TLC
I sent it off and snuggled deeper into the pillows. I closed my eyes and started having visions of Emily’s book winning awards, and all the fanfare my spectacular cover might garner in the process. This business could very well be a springboard to something bigger for me. College. A job. Self-actualization. The possibilities were endless. Maybe.
My email dinged, and I struggled to sit up in the midst of the mountain of down and canvas. I had to use both hands to push myself out of the crevice. Best darn couch ever.
Dear TLC Design,
I’m interested in putting together an online portfolio for college. Is that something you can help me with? Please let me know.
Thanks,
SK
Another client! And, it was another McIntosh email address. God bless Blanche and her evil-genius mind. [email protected], it said. Why did I know that name? I was sure I’d heard it somewhere. I replied immediately. No point in wasting time where there was fine money to earn.
Hi SK,
Yes, I can definitely help you. Please see the link below for examples of my work. What kind of portfolio do you need?
Cheers,
TLC
I typed my website at the bottom and pressed send. I sat on the edge of the couch, not wanting to fall back into the black hole, in case my new potential client was still online and wrote back right away. Thirty seconds later, another ding. Assumption correct.
Thanks for getting back to me so fast. I play cello. I’d like it to have my musical résumé and some audio files, at the bare minimum.
SK
Cello! This was the musician whose performance poster I’d bashed at the McIntosh showcase. Oops. At least he hadn’t designed it. Remembering looking at that poster, I blushed. I’d been critiquing it next to an amazingly gorgeous and intelligent guy. My fist smacked into the fluffy couch. I was still mad at myself for not asking him what his name was. Maybe SK or Emily knew him. Maybe I could ask them. Or maybe not. Because emailing a perfect stranger and saying “Hi, do you know an incredibly attractive guy with brown skin, dark hair, and sea-green eyes? Can you tell him I’ve been drooling over him? Okay, thanks so much” wouldn’t be the least bit disturbing. Strike that idea.
SK,
That’s easy to take care of. If you fill out the attached survey, I will start putting together a proposal for you ASAP.
Cheers,
TLC
I was very much enjoying using “cheers.” It made me feel like I was from somewhere far away, like England or Scotland. Continuing my earlier fantasy, I started thinking about when it would be my turn to apply to college and leave the house. Belén had already started dropping hints about standardized testing. I could move way up north and totally reinvent myself. Get a fresh start and not have to live in the shadow of my perfect stepsister and a false accusation. Just as I was picturing myself walking across a campus dotted with red-and yellow-leaved trees, wooly scarf around my neck and latte in my hand, my email dinged again.
Question: Are you British by any chance? The “cheers” made me curious.
I’ll fill out the survey this week. Thanks.
SK
Apparently, my new favorite valediction was a good conversation starter. This SK person didn’t know who I was; maybe this was a good chance to try out my clean-slated self. Was clean-slate Tatum someone who answered emails five seconds after receiving them, like an eager beaver? Probably not—she’d play it cool, hold back more. I sank back into the couch of comfort, scratched Gus behind the ears, and clicked on the enormous flat-screen television. The Schmidts had every cable channel known to man, which was a little overwhelming. Belén thought TV was a waste of time if it wasn’t the news, so we had a very basic package. Her TV watching came in two speeds; she was either silent and focused, concentrating so much it made my eyes hurt, or very loud, encouraging the presenters to get a new job. In fact, that was pretty much the way she approached everything in life. Me included.
I flipped through the channels, amazed at the sheer variety of options; most of the shows I knew only from the celebrity magazines Ash and I loved. Getting to actually watch them felt like a commandeered luxury. I settled on a cooking show where home chefs went from kitchen failures to seasoned—pun intended—experts. I’d never been much of a cook, but in the spirit of clean-slate Tatum, I felt inspired to pay attention. Maybe I would learn something new, just like the contestants. I rested my head on the back of the couch and put my feet up on the coffee table. The silver of my sandals winked at me in the TV’s reflection. After a little relaxing, the antsiness came back, and I checked my watch. Ten minutes had passed. Clean-slate Tatum could respond to the email now, yes? Yes.
I hovered my hands over the laptop and tried to think of a witty response.
Hi SK,
Unfortunately not, but I play someone British on TV. From your reaction, it appears all that money I spent on acting lessons was worth it. I’ll have to give my coach a raise. Okay, no, not really. I just like cheers as a professional-but-friendly valediction. Are YOU British?
CHEERS,
TLC
Maybe it wasn’t actually witty, more like psychotic rambling, but it would have to do. And what if he did actually turn out to be British? Accents were cool. I went back to my cooking show, where the contestants were pulling soufflés, at varying degrees of sunk and burnt, out of the ovens. Despite the dubious appearances, my stomach rumbled at the sight of the fancy entrées. Gus eyed me suspiciously at the noise, and then went back to ignoring me.
Ding!
TLC (Do you have an actual name btw?)—I myself am not British. I am half-Irish, though, and actually Irish, since my mom is ROB.
He left off the SK that time. This was getting awfully casual and familiar. Definitely not so professional. Did he assume I was his age? I mean, for all he knew, I could be a middle-aged guy who still lived with his mother.
I do have a name, yes—had it since I was born, actually. I’m pro-Ireland. Your mom’s name is Rob?
I laughed at my response, despite myself. This felt like a game. His answer came in about ten seconds. I wondered if he thought this was fun too.
Wise guy. You’re really going to make me work for it, aren’t you? My mom’s name is actually Eileen. ROB=right off the boat, aka recent immigrant. Also potentially offensive, but my mother uses that phrase about herself (even though she’s been here twenty years), so I tend to forget it might annoy someone else. You seem like a girl with a sense of humor, though.
I started typing a response as soon as I finished reading. Farewell, clean-slate Tatum and her amazing restraint. I liked this kid.
What makes you think I’m female? And no worries, I’m not offended. Cool about your mom. Does she have a super-awesome accent? Do you have a pet leprechaun?