiling down at her.
* * *
The next morning I’m sitting in the lobby of the Times, wearing my new gray sports coat, waiting for Scott Miller to come out of his office to interview me.
In the meantime, I’m trying not to make awkward eye contact with the receptionist while I scan the walls, taking in the framed editions and clippings occupying every square inch.
I catch sight of a couple of headlines: AMBROSE HIGH WINS THE STATE CHAMPIONSHIP, GORDON RAMSAY DID NOT HATE LOCAL RESTAURANT, TOWN SAFETY MEETING ENDS IN ACCIDENT.
A door opens down the hall and I quickly wipe my hands on my pants, because although I normally don’t have sweaty palms, my body apparently has decided it’s going to give it a go right here and now.
Scott pops his head into the lobby, flashing a quick, toothy smile at me. “Kyle! How’ve you been?”
I stand up to shake his hand, tucking the folder with my articles and résumé under my arm. He’s a little bit taller than I am. About Sam’s height, with close-cut silver hair and a pair of stylish black glasses.
“I’ve been good, sir. Thanks so much for meeting me today,” I say as we head down a long, thin hallway and through a door into a busy newsroom filled with cubicles and people talking and the sound of typing. Scott nods hello to a few people, leading me to his spot in the corner, the space littered with sports memorabilia, an Ambrose High pennant tacked loyally to the wall.
He slides into a swivel chair, pulling over another one from an empty desk.
I hold the manila folder out to him as I sit down. “Uh, here’s my résumé. I brought a couple articles I wrote—”
He gestures to his computer and pushes his glasses farther up on his nose. “I’ve read them. I subscribe online. Your senior player profiles are really something.”
If my palms weren’t sweaty before, they definitely are now. What did he think of them?
“You been back to Ambrose for any of the games this year?” he asks.
I hesitate, remembering the game I went to, when I turned to see Kimberly sitting beside me, dead but not dead. “I caught part of one.”
“Well,” he says, leaning back in his chair, the hinges squeaking loudly. “I would love for you to do the same kind of profiles for the seniors this year.”
“Like… for the Times?”
Scott laughs, nodding. “Yeah. Like for the Times.”
“Yeah!” I basically shout. Be cool, Kyle. Be cool. I clear my throat, taking it down about eighteen notches. “Yes, sir. I’d love to do that.”
“Great,” Scott says, swinging around to his computer. He moves the mouse and the screen comes to life. He minimizes the Word document he has up, a calendar coming into view. “I was thinking fifteen to twenty hours a week, twelve dollars an hour. Obviously, when you do the profiles or we go off-site for a game, that counts as paid time. That good for you?”
“Wait,” I say as he looks over at me. “So… I’m hired? For the internship?”
He grins. “You were hired the second I read your player profiles. You managed to bring each player to life on the page. I was very impressed,” he says, and it feels like making varsity all over again, except this time I’m getting paid.
We work together to fill out the schedule, adding my name to certain empty blocks, while I make sure I can still meet Marley over lunches or in the afternoon when I get off. When we’re finished, he prints it and holds it out to me. Still warm. It feels good to have a schedule in my hands again, to have people counting on me.
It feels like a step forward. A step toward the person I am becoming.
* * *
I call Marley the second I get out of the building, and we make plans to meet at the park in half an hour. It’s hard to play it cool when I feel like I’m going to literally burst from excitement.
I have some time to kill, so I stroll down Main Street, window-shopping. I stop when I see a big yellow kite on display. A few minutes later I’m carrying it with me to my mom’s car.
The drive to the park is quick, and I get out to wait for Marley, texting my mom and Sam the good news about the interview.
I tuck my phone back into my pocket and breathe out a big sigh of relief, my warm breath turning to fog in the chilly air. When it clears, I see Marley walking toward me on the path, a reddish-pink flower clutched in her hand. The trees around her are nearly naked in the autumn air, their brown and orange leaves crunching noisily under her feet. I hold up the kite in hello and her face breaks out into a smile. She runs the rest of the way to me, pushing her mustard-yellow beanie higher on her head, ignoring the kite completely.
“How was it? How did it go?”
I lean against my car, trying not to appear too excited. “Well, he seemed to like my articles,” I say casually.
“So?” she urges impatiently.
“So… you’re looking at the new sports intern at the Times,” I say, my cool demeanor cracking. “I was hired on the spot.”
Marley squeals and throws her arms around me. “I told you. I knew you would be.”