I pressed my mouth into a firm line and turned back to my vines. “Nothing. I think. We exchanged a few emails that were kind of flirty, but maybe I’m just lonely and misinterpreting. It’s not like we even know each other. It was three or four emails. And it doesn’t matter anyway, because he hasn’t even sent the info I need to work on his portfolio, so I think it’s a moot point. For all I know, he was just feeling it out and decided I was a loser, and isn’t going to actually hire me.” The words tumbled from my mouth like stones dropping into a well, splashing with self-doubt as I spoke.
Abby put her shears down on the ground, took off her gloves, tossed them into the dirt, and grabbed the sleeve of my gray Georgetown T-shirt. She pulled me toward her until I was near enough for her to wrap her skinny, freckled arms around my shoulders. She squeezed gently.
“What was that for?” Her gesture stunned me. There wasn’t much hugging in my life with Dad gone.
She shrugged. “Sounded like you needed it.”
The corners of my mouth lifted ever so slightly. “Thanks. These haven’t exactly been the best few weeks of my life, to tell you the truth.”
She nodded and picked her shears back up. “I know.” She tapped her head. “Reporter, remember? I pay attention.”
I nodded back at her once and turned back to my vines. Maybe Abby wasn’t the only one being obvious. Just like her outfit was a beacon for Hunter, signaling him to profess his undying devotion to her, my sudden, odd, and probably inappropriate attachment to a potential client, whose only “conversation” had been a handful of jokes made over the interwebz, was a blinking neon sign that I was in need of some kind of intervention. Or maybe just a friend. My fingers twitched slightly, my hand eager to slip into my pocket and make contact with my keys, and I chastised myself for forgetting that what I wanted wasn’t there anymore.
Settling in on the Schmidts’ couch, I opened my laptop, intending to finish up Emily’s cover proposal. To my shock and amazement, a small bomb exploded in my inbox instead.
Hi Tate,
Sorry I took forever to get back to you. No rest for the weary when it comes to music unfortunately. I shouldn’t complain; I love it. But a man needs a break sometimes. Also, your survey is wicked hard. I hope my answers are helpful, but some questions made me feel like I was filling out an online dating profile. What do you do with them anyway?
SK
I opened the attachment he’d sent with his email with a smirk on my face. My questions were thought-provoking, but I certainly wouldn’t have called them “wicked hard.” Did he not self-reflect? Was I the only one who did that? I shrugged to myself and read on.
Name: Seamus Kipsang
DOB: February 19
Location: Vienna, VA
Occupation: cellist and student (does this count as an occupation? No one is paying me . . . yet)
Favorite Color: Brown
Brown? Who liked brown? This is the question that probably gets asked more in a lifetime than anything else, and he picked brown? That made me a little nervous for his mental state and his judgment.
Favorite Music: This is the worst question for me to answer, by the way. You can’t ask a musician to pick a favorite. I have a list. I love Bach and Beethoven, but who doesn’t? My current favorite modern classical musician is Tanya Anisimova. She’s from Russia but lives in Virginia now. She taught a master class at school last year, and I fell in love. I’m hoping to play something of hers for my senior recital next year. Does that make me sound like a geek? Probably. Non-classical, I really love Ben Howard, Halsey, The Lumineers, Hozier, Neko Case, Ben Folds, Mumford and Sons, Sarah Jarosz . . . I could keep going if you need more.
I immediately googled Anisimova and found a gorgeous cello and harp duet on YouTube. I’d never been much of a classical music fan, probably from lack of exposure other than whatever Tilly was practicing on the piano, but the notes she played and the way she dragged the bow methodically across her instrument slayed me. The musical honey seeped over me; my chest tightened and my breath caught in my throat as I listened. I had to turn it off so I wouldn’t cry. The cello struck me as such a sad instrument, wallowing in grief or overcome with turmoil, but maybe that was just my state of mind projecting.
Favorite TV Show: Not much of a TV watcher, but I do follow sports. I might have a slight obsession with the All Blacks.
Hmm, no idea what that meant.
Favorite Movie: Any old school horror movie. Especially The Shining and Carrie.
Carrie happened to be my most favorite movie of all time. Something about her isolation and loneliness had always struck me. Not to mention the wacky mom. Go figure.
Hobbies: I wish I had more to write here, but I’ve pretty much already answered it above. I play music, I watch rugby, I lift weights, and I hang out with my family. That’s basically it. There isn’t a lot of time for anything else, though I’m hoping that’ll change in college.
Aside from the hanging out with family, which I only did when forced, and the watching rugby—because why would I spend my time watching sweaty guys run into each other?—and replace the music with design, we were just alike. I chuckled. Right. I knew I was grasping at straws for some kind of connection. A connection that was only in my mind. Clearly.
Personal Style: Like clothes? I’m a jeans and T-shirts guy. Is that relevant?
I frowned. That one bordered on dating website for sure. I’d used it because it could be useful in coming up with a style for a site or a logo. I didn’t want to use primary colors and Comic Sans—shudder—for someone who wore suits and shiny dress shoes every day. Maybe I should’ve taken that question out.
Pizza Toppings: WHY DO YOU NEED TO KNOW THIS? DO YOU SEND YOUR CLIENTS PIZZA? Now I’m hungry, of course. I like pepperoni and mushrooms. I have this thing about too many toppings. It hides the taste of the crust and the cheese and it makes the slice all floppy, and there is absolutely nothing worse than floppy pizza. Am I right?
I squeezed my eyes shut so the tears wouldn’t come streaming out. Tears of laughter this time, though. I started reading that answer and began laughing immediately; my lungs ached and my sides burned by the time I could control myself again.
I had a very valid reason for asking that question. A pretty sneaky one, if I did say so myself. And SK’s answer proved my theory perfectly. There are always exceptions, but in my experience, people who liked plain cheese or just one topping were often minimalists. I couldn’t very well give that client a site or a poster loaded with icons and words and patterns and blinking lights, now could I? These people were Ikea. Clean lines, a singular color, simple fonts, less is more, words that made an impact. People who liked “the works” on pizza liked things everywhere. I imagined that people who ordered every topping on the menu also had piles of magazines and newspapers in their homes, ten knickknacks on every shelf, and a bow tied on anything that would stand still. For those clients, I might use the full spectrum of colors, various fonts, a slideshow of photographs, all the bells and whistles. In other words, the pizza-topping question was a litmus test.