Chapter 37 Gifted
Chapter thirty-seven
Gifted
Marigold Belmore
Put me in a bunny suit and call me the White Rabbit because I’m late.
I jog through the quad, dodging students and dirty looks because I fell asleep at my desk.
Again. It was only the incessant buzzing of my phone that woke me up before the paper’s work period.
Thankfully, Jameson didn’t stop calling until I answered. It took three tries.
“Sorry!” I shout as I run through an awkward blob of a friend group that takes up too much of the pathway.
My messenger bag bangs against my hip, sure to leave a bruise with all the books in there.
Plenty of people show up late to work period, but I don’t.
Especially not when we’re likely to get Charlie’s feedback on our recent article submission today.
The last thing I need is him thinking I don’t care enough to be on time. I’ve finally gotten his attention.
I practically slide into the building, my chest heaving and my head light. Sprinting on an empty stomach is not the brightest idea. But I made it, and that’s what matters. I rush inside and to my desk just as Charlie is walking out of his office.
“Just in time, Belmore. I want you and Sinclair in my office,” Charlie says, dipping his head toward the door and reentering the room.
I set my bag on top of my desk and try to subtly suck in a breath. Paisley raises her brows and mouths you okay? I nod even though I’m not entirely sure.
My next glance is at Jameson, who meets me in the aisle with a frown.
“Did you sprint here? You could have been a few minutes late.”
I shake my head. “Charlie needs us, so it wouldn’t have been good to show up late. He’d think I wasn’t dedicated.”
Jameson’s brow furrows with concern.
“Goldie—”
I grab his arm and squeeze it. “After the meeting, please,” I request softly.
He sighs but acquiesces. We walk into Charlie’s office and I take the chair, grateful for its presence. I give him my best smile. He does not return it.
“I’m sorry to say this, but I was a little disappointed with this article,” Charlie begins.
The pounding of my heart doesn’t slow. I grip the arms of the chair. A bead of sweat drips down my spine beneath the sweater I’m wearing.
“It felt … stagnant. Dull. Rote.”
Each word is a knife to my abdomen. I can’t bear to look up at Jameson, who’s standing next to me.
“Your previous articles had this original tenacity that you don’t find often in college reporting. I expected that same level of execution here.” He picks up a sheet of paper. “I’ve left my critiques here for you.”
He holds it out, and Jameson takes it because I’m still gripping the chair.
“Would you like us to edit it and bring it back to you?” Jameson asks.
Charlie leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers over his stomach.
“No, I don’t think editing would fix things. I’d like an entirely new article.” He sighs as if this problem is a nuisance. “The trouble is, we send the paper to print in two days—”
“We can have it to you by tomorrow,” I blurt out.
Charlie’s eyebrows rise. “If you could, that would be ideal. I don’t want to have to postpone a series I’ve gotten good feedback on.”
“We can do it,” I reassure him. “We’ve got all of our notes, and I can make sure this article is up to your standard.”
“Good. Then this problem is settled. I’ll see your article on my desk by tomorrow afternoon.” He claps his hands together. “Best get to work.”
“Thank you for the opportunity,” I say. Jameson doesn’t utter a word.
I stand up on shaky legs and leave the office first, still not looking at Jameson. I’ve just committed us to an insane deadline, but how could I not? Charlie would have been even more disappointed to wait another week or more.
“Goldie, can we talk in the hall?” Jameson asks from behind me.
“Sure,” I say, and pass my desk even though everything in me is screaming to hurry up and get to work.
Once I’m out in the hall, I finally dare to face Jameson. The frustrated expression he’s wearing is no surprise.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him before he can say anything. “I know I put you in a bad position, but I didn’t want to disappoint him.”
“I don’t have time to write an article from scratch, Goldie,” Jameson says, and I can tell he’s trying to watch his tone. “I have a game tonight, remember?”
No, I’d forgotten that. Panic flares, but I stamp it out.
“It’ll be okay. I’ll write the majority of it, and you can add to it tomorrow if you have time.”
Jameson gives me a concerned look.
“You don’t have time for this either. I know you haven’t finished your paper on Russian literature yet, and there’s probably other homework on your list.”
I bristle at his words. “I can get it all done. I always do.”
He rakes a hand through his hair.
“I know you can, but you don’t have to make it harder on yourself.”
“I’m not. Look, I know you’ve been worried about me, but I’ll be okay.”
Jameson looks to the side. I can practically see the war he’s fighting in his mind, though I don’t know what it’s about.
None of this is that big of a deal. I know he cares about me resting, but we’re in college.
This is what being an academic is about.
Losing sleep over deadlines comes with the territory.
“Journalism isn’t even your passion, Goldie. There’s no reason to work yourself into the ground for it.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that you chose to be on the paper because in high school our communications teacher told you that you were good at it.
This comes easy to you. I have no doubt you’ll pull off this article, and it’ll be beautiful.
I’m sure my contributions are what’s wrong with this in the first place.
” He holds up the paper with Charlie’s critiques.
“But do you ever stop and wonder why you’re bending over backward to include the paper in your schedule when your dream has always been to be a novelist? ”
I shake my head. “Writing fiction is just a hobby. Journalism is a career. Why wouldn’t I choose to pursue something I’m good at?”
“You’re good at fiction writing too,” he says. “Why not go after that?”
I open my mouth, then close it and frown.
He’s right that a part of the reason I kept pursuing journalism was that it came easy to me.
My teacher told me I had a gift, and I believed him.
Those sorts of things are like destiny. You wouldn’t advise a piano prodigy to take up violin.
It makes the most sense to pursue the path of least resistance.
Jameson steps forward and reaches for my hands. I let him take them. I’m not mad at him, but I am confused. He knows me so well, it’s strange for us to not be on the same page about something as important as my future career.
“I’m going to say something hard, but I want you to know I’m saying it because I love you.
” He meets my gaze with emphasis. “I think the reason you’re not pursuing your real dream is because you’re scared.
Writing the kind of books you want to write will take vulnerability that journalism doesn’t require.
And that makes your fear of failing worse.
Writing a bad article is one thing, but putting your heart and soul into something that might not succeed is another. ”
His words make me uncomfortable, like itchy grass or brand-new shoes. I tug my hands out of his.
“You’re wrong,” I tell him, though I’m not sure if he is. “I love journalism. I love observing people and seeing things in different perspectives. I love research and writing and seeing my name in the byline.”
He gives me a small smile.
“But do you love it more than writing fiction?”
Not even close. Though I wish I did. It would make throwing myself into journalism a lot less draining.
“It doesn’t matter,” I tell him. “Because this is what I’m gifted in. I’m not going to give that up because things are a little difficult right now. I’ll send you the article tomorrow. I’m sorry about missing your game, but I’ll watch it from the apartment while I write.”
His expression falls. I step forward and push on my tiptoes to kiss his cheek.
“Thank you for looking out for me. I love you.”
“I love you too,” he says softly.
I head back inside the newsroom, but Jameson doesn’t follow right away. Worry pricks at the edges of my mind. It’s hard to be out of sync with my best friend, but he’s viewing this through the lens of wanting me to rest more. This isn’t the season for that. I can relax on spring break.
Right now, I need to do everything to secure my future and prove to my parents that I’m a great writer. I frown at that thought. I don’t care that much about my parents' approval, do I? I shake my head and sit at my desk. It’s probably just side effects from my weird sleep schedule.
A few minutes later, Jameson returns. He sits down at his desk, looking more defeated than I would have expected.
Worry eats a hole through my stomach like a worm through an apple.
Will this disagreement affect our relationship?
He glances up and our gazes catch. I offer him a tentative smile, and he gives me one in return that allows me to breathe a little easier.
He loves me. Everything is going to be okay.
I nod to myself and get to work.