Chapter 7
MASON
It’s almost five o’clock in the evening on the following Monday and Mason’s running down the dimly lit hallway of the Journalism building, with his article in his hand, hoping to get it in on time.
He doesn’t know if there even is a deadline or when the office closes. Does the office even close?
He notices the door still open, and he heaves a sigh of relief as he slows down and catches his breath, not wanting to seem too eager before he hands in the paper.
It’s odd. He tried to send the article by email last night but was swiftly met with a reply saying it needed to be printed and given in person, so now, here he is, huffing and puffing trying to get it in on time instead of submitting it yesterday early like the good student he always is.
He had paced in his dorm all weekend, thinking about how he wanted to spin the article. He ping-ponged back and forth in his mind about whether to focus more on the team or on Callum.
He hates to admit it, but his writing is infinitely better when gushing about Callum. But he wants to make sure he stands out from anyone else that was there at the game and writing an article on it.
He isn’t sure what the editors are even looking for other than that his writing is good, so he decided he would stick with his focus on Callum.
It was surprisingly easy for him to do, despite his brain constantly nagging himself for being just like everyone else. He wants to stand out with his writing, and singing Callum’s praises is probably what everyone else will do.
It’s foreign for him to say anything remotely positive about him, given Mason had gone years slandering Callum in his mind and to his friends. He used to gush about Callum when they were kids, then it turned to slandering, and now it was back to gushing.
It’s like an atrophied muscle that has been strained for years and he’s going back to the gym again.
He just hopes that whatever he turns in isn’t going to be actually published in the paper. Mason figures that if no one is good, then they have nothing to publish, so they must have another story or someone on the paper to do the beat for them.
If it gets published, Mason will make it his mission to keep it away from Callum at all costs. If he can’t, he’ll just say that he did what he had to do to make the paper.
He’ll repeat it to everyone until he’s red in the face.
Mason stands beside the office and breathes deeply a few times.
He was the chief editor of the Northwood High paper. He’s a physics major who has much more going for him than one measly article.
He lifts his head up, squares his shoulders, and puts on a winning smile.
Having to see the chief editor again and her intimidating glare is already making him nervous. He can’t let her get to him again.
He walks into the office and searches for her desk. This time, she isn’t clacking away at her keyboard. She’s talking with another colleague, laughing and giggling like she’s a human being and not a sharp-toothed barracuda.
Mason clears his throat. The girls both stop laughing and the editor turns around in her swivel chair, her face serious.
“I have the article for the first football game of the season,” Mason says and holds out the paper. He looks down at the label on her desk that he somehow forgot to do in his fear-wrought haze of talking to her last time.
Fiona, Chief Editor
She beckons the paper with her hand, like she’s trying to grab at thin air, and he hands it to her. She rips it out of his hands. She brings it up to her face, adjusting her large glasses, and starts scanning it.
He shifts uncomfortably on his feet, looking out the window to give himself something to do.
He watches as a couple caramel-colored leaves fall to the ground into a small pattering of leaves gathering around an oak just outside.
He glances back at her, just to see how she’s progressed so far, and he witnesses a slow, wicked smile morph on her face. It’s unsettling to Mason. He expected her to be someone who is incapable of smiling or experiencing happiness.
“This is exactly what we’re looking for,” she says, taking his paper and handing it over to her colleague.
Her friend starts reading it too and glances quickly at Mason then back to Fiona. She gives a single nod and hands it back to her.
“We’ll let you know soon,” Fiona says, placing the paper primly on her desk.
Mason pauses, unsure how being “exactly what they’re looking for” constitutes a “we’ll get back to you,” but he doesn’t question it.
She flourishes her hands to him like she’s shooing him off before she goes back to chatting with her colleague.
He almost feels offended, but he thanks the girls and leaves the office, his chest feeling twenty pounds lighter. For some reason, he expected Fiona to read one sentence and throw his paper in the garbage or to laugh in his face.
Maybe his parents have a point. Maybe he is meant to do journalism after all.
Even if his heart isn’t in it, maybe he can learn to use it to his advantage.
Soon enough, Mason gets an email from Fiona, saying he got the spot on the paper and that his article is going to be published in the next issue.
He’s officially in, and he isn’t quite sure how he feels about it, but he knows he has to tell Jenna.
He grabs his backpack, thrusts his laptop inside, and runs out the door.
He knows Jenna is in her biomechanics class but he marches over to the Lawson Biology building either way. It’s made of glass and has a white and marble-like interior, like most science buildings tend to have.
He stands outside one of the auditoriums, fiddling with his phone, re-reading the email to make sure it’s real.
He’s happy to get any and all academic validation. He’s used to chasing after the highs of success and prestige, but what does it mean to have the spot on the paper? What does he have to try for next? What will make his parents even happier?
When it comes down to it, he just wants to do physics. He wonders if his happiness is even his own.
He wonders if it’s all because he has something to show off to his parents back home.
To prove he’s still a smart kid that does what he’s told and that is destined for greatness.
His mind goes back to Callum.
It keeps going back to him and how they used to be as kids. How they made their own rules, and that no matter how bad things may have seemed, they had each other to support at the end of the day.
No matter how many tests he aced and how commonplace his high grades were, Callum was there to give him a proud smile or a pat on the back during those whimsical days as kids.
His parents became used to Mason’s academic success, and they quickly expected nothing less than acing all of his tests. It made him feel hollow, especially when he and Callum stopped being friends. He had to find a way to fill that emptiness Callum left in his wake.
Getting into the paper makes him happy, but he knows the familiar hollowness that will seep underneath his skin, eventually. He’s trying to delay it by sharing the news with Jenna.
He’s still tinkering with his phone when he notices Callum, of all people, walk past him in black five-inch inseam shorts that should be illegal and a compression shirt, causing Mason’s thumbs to hover in midair over his phone as he watches Callum.
Why would Callum be in the biology building and not the gym? He glues his eyes back to his phone, hoping that it suddenly makes him invisible to Callum.
He doesn’t look up from his phone once to notice the way Callum’s arm veins snake down his biceps or how strong his legs look in his gym shorts.
His peripheral vision suddenly gets darker and the fluorescent light shining down on him dims. He knows what it means, and it makes him wish he could cover his head with his sweater and crawl into a hole.
He closes his phone’s screen and looks up to see none other than Callum Brown eyeing him with a raised eyebrow. His black hair is sweaty and clings to his forehead.
“Hot outside?” Mason asks, as he looks at Callum’s brow.
Callum squints his eyes and juts his chin to his right. “The gym is attached to the biology building…”
Mason lifts his eyebrows and nods, wanting to kick himself for not noticing “Gym” written in big, capitalized, bolded letters just next to the entrance of the building.
“I uh… got something sent to me by email today from The Goldberg. They said someone did an article on the home opener and that it’s going to be published,” Callum says, his eyebrow still raised with a smirk.
Mason crosses his arms but doesn’t say anything.
He’s panicking internally, but there’s no way in hell he’s going to let Callum know he is.
“…And when I read it, I got this really hopeful and proud feeling, like I was being seen,” Callum says, his eyes turning dazed, like his mind was going elsewhere.
Mason nods his head slowly, pretending as if he’s wondering why Callum is telling him this. “Mhmm…”
Callum takes another step closer to him, his eyes boring into Mason’s, his muscular frame only becoming more apparent and difficult to ignore.
“And as I’m reading it, I’m thinking, wow. This person really seems to get me. Like they really loved how I played. And I’m thinking it also sounds familiar. Like I know this person’s writing style.”
Mason gulps, feeling unbalanced at the proximity. “Weird. Make sure to let me know who they are so I can read more of their… work.”
Mason winces and looks down at his feet. For someone who can use his pen as a knife he sure doesn’t know how to speak properly sometimes.
Callum smirks and crosses his arms, his biceps bulging even more. “You know, I actually asked who wrote it, and they told me the funniest thing…”
“That your gym shorts are on backwards?” Mason says as he looks down at Callum’s legs.
Callum’s smirk disappears and is replaced by horror as he quickly looks down. “What?”
Mason holds in a laugh as Callum checks and his surprise morphs into annoyance as he looks back up at Mason.
“You’re hilarious.”
“Thank you.”