Chapter 27
When Monday rolls around, I can only think about one thing: I’m not going to finish that article. And consequently, I’m not going to get my job back, and I’m not going to write Caballo de Troya a profile. And I need to tell Eugenia.
I shake my hands, pacing in front of the building where the magazine’s offices are located. Above me, the trees move with the wind and release little droplets of water from last night’s rain. Two men chat and push past me. One of them throws me an annoyed look over his shoulder.
It’s seven thirty. I know Eugenia is already in her office. I have to be at the studio in an hour. If I’m going to do this, I have to do it now.
I march up the steps leading to the door.
Walking these halls is second nature to me.
I go straight for the elevator, the way I used to.
I wave a hello to my favorite barista on the way.
I march out on the Ellas floor and Blanca immediately looks up.
I expect the familiar pastels to make me feel right at home too, but they don’t.
They seem just as foreign as VeneTV. Known, but not mine.
Which is weird, because if there was a place I considered another home, it was this one.
Blanca stands, leaning over her desk, wide-eyed. “What are you doing here?”
“I need to talk to—”
The rhythmic clicking of heels on ceramic makes me stop. I know that sound. I trained myself to recognize that sound for five years straight.
“Maria Antonieta,” Eugenia’s sharp voice says behind me. “Do we have an appointment I don’t know about?”
Slowly, I turn to face her. A pressure settles on my chest, making me almost dizzy with nerves. “Eugenia. Uh, no. But could I speak to you anyway?”
Eugenia crosses her arms, then shrugs one shoulder. “Sure.”
But she doesn’t move. Doesn’t ask me to follow her. Nothing. She stands in the middle of the reception and stares. Today, she’s wearing a black leather coat as if it were a dress. Her hair is pulled back so tight she might as well have gotten Botox. She looks a little like Cruella de Vil.
“Well?” she presses.
I’m not sure how to start the conversation. With my conflicting feelings? With Simón? I have no idea, so I blurt out the first thing I can think of:
“Alejandro and I broke up.” But it sounds more like AlejandroandIbrokeup.
“Oh?” Eugenia arches an eyebrow.
I gulp. “And that means I can’t finish the article.”
“Oh.” Eugenia presses her lips into a thin line, nodding slowly. Somewhere in the reception area, a clock ticks. I could hear a fly if there was one.
My hands shake as I stand under Eugenia’s scrutiny. Her face betrays nothing. Her eyes travel up and down my body, followed by a click of her tongue.
“This could have been an email,” she says, then steps around me toward her office.
—
At work, I’m trying to stay busy. I couldn’t beg Eugenia to hear me out without risking being late.
I force myself to keep that conversation out of my head and focus on the tasks at hand.
I’ve categorized Simón as one of today’s tasks.
I speak to him only when strictly necessary, keeping things professional.
If he notices, he doesn’t let it show. The alternative is remembering him shirtless in my apartment and that will not make for a very productive day.
The remaining contestants are more nervous after watching half their friends leave the show at once. No one is sure they will make it to the next round, but each kid has to come in with some family members for interviews and promotional videos.
I’m standing in a corner watching Mamá interview a young father.
The room is dark except for an LED screen depicting a poster of the show.
His daughter, a fifteen-year-old girl, sits beside him, misty-eyed, as the man tells a story of how she started singing with her mother, who passed away two years ago, when she was three.
My mother, to her credit, keeps her composure throughout the interview. As soon as they leave, she excuses herself and marches to the bathroom, but I notice the red in her eyes. Camacho women don’t cry in public.
—
An email arrives after lunch.
Simón is giving a pep talk to his team. Ten pairs of eyes look up at him through unshed tears.
Tomorrow they will become half as many. Out of all the talented children we’ve met throughout the last two months, only five will move forward to the live shows.
His voice is strong, commanding. But I have no idea what he’s saying because of The Email.
From: admin@
Subject: Re: Ethos application
Dear Maria Antonieta,
It’s a pleasure to be in touch. My name is Xiomara Isea. As you know, Ethos is an emerging platform and we are especially keen on hiring emerging talent.
We were very impressed with your application. There are several roles we think you would be a good fit for, and we would like to meet with you as soon as possible. If you are still interested, we would love to speak to you.
Are you available to schedule an interview for this afternoon at 4:00 p.m.? We understand this is last minute, but we are looking to fill these positions soon. If this time does not work for you, please reply to this email with your availability.
We’re looking forward to hearing back from you.
All best,
Xiomara
I read and reread the words. Because it says I got an interview for…several positions?
Applying to Ethos was the definition of me shooting my shot. After not hearing back from any of the other places I applied to, I figured even hoping would be pointless. But here it is. An email. From Xiomara Isea. At Ethos.
“You okay?” Simón asks behind me. I didn’t notice when he stopped talking to the kids. Or when he approached me. I turn to him, still speechless.
Whatever he sees on my face makes him take a peek at my phone. At first, he frowns. Then he grins. “Congratulations!”
I shake my head. “It’s just an interview.”
“Your face says it’s not just an interview.”
“I don’t even think I can make it,” I confess. “It’s at 4:00 today.”
Simón checks the watch on his wrist. “It’s 1:00 p.m.”
“The first leg of the show wraps tomorrow. There’s a lot to do.”
“Marianto.” Simón grabs me by the shoulders. I’m keenly aware of the curious eyes watching us from different corners of the room. He either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. “Don’t worry about work, we’ll figure something out. Tell them you’ll do the interview.”
His deep brown eyes bore into mine, almost pleading, like he knows how important, how enormous this is for me. Not only the job interview, but where it comes from. Not just the email, but what it represents. His gaze pleads like he was there that night, watching me send out the application.
Simón squeezes my shoulders once. I take it as my sign to step out of his grip and look away.
“Okay,” I say.
To: admin@
Subject: Re: Ethos application
Good afternoon, Xiomara,
Thank you for the opportunity. I am still interested. 4:00 p.m. works.
Thank you in advance.
From: admin@
Subject: Re: Ethos application
Perfect! I will send over a Zoom link shortly.
Talk soon,
Xiomara
Simón is beaming at me when the door to our rehearsal room flies open and Mileidy comes streaming in, looking directly at me.
“Maria Antonieta, make sure the parents of the finalists get this form tomorrow.” She hands me a stack of papers. “They need to sign it, otherwise the show won’t cover their expenses when we leave for Margarita.”
“Sure.” I nod.
Simón steps between us, putting an arm around her shoulders and leading her to the opposite end of the room. “Mileidy, I have an appointment I can’t miss at 3:00 p.m. and I need Maria Antonieta to assist me,” Simón tells her. “It’s for publicity.”
Mileidy grunts her agreement, walking out of his semi-embrace to bark commands at some other unfortunate PA. Simón turns to me with a grin before softly slapping the back of my shoulder. “Back to work.”
“Why did you say three?” I ask, following him. “The interview is at four.”
“Maybe I want to spend a little time with you without being surrounded by a dozen harmonizing children,” he says. My cheeks instantly warm. I feel my eyes go round as my heart pounds against my rib cage. “Or maybe I want you to have a little time to prepare.” He shrugs. “We may never know.”
—
Finally, my mother taking over my apartment is paying off. Her podcast station will be my interview set this afternoon. With a hand perched on the curve of my waist, I look over my shoulder toward the door. Simón leans against it, arms crossed, assessing the space.
“Maybe if you moved the desk to one side?” he offers. “Here, let me.”
And then the man rearranges my furniture.
“You really don’t have to do that,” I say. He ignores me until the desk is exactly how he envisioned it, which does work so much better. “Gracias.”
“It’s nothing,” he replies. “Are you all set?” I nod. “Great. I’ll just…wait in the living room.”
My heart skips. The thought of not doing this interview alone is like drinking café con leche on a particularly cold morning.
Knowing I’ll find someone outside my door when this is over, someone who is rooting for me, who would probably comfort me if it goes south…
I haven’t felt the need for that kind of support in years, and though I really don’t want to be alone…
“You don’t have to stay, Simón. It’s okay,” I force myself to say. Because that is what I should say.
Simón stares at me for a second…two…until I have to look away. I can’t function under the weight of his scrutiny.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice he’s nodding. “Okay.”
I put all my strength into not deflating, not showing how disappointing it is that he’s leaving.
“Could I stay anyway?” he asks. I look up, slowly. He blinks rapidly. “Let me rephrase that: I would like to stay. I want to stay.”
I want you to stay too. I think the words, but I don’t say them.
It’s crossing a line I don’t dare approach.
After all, he’s leaving. He wants to stay today, maybe because he needs to see this through, maybe because he’s that nice, who knows?
But in five days, he’s still leaving. I know because I booked the ticket to Bogotá.
I know what day and what time he’s leaving, I know through which gate, on which flight.
Getting attached is a mistake. I know it is. But I still nod again. Twice now.
Simón smiles, then checks his watch. “Good luck.”
With that, he steps out, closing the door behind me. It’s just me and the rest of my life in the room now.
Okay, Marianto, relájate.
The screen, black until a second ago, displays a woman.
Her skin dark with rich chocolate tones, her hair in a loose Afro pulled back by a colorful headband that matches the flower print on her bright pink blouse, her makeup photo-shoot worthy—nude lips, neon eye shadow, not a wrinkle in her foundation.
This is a woman who knows who she is and doesn’t spend eighteen hours a day worrying about getting older and not amounting to anything.
Of course, she looks like the exact person I would kill to work with.
I already feel like I want to be her when I grow up.
“Maria Antonieta.” She says my name with a grin. “I’m Xiomara, we spoke over email.”
“Hi,” I say. “It’s so nice to meet you officially.”
Xiomara waves my comment off. “Please, this isn’t a meeting. Save those words for when you and I sit across from each other to have coffee.”
Oh. Does that mean I have the job?
I almost ask. But I’m not here to interview her, I’m here to be interviewed. And to get a job in my dream field, a job I applied for on my own merits. A job I’d be good at.
“Are you ready?” Xiomara asks.
I run both hands down my pants and nod. No need to show my nerves. If I’m not ready, we’re already here. It doesn’t make a difference. She doesn’t need to know.
“Perfect.” Her smile widens. “Let’s begin.”
—
The interview ends and Xiomara leaves the call with a promise to reach out when they’ve made a decision.
I slump in my chair, staring at myself in the virtual meeting room.
My face is stunned but my eyes are bright.
Slowly, a grin unfolds across my cheeks and the anxiety in my chest loosens, replaced by this intense feeling of elation.
Hope. I haven’t felt truly hopeful in months.
I have only seen little glimpses of light, most of them caused by Simón, but now…
Editor. That’s what she said. It’s the longest shot in the history of long shots, but damn. I want it. Entertainment Editor. A dream. And I didn’t have to beg for it. Or offer my private life in exchange for it.
I push to my feet, yank the door open, and march down the hallway.
Simón stands when he hears me coming. There’s a question at the tip of his tongue that I don’t let him ask.
I fling my arms around his neck and pull him down toward me in what has to be the most unprofessional hug in the history of hugs.
The soft “whoa” that scrapes the side of my face as it slips out of his mouth confirms it.
His arms close around my waist, loosely.
He doesn’t press me to him, he doesn’t take more than I’m offering.
I’m so full of gratitude to him for being exactly what I need, exactly when I need it.
Again and again, over the past two months. An idol, an accomplice, a friend.
“Thank you so much,” I whisper, my voice tight.
His grip tightens, just a little. “You’re welcome so much.”
And next thing I know, I’m blurring another line.
I take a step back and ask, “Do you like cake?”