A girl with a clipboard walks up to our table, putting an effective end to my rambling. Thank goodness. Flames of embarrassment are still crawling up my neck.
“Want to sign up for the school blood drive?” She thrusts the clipboard in front of me. I grab it and quickly scrawl my name, before she has a chance to make a crack about bird crap.
“Have you donated before?” Rafael asks as he takes the clipboard from my outstretched hand.
I shake my head. I signed up to do it last semester, but Mom told me not to because she didn’t want me to be dizzy for our photo shoot. Yes, really. “Have you?”
He nods. “A few times, when Dad’s clinics were low in supply.”
“Does it hurt?” I don’t think I’m scared of needles, but I can’t remember the last time I got a shot, so maybe I am. Just like there are probably thousands of people who have never been on an airplane but would be afraid to fly, once they’re sitting on the runway with the engine rumbling under their feet.
“No.” He shakes his head, then pauses. “Not really, anyway.”
I laugh. “Great. That’ll help me sleep tonight.”
“Don’t sweat it. You’ll be fine. But . . .” He trails off with a bizarre look on his face.
“What?” Is he trying to tell me I won’t be fine?
“If you’re worried about it, you could give me your phone number. I give great pep talks.” He signs his name on the sign-up sheet next to mine, like it’s no big deal, like he didn’t just ask me for my phone number! I break out in a grin as he hands the clipboard back to the girl and she leaves.
“Did you get a cell phone?”
“No. But I’ve never let that get in my way before,” he says with a wicked glint in his eye.
My eyes land on the vein that trails down his forearm and into his hand. I had no idea arms could be such an attractive feature. Eyes? Yes. Teeth? Yes. Hair? Obviously. But arms? I’d never noticed before this exact moment. I tear my eyes away and shake my head, trying to clear it from the bicep-induced fog. “You’re serious?”
“Afraid so. Besides, you never know when I’ll have a College Prep emergency one of these days and need your help.” The teasing glint is still in his eye, and it makes me feel reckless and breathless. I grab a pen from my bag and take his palm in mine. I write my phone number in big, bold numerals, the way girls do in movies.
And that’s that. He has my phone number. And I don’t have his. If he even has one? He must have one. He was obviously teasing me before; there’s no reason to ask for my number if he doesn’t have a phone.
I promise myself I absolutely, under no circumstances, will sit around clutching my phone in my hands. But every hour after school that passes without hearing from him feels like a very peculiar kind of torment. I wonder if “waiting for a cute guy to text” has ever been employed as an actual torture device. If not, it should be.
I’m in my bedroom avoiding vlog edits when my phone buzzes. I look at the screen, expecting to see a message, but it keeps buzzing; it’s a phone call from an unknown number. It must be the solar panel salespeople again. I want to ignore it, but if I do, they’ll leave a voicemail, and if I ignore that then that tiny icon will haunt my home screen for eternity. Which, ugh. When will they realize that leaving a voicemail makes me actively hate them?
I pick up the phone just in time. “Stop calling me.”
“Claire?” Rafael’s voice surprises me so much I almost drop the phone.
“Why are you calling me?”
“Oh, uh . . .” His voice falters. “You gave me your phone number.”
“So you could text me.” No one actually calls each other anymore.
“Contrary to popular belief, not all telephones are equipped to send or receive text messages.” I swear I can hear the amused smile on his lips.
“Are you . . . are you at a payphone?” I picture him in a glass box, feeding quarters into the phone. The image makes me question his sanity. But also, it’s kind of endearing.
“What? No!” Rafael laughs loud and long, and my cheeks flush. His voice is so close, right in my ear, and I can hear his slow breath. It’s strangely intimate. “This is my abuela’s landline.”
So much for intimate. “Why are you calling?”
“I have a College Prep emergency.” His voice is calm and matter-of-fact. It couldn’t sound less like an emergency.
“That’s not a thing.”
“I need help with the homework.”
“Is this about your handshake? Ms. Grant was right. It could use some work.”
“Damn. You know how to hit a guy where it hurts,” he says, which makes me laugh. “But really, my resume needs work. Will you look at it for me?”
“Sure.” I give him my email address, and thirty second later my phone beeps, alerting me his resume landed in my inbox. We hang up, and I open the document.
rafael alejandro luna
645 E. Encinas Avenue
The Surface of The Sun, USA
• summary •
I would really like a job at your company, but you should know that I have no professional job experience and have only been to four days of “College Prep.” My teacher thinks I need to work on my handshake but says that I show great potential.
• objectives •
To get a job that will give me a lot of money in exchange for a minimal amount of work. Weekends off would be appreciated.
• education •
Twelve years of tutoring in various countries. Five days of public school in Gilbert, Arizona. (Don’t forget about the College Prep though!)
• employment history •
Does volunteering count? What about involuntary volunteering that was mostly mandated by my father? I did a lot of that.
• professional skills •
I’m a pretty good bowler. But not that thing with pins and an alley. It’s a cricket thing. Hard to explain. Also good at: making friends and binge-watching Netflix.
• hobbies & interests •
See above.
By the time I’m finished reading the resume, tears are running down my face from laughing so hard. I open his resume in a word processing program and begin making notes. When I’m finished, it looks like this.
rafael alejandro luna
645 E. Encinas Avenue
The Surface of The Sun, USA
**Alternate Address: Hell on Earth**
• summary •
I would really like a job at your company, but you should know that I have no professional job experience and have only been to four days of “College Prep.” My teacher thinks I need work on my handshake but says that I show great potential.
**Is it okay to lie on your resume? I don’t remember Ms. Grant ever praising you for your potential.**
• objectives •
To get a job that will give me a lot of money in exchange for a minimal amount of work. Weekends off would be appreciated.
**Don’t forget to ask for holidays off too. If you don’t ask now, you’ll be stuck working Christmases from now until forever.**
• education •
Twelve years of tutoring in various countries. Five days of private school in Gilbert, Arizona. (Don’t forget about the College Prep though!)
**This is a good place to mention your staring contest with Parker Evans. That should really highlight the caliber of education we receive at Highland.**
• employment history •
Does volunteering count? What about involuntary volunteering that was mostly mandated by my father? I did a lot of that.
**Pretty sure it doesn’t count.**
• professional skills •
I’m a pretty good bowler. But not that thing with pins and an alley. It’s a cricket thing. Hard to explain. Also good at: making friends and binge-watching Netflix.
**I think the employer would appreciate a running list of all the shows you’re currently binge watc
hing.**
• hobbies & interests •
See above.
**Nothing says “I put a lot of time and hard work into this resume like the answer ‘See above.’”**
I email him my updated version of his resume, as well as my resume for him to proofread, and impatiently wait for a reply. Three minutes later, he responds.
I knew I liked you.
I reply with a smiley face emoji. SIGNOFTHETIMES would be so proud.
Email from Sun + Sky Apparel
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Free T-shirts!
Poppy and Claire!
I’m a huge fan! I recently came aboard as the marketing and advertising director for Sun + Sky Apparel! We’re a family-owned small business that specializes in graphic T-shirts! Our designs are clean and minimalist and super chic! If you send me your sizes, I would love to get some free T-shirts in the mail for you, no obligations! (That said, you may have noticed that our logo is a bird, and after your recent video, it could be SO GREAT for both of us if we collaborated in some way!)
I hope to hear from you soon! And I hope you love our shirts!
Molly!
The sweaty and humid atmosphere that usually permeates the school gymnasium is gone. Instead, it’s currently cold and smells faintly of a doctor’s office. The room has been transformed into a blood donation center and is filled with Red Cross workers and students who are thrilled to have a valid excuse to skip class. A guest lecturer is talking to my class about college admissions right now, but I’m not worried about missing it because I’ve been obsessively researching colleges for months.
A student council member checks me in and directs me to a tall, thin woman with a nametag that reads “Jada,” who has long black cornrows wrapped in a big bun on top of her head. She ushers me into a makeshift cubicle on the left side of the room. The cubicle is small, with only two folding chairs and one computer inside. I take a seat in one of the chairs and wrap my arms around myself.
“Sorry about the temperature. If we keep it too warm, people tend to pass out.” Jada pushes a few keys on her computer.
“Should I be worried about passing out?”
“Do you pass out easily?” Her face is expressionless, and it worries me that she took my joke seriously.
“No?”
“Then you should be fine. Just follow the instructions. Now, I’m going to ask you a series of questions. Please answer yes or no.” She charges forward before I can dwell on the idea of passing out in front of all my classmates and asks me a long series of questions about my current heath, my medical history, my travels, and my sexual history. Every time I answer, she types a notation on the computer keyboard.
I guess I pass the test because soon she’s checking my temperature, blood pressure, and pulse. After those tests, she pulls a needle out of a sealed package and explains that she needs a blood sample to assess my iron levels. She pricks my finger and has it drip into a small vial filled with liquid, explaining as she does so that if it doesn’t drop to the bottom quickly enough, I won’t be allowed to donate. But I pass this test too, and she prints out sticky labels with my name and a bar code on them, slaps them on a handful of empty vials, and walks me across the room.
A plump older woman with gray hair and rosy cheeks motions for me to sit down in a chair that is part recliner, part hospital bed. She reminds me of a fairy tale grandma. I place both my arms up on the armrests and wait for her to untangle a mess of clear tubes.
“Do you have a preference which arm?” Her friendly and reassuring voice perfectly pairs with her soft face and gray hair.
“I don’t think so.”
“Are you right handed?”
I nod, and she walks over to my left side. She scrubs my arm with an alcohol swab, tells me I’ll feel a small pinch, and before I know it, the needle is in my arm.
“You can breathe now, sweetheart.”
“That’s it?” I exhale. “That wasn’t so bad.” She pats my arm and walks away.
I watch the blood drain from my arm, through the tube, into a clear vial. It’s flowing way faster than I expected.
“You did it!” I look up to see Rafael standing by my feet, donning a sticker that says, “I tried!”
“You didn’t?”
He shakes his head and pulls up an empty chair next to me. “I’ve spent too much time out of the country.”
“Ahh. You failed the test.” I try to sit up, but get a head rush and fall back against the chair.
“I suppose so.” He cocks his head to the side and examines me with a smirk.
“Are you going back to class?” I ask. Please say no.
“I think I can stay long enough for a cookie.” He nods toward the front of the room, where a folding table is piled high with bakery boxes and juice pouches. “Did it hurt?”
I shake my head vigorously and am overcome by the need to puke. I close my eyes. “Nope. Not even a little bit. Felt great. I could do this all day.”
Metal chair legs scrape against the floor, but I’m afraid if I open my eyes I’ll vomit, so I leave them closed. With my luck, someone would film me puking. It’s been two weeks since the bird video went viral, and though my inbox is still filling with sponsorship requests, people at school are over it.
Mostly.
Fortunately, Rafael really does live off the grid, and seems to have missed the scandal. I find myself gravitating automatically to him at lunch and in class. Despite my lies, it’s easier to be myself around him than the other kids at school.
“I have another question.” My eyes are still closed, and the words sound fuzzy in my own ears. We’ve been asking and answering questions all week, slowly getting to know more about each other, and I’ve been thinking about this one for a while. I’m finally going to ask him about his exes, about all the other girls he charmed with his hair and his eyes and his premeditated vulnerability.
“Excuse me! Is she okay? She looks . . . not okay.” Rafael’s voice gets far away and then close again.
“Claire, can you open your eyes for me?” It’s the grandma voice, and this time, I do. My head spins. She studies my face closely. “Can you hear me?”
I nod.
“Do you feel okay?”
I nod again, not really registering her question.
“Well, you’re done anyway. That was fast.” She unhooks the tubes from my arm, pulls out the needle, and wraps my elbow with a neon green bandage.
I try to stand up but she holds out a hand to keep me in the chair. “Stay here for at least fifteen minutes.” I slump back, more than happy to oblige.
Rafael brings me a handful of cookies and three different kinds of juice. He looks sheepish as he holds them out to me. “I wasn’t sure what to get.”
I accept a chocolate chunk cookie and close my eyes while I nibble on it. Before long I’m feeling less dizzy, and I tell Rafael he can go back to class. I don’t want him to feel the need to hang with me just because I got sick.
He must not hear me because he sticks around. When the fairy-tale grandma gives me the go-ahead to leave, there are only ten minutes of class left and it seems pointless to attend. Without talking about it, we both turn toward the parking lot. He holds the door open, and I walk through it into the blazing sunshine. Everyone always characterizes Arizona weather as a dry heat, as if that’s a good thing. All that means is that when you walk outside it feels like stepping into Satan’s oven, even in early October.
“Where were you at lunch today?” I ask as I step off the sidewalk curb into the parking lot. My knee gives a little as I do, and Rafael immediately reaches out and grabs my arm to steady me. My skin heats at his touch. He holds on for a couple of seconds, and I feel myself getting woozy again. Maybe there was something to Jada’s claim that the heat makes people pass out. “Did you ditch me for Parker?”
He laughs and releases my arm. “I was
working on a project.”
“For what class?”
“College Prep.”
“Your resume? I think you nailed it on your first try.” I glance at Rafael but he’s no longer walking next to me. He’s stopped a few paces behind, opens his backpack, and pulls out a piece of paper.
“Are you sure you’re feeling alright? You look pale again,” he says and catches up to me in two big steps. He studies the paper in his hands with a frown.
“I feel fine. What is that?” I reach for it, but he pulls it back.
“I was working on your resume, but I can show it to you another time.” He tries to stuff it in his backpack, but this time I grab it from him, ripping the corner.
“My resume?” I raise my eyebrows and look down at the paper in my hand.
claire dixon
702 E. San Pedro Avenue
The Sahara Desert, USA
• summary •
I definitely don’t need a job at your company because I’m super famous, but you probably do want to hire me so I can take pictures of your business and promote it online.
• objectives •
To have a reason to buy fancy new work clothes.
• education •
Twelve years of public school in Gilbert, Arizona, plus one whole month of College Prep!
• employment history •
Seventeen years of unpaid modeling.
• professional skills •
Styling outfits, putting on makeup, and braiding my hair.
• hobbies & interests •
Reading graphic design books. Sometimes I pretend to be into rock climbing and chess, but I’m really not. Will not work with birds.
My nose burns as tears build behind my eyes. I clear my throat as my hand drops to my side. My fingers are tingly and numb. “You know?”
“About the bird? Of course I know. It’s all anyone’s talking about!” He shakes his head with a laugh. It makes me feel even worse.
“Why didn’t you say something earlier?” My voice is small, and I hate myself for it.
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