Chasing Wishes (6 page)

I sent them a demo CD almost six months ago, and they’ve sent me back an enormous manila envelope. Could it be an acceptance? Could this actually be a contract offer? Rejections always arrive in standard business envelopes—I’ve seen plenty of those in the last two years.

I tear the envelope open, my pulse quickening in anticipation, and I yank out the pile of papers inside.

"Dear Ms Hartley," I read aloud. "Thank you for your wonderful application for representation and for sharing your obvious talent with us through your demo submission."

Obvious talent? Good start!

I read the next line and my heart sinks into my stomach.

"However, we unfortunately have to decline your application at this time due to stylistic differences..."

The rest of the letter informs me that they’ve included a catalog for in case I’d like to buy any of their audio books to compare styles.

I crumple up the letter and throw it across the room.

They rejected me. I... I thought I had it. This envelope was going to be my big break, but it’s a fucking catalog. The bastards couldn’t just
reject
me—they had the nerve to advertise to me in my rejection letter!

Down the hall, Cassie’s getting busy with her boyfriend. Mike’s clearly doing
something
right, because she’s moaning so loudly that I can hear it all the way in here. I lie on the bed and cover my head with my pillow, but I can’t block out the sounds even with my fingers stuffed into my ears.

She cries out in pleasure and suddenly I’m back on the roof of my old house in New Haven. Mom’s downstairs screwing whoever the hell she’s with this week, and I’m...

...I’m alone.

I’m alone because Isaac’s gone, alone because I’m not Nina anymore and he can’t find me.

Because I wished I was someone else.

I miss you, Isaac.

****

T
he morning flies past and before I know it, I only have an hour until the lunchtime rush starts. The sandwich specials are ready and the cold cuts are prepared, but if anyone wants pickles or a condiment not involving horseradish, I’m out of luck.

"Tyler, where the hell is today’s shipment?" I reluctantly shout over to my manager across the cafeteria as he ‘organizes’ the candy shelf. It’s funny how food goes missing every time he helps out.

"Relax, babe! They’re just a little slow today," he calls back, and I grind my teeth to keep from snapping at him. I’m not his babe. I’m not his
anything
, but that doesn‘t stop him from flirting inappropriately every chance he gets.

Shit, why’d I even bother,
I ask myself as he saunters in my direction. Now I’ve drawn his attention.

"So what’s the problem?" he asks with an irritating grin, leaning over the sandwich station and leaving giant handprints on my just-cleaned glass.

"Number one, I have no condiments. Number two, put on a goddamned hair net! You’re shedding on my cold cuts," I snap at him as I pick a brown hair out of the ham. He just leans in closer and keeps on grinning like the creep he is.

"You’re pretty sexy when you get angry, you know that?" he whispers, and it’s all I can do not to slap him.

"Put on a hair net," I tell him again. "Do you want a customer to get a piece of you in his mouth or something?"

"No, but I wouldn’t mind it if you did," he whispers. By the time I can shake off my disgust and think of a retort, he’s long gone and the early-bird customers are starting to roll in.

If Tyler and I were the last two humans on the face of the earth, well... sorry, humanity. You’re going extinct because I’m sure as hell not touching him. It’s all I can do not to vomit every time he comes onto me.

A delivery boy drops a box of mayonnaise and mustard bottles off at my prep station just as the first sandwich customer arrives. Thank goodness.

An hour flies by. Ham san as by. Hadwiches. Tuna wraps. More of those disgusting Cordon Bleu sandwich specials than I can count. They’re flying off the shelves today even though they’re just yesterday’s leftover chicken with a different sauce.

"A grilled Portobello wrap for me and turkey and goat cheese for my friend, please," orders the old man in a white lab-coat from across the counter.

"Sure, coming up."

I start working on their orders, and my brain kicks in two seconds later as I realize who my customers are. It’s Terrence and his elderly assistant from last night. Oh god.

My head snaps up to gape at him and then straight back down on its own, averting my gaze before I can make a fool of myself. I can still can feel him staring at me, though, and my heart is suddenly racing in my chest. Careful, Irene... no getting awkward while working with knives. Pay attention.

I glance up at him. Jesus, he’s so handsome. He has a strong jaw, near-flawless, clean shaven skin, and... no, no looking at his eyes. If I do, I’m going to...

...get drawn in. Again.

His eyes are deep green, so vivid that I can hardly believe they’re real.

The sound of my knife against the cutting board slows and then stops completely as I lose track of everything around me. I’m just staring back at him now, unable to pull away from his gaze.

The old man leans over to Terrence, whispers something in his ear, and then the young man suddenly turns away from me. His spell over me breaks, and I hurriedly return my attention to their sandwiches.

"Sorry about that. I’m blind and I forget that I’m staring sometimes," he apologizes. His voice is deep and soft, like a tiger’s lullaby. Wait, what the hell does that even mean? Whatever his voice is doing to me, it’s turning both my knees and my brain into mush. My legs are shaking, and at the rate I’m going, I’ll be curled up on the floor reading sappy romance novels in less than five minutes.

"I know. Susan told me last night," I answer. I’m usually proud of my voice, but suddenly it sounds so
stupid
, like I’m some kind of squeak-toy or something. What’s wrong with me?

"Susan? Who’s that?" asks Terrence.

"The... the librarian," I stammer. Doesn’t he recognize me? I’m even wearing the same outfit—well, minus the Rapunzel wig. No, why would he? I’m sure he’s dating someone way,
way
prettier than me, so why would—

He’s blind, you idiot,
I remind myself, and as my face turns bright red, I’m thankful that he can’t see it. How did I forget that already?

Terrence’s jaw suddenly drops.

"I knew I recognized your voice! You were reading to the kids, right? You have an incredible voice, ma’am," he gushes. I'm pretty sure I'm not old enough to be called ma’am yet, but I take the compliment with a smile.

"Thanks. I’m hoping to get a job in voice acting or voice-over work eventually," I tell him as I hand them their long-overdue lunches, "but for now, it’s just sandwiches."

"With a talent like yours, I’m sure you’ll find something soon," says Terrence with a smile not quite in my direction, and I can’t help blush as he and his assistant he2emassistaad for their table. He sounded genuinely impressed, and just as I start to feel good about myself again, my manager shows up.

"Don’t flirt with the customers, Irene," says Tyler from behind me, and he slaps me on the ass right in front of my customers as he walks past.

For one brief moment, it's as if the world freezes in place around me while my brain tries to comprehend what just happened, and then my face burns in humiliation as the rest of me runs cold. Is anybody in line going to call out my asshole of a manager? Nobody at all, seriously? No, they’re all pretending they didn’t see it, awkwardly pretending that they were all somehow simultaneously checking their phones or facing the other direction. At least Terrence wasn’t here to see it.

I’m going to kill that asshole,
I fume to myself. T
hat stupid son of a...

"Um, hello? I said I want the Cordon Bleu wrap, please," repeats the woman at the front of the line, checking her watch in irritation and further stoking the murderous rage flickering to life inside me. My hands won’t stop shaking as the anger and humiliation burn hotter and hotter inside me.

I’ve been putting up with this shit for over a year now. I've had enough.

"Hey Tyler?" I shout over to him as I finish off the sandwich. "Can you come over here for a second?"

"What’s up, sweetheart?" he asks as he saunters back to my station.

For probably
the first time ever, I actually like how predictable Tyler is. He brings out that irritating, shit-eating grin just in time for me to slap it off his face.

H
ere it goes... the first introduction. My heart is pounding so hard that I worry that it might burst out of my chest. God, I’m so nervous!

"If I can get your attention, please," calls out Dr. Stevens, "I’d like to introduce you all to the newest member of your class, Nina Torres. She is the first student ever to be accepted into Woodbridge IB through the public transfer program, and judging by her admission tests, she will be a wonderful asset to our classroom community."

Everyone’s attention turns toward me. Every eye in the room is on me, and I can already tell that they don’t like what they see.

I stand at the front of the classroom, trying to keep my legs from shaking with nervousness as I wither beneath the hostile glares directed at me from the audience. It doesn’t matter what my test scores said—I don’t belong at Woodbridge IB Academy and every last one of them knows it.

"Hi Nina," says the entire class in unison, their derision almost palpable. I’m pretty sure I heard at least one ‘hola’ mixed in there too. A tall, green-eyed guy with disheveled blond hair sitting in the middle waves to me. His smile is the only genuine one in the entire classroom.

"Want to tell the class a little about yourself, Nina?" asks Dr. Stevens. There’s nothing I want less than to do that. I want to hide in the corner and bury my face in my textbooks, maybe even build a wall out of them to deflect the hateful staring.

"I... I live over in New Haven," I stammer. "I applied for a transfer to Woodbridge because..."

"Because your ow1emn school sucked?" sneers a girl off to my right, and she goes silent as Dr. Stevens shoots her an angry look.

She’s right, though. I wanted to get away from the bad education, from the drugs and crime, and from the students who don’t care because they know it’s pointless to care. I wanted to get away because if I didn’t, I’d end up trapped just like the rest of them.

Screw it... I can tell they all hate me anyway, so I might as well give them a reason.

"I applied to Woodbridge IB because I wanted the challenge," I lie, turning toward the loud-mouthed blonde to my right. "I know this is a competitive school with tough grade curves, and I intend to give every last one of you a run for your money, so don’t go easy on me."

If silence could kill, I’d be dead right now. This might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever said.

"Oh, I’m sure they won’t," says Dr. Stevens with a light-hearted chuckle, but his eyes betray a deeper worry when he looks down at me again.

"For now," he continues, "let’s get you set up with a locker and then I’ll show you where your classrooms are, okay? Sarah, you’re going to be her guide for the day."

"Ha, Sarah has to deal with the sick," whispers a guy in the back row as another perfectly-manicured, toothpick blonde on the left side of the classroom gets up from her desk as slowly as possible and shuffles toward me.

Deal with the sick? What the heck does that even mean?
I wonder as Sarah waves me toward the door. I’m not sick. What’s he...

The realization hits me like a brick as my brain finally figured it out, and I spin around in a huff and glare at the asshole in the back row. He has light brown hair, a scruffy goatee, and clearly has no idea how to wear a shirt. He's popped the collar so that it stands straight up and it looks absolutely idiotic.

His snide little remark didn’t make sense because I misheard him. He didn't call me 'sick' at all.

He called me a
spic
.

He seriously went there. It’s my first day here and someone’s already dropped a racial slur on me.

I can’t call him out on it, not on my first day of school. I’m the outsider—the poor little Hispanic girl from downtown—and if I start something now, I'll be painted as a troublemaker too.

"Nice meeting you all," I say, waving goodbye with forced exuberance and trying to pretend that I’m not burning up inside at that stupid fucker’s slur.

They can’t all be like that, can they?
I wonder as my guide silently leads me down the hall.