Page 21 of Something to Prove
“No one in these pics has red hair. Where’d you get it?”
“My mother.”
“Oh, that must be her.” Ty pointed at a photo of my mom riding a camel in the Sahara. “Cool pic.”
“Yes.”
“She was a reporter, huh?”
“Uh…yes. How did you know?”
“My agent mentioned it. Tell me about her,” Ty prodded.
I stared at him for a beat, unsure how to handle the scrutiny. He was making this so much harder than it had to be.
“Why?”
He pulled his cell from his pocket and flopped onto a chair. “Just curious. I figured this is part of the interview process. I should get to know you too, right?”
I wrinkled my nose. “That’s not how interviews work.”
“Well, they should. I’ll be more willing to share shit if you do the same.”
“I don’t think?—”
“Where are you from originally?”
What was he doing?
I steepled my fingers and leaned forward with my elbows on the desk. “Manhattan. You?”
“Utica.” We played the no-blink staring game for a whole minute before Ty chuckled and took a swig from his water bottle. “Let’s try another one. I have five siblings—three older sisters, me, and two younger brothers. We all play hockey. Dadcoaches high school PE and teaches freshman English, Mom’s a kindergarten teacher. You?”
“I’m an only child.”
Ty bugged his eyes out. “I can’t imagine what that would be like.”
Lonely.
I bit the word back and wiggled my fingers expectantly. “Questions?”
Ty narrowed his eyes, but must have decided he didn’t care enough to press. He scrolled his cell and cleared his throat theatrically.
“Number one: What are your chances of survival in a zombie apocalypse? Number two: Favorite smell? Three: Could you eat ice cream with your bare hands? No cone. Just the ice cream. Four: What kind of?—”
“Stop.” I ran my tongue along my upper lip and sighed. “We can’t use those. Or rather, we can if you insist, but our audience will want to talk about your college experience at Smithton and your thoughts about going pro. Not so much about zombies and odd ice cream eating habits.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Those questions are gold…and they stay,” Ty insisted. “By the way, I would totally survive a zombie apocalypse, freshly cut grass and a refrigerated rink are the best smells in the world, with chocolate chip cookies just out of the oven at a close second, and I can eat ice cream anyway anyhow. You?”
It was on the tip of my tongue to remind him again that I was not the subject here, but…in his own way, Ty was cooperating. Maybe he couldn’t help that he had the attention span of a goldfish.
“Okay, well…I would never, ever, ever, ever survive a zombie encounter or an apocalypse. My standards are far too high to be a zombie. They’re ugly and ill mannered, and I simply wouldn’tfit in. As for an apocalypse, I get edgy when the market is out of La Croix. Say no more. I love the smell of the ocean, and no, I don’t eat with my hands. See exhibit A…not zombie material.” I brushed my hands and spun to my monitor. “Now, let’s try a few ofmyquestions.”
“Hold your horses, Woody. I’m not done.”
I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to draw blood and shook my head. “Two things. One: Do not call me Woody. I’m not a woodpecker or a penis pecker. Two: Turkeys are done, not people. Proper English would therefore be, I’m not finished. May I proceed with my queries now?”
Ty’s sharp gaze didn’t waver, but his lips twitched. “Hold up. I’m still on the penis pecker line.”