by Emery Lee
DebunkingMCD posted:
Since you guys still don’t believe me, here are some more links for you. Only 0.6% of the population is trans, the city of Miami has less than five hundred thousand people, and only 6% of that population is between the ages of fifteen and nineteen. That leaves a hundred and eighty people to potentially be featured in over a hundred stories posted on this blog. Are we really supposed to believe one in two trans people in Miami is having the ultimate love story?
Byawndone replied: Wow, I never thought of it that way. I guess that doesn’t make a lot of sense, does it?
Bdpwsqr replied: These are just numbers! Maybe some people had multiple meet cutes? And some people are closeted!
Ilybromine replied: Ugh, I knew this blog was too good to be true.
Load more comments . . .
I can’t bring myself to write in the Diary. It’s probably just shooting myself in the foot since really, I should be online proving to people that love is real, but I can’t work past the churning in my stomach. I just want to go to sleep forever, or at least until my mom restores my credit card.
I completely forget about agreeing to trivia until Brian’s knocking on the closet door like, “Noah, we’re supposed to leave in like five minutes, and I need my shoes.”
So I suck it up, using some water to restyle my frizzy hair and spraying on some light cologne so it at least smells like I tried.
We slip into the car without speaking, and Brian turns on some classic rock station before pulling out onto the street. After a few minutes, he says, “So, besides losing your only source of income, how did today go?”
Since I came out to him, there aren’t a whole lot of secrets between us, but he doesn’t know about the Diary. Like, sure, he knows that I blog and spend the better part of my life on the internet, but he doesn’t know any of the details, and I intend to keep it that way. Besides the fact that he’d think it’s pointless and immature, I just don’t want people to know about it. It’s my thing, and a little bit Becca’s thing, but no one else’s.
I shrug. “It was fine, I guess. How was orientation?”
“Pretty chill. I’m friends with a few of the people who work the camp, so I just took the counselor position to stay busy over the summer. Mom making you get a job?”
I nod, watching the mountains out in the distance. God, are they beautiful. It’s so easy to pretend I never actually lived in Florida, and if I didn’t hate the outdoors so much, they might even be great Diary fodder, but as it stands, I’ll at least need to earn enough cash to continue my usual meet cute scouting if I’m going to keep posting and stand a chance against the troll.
“It’s about time, considering you’ve never worked a day in your life.”
I roll my eyes.
“Do you want to work at the camp?” Brian asks. “I can get you a job. If I tell them you’re my si”—he freezes before finishing—“bling, I’m sure they’ll be fine with it.”
I smirk, turning to him. “Nice save.”
He sighs. “I’m sorry.”
And I know he is, but it sure is funny to watch how flustered he looks after he misspeaks, like finally I’m the cool brother, and he’s the awkward one trying to keep up with my moves.
“I think I’ll get a job on my own,” I say. “No offense, but living with you and working with you seems a bit extreme.”
He smiles. “Yeah, I get that. Just let me know if you need help or anything.”
I smile back. “You’ll regret that.”
We end up at a brewery that serves overpriced burgers and like two hundred different beers. They all look the same to me, so I don’t bother counting. Maggie’s already waiting for us there with a few guys and the Black girl from the barbecue. She gives Brian a quick peck on the cheek, and I wonder if they’re toning it down because I’m there. I could remind them that I’m sixteen and not easily corrupted by PDA, but then, I really don’t mind them keeping it PG.
Maggie takes down all of our names, and we huddle around the table as she shouts, “Okay, if you know the answer, come tell me—but not too loudly—and I’ll write it down. I don’t want other teams stealing our points.”
It seems pretty redundant since I can barely hear what she’s saying two feet in front of my face, and frankly, I’m not particularly eager to get any closer to her than I already am.
I wait until Brian decides to order something before ordering too since I can’t pay and I know he won’t leave me washing dishes. The questions fly by, and I try to think about the first few, but I’m terrible at trivia, and I don’t even know what the emcee is talking about. I just keep checking my phone, watching my follower count crash and burn worse than the emcee’s shitty jokes.
My DMs are loaded with some pretty nasty messages too. Some people call me a liar, some people call me an abuser, and some people call me things so vulgar, I skim over the words because it feels dirty to even acknowledge that they’re there. And yeah, there’re a few positive messages, a few people asking me to refute the claims against the Diary, but my mind fixates on the attacks. I know I shouldn’t respond to them and fuel the fire, but I kind of want to curse a few of them out to get some of this rage out of my system.
“Oye, enough with the phone,” Brian snaps, reaching to pluck my phone out of my hand.
I swat his hand away before he can touch it, but I guess he wins this round anyway since he got my attention off the Diary. “Stop being a nag.”
“Live a little,” Brian says. “Your blog friends can wait.”
“They’re called followers, which you would know if you weren’t born at the dawn of the millennium,” I say.
Brian splutters.
“So, how are you liking Denver so far, Noah?”
I turn to see Maggie smiling at me. She’s got the thinnest lips on this side of the Pacific, but she makes it work with a touch of lip gloss.
“It’s nice.” I don’t want to say it’s too cold for a summer and that I really wish I could be in Chicago or somewhere everything is under a mile away. Really, I don’t know why Brian even wanted to go to school out here. Sure, our old principal, Ms. Cabrera, was a UC Denver alum—and really, everyone loved her, between the motherly nature and spot-on character impressions—but I still don’t think any of the praise she had for the school outweighs the weather and lack of people of color.
“He’ll appreciate it even more when he gets a job,” Brian says. He twirls the straw in his water, which is weird because I don’t think I’ve ever seen Brian exhibit a nervous tic before. He must really be into Maggie. Sigh.
“Oh, you’re getting a job?” she asks.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. If she’s that important to Brian, it’s probably better I don’t chase her away with my biting wit and grade-A sarcasm. “Yeah, you know, gotta carry my weight.”
“My favorite bookstore is hiring, coincidentally. You should check them out,” she says.
I stare back at her blankly because working at a bookstore sounds boring as hell, and really, if I didn’t want Brian getting me a job, the last thing I need is a hand-out job from his girlfriend.
She doesn’t seem to realize that my look isn’t one asking her to continue because she digs into her little Kate Spade purse and pulls out a business card. “They’re small, and they mostly sell local books, but the owner’s really nice. It might be a good gig for you for the summer.”
I take the card because Brian’s watching, and I slip it into my pocket. I can’t say I’m planning to pursue the offer, but I can try to be polite about it.
“Is that the one that does all those readings and stuff?” Brian asks, and it’s so vague I’m not sure if he’s actually familiar with the place or just thinks it makes him sound more impressive.
“Yup, that’s the one,” Maggie says. She drops me a wink and says, “Once you’re working there, you should totally get me a discount.”
I smile at the joke—at least, I hope it’s a joke—and turn back to my phone. I’
m down just over a thousand followers from this morning, and my stomach feels uneasy. Yeah, the Meet Cute Diary really isn’t faring very well. I’m gonna have to find some way to stop that troll before the whole thing goes up in flames.
Step 2: The Hand of Destiny
The moment Fate pushes you together despite all reason, and you realize this isn’t something you can just walk away from.
Inbox (36)
Hannahm3421 asked: Dear Noah, will the next Diary story be up soon? I had a really rough night last night and went to read a new post only to see I’ve read all the most recent ones. I know someone had said some bad stuff about the Diary, but people are still submitting, right?
Wednesday morning, Brian heads to work and I’m stuck on the couch googling potential jobs while Becca goes to the dentist. She says the receptionist there is super hot, but I also don’t know what she thinks will come out of trying to date a girl who’s probably at least a few years older than us. But then, Becca’s always been more on the “window-shopping” side of dating, so maybe she doesn’t mind that.
Either way, it’ll be at least an hour before she texts me all the details, so I’m on my third search page in the hopes of actually being productive. I mean, I could “hit the town,” like my dad used to say, but no one really hires that way anymore. The problem is—well, there’re a lot of problems: my age, my lack of a college degree, my zero experience, and my lack of special skills.
I set my phone to the side, and for a moment, even consider turning it off. Every second I have my phone in my hand is another second I feel obligated to skim my inbox and see all the rough messages coming through. I replied to a couple of the positive ones, thanking them for their support, and I put out a statement telling my followers not to believe the troll, but otherwise, I don’t know what to say, and every message just makes me feel guiltier for not having an answer. Becca and I are supposed to brainstorm a plan to fix everything once she gets some free time, so, for now I kind of want to pretend nothing exists—no work, no Diary, and definitely no trolls out to ruin my life.
Then I think about that little business card Maggie handed me last night. Well, the troll thing made me think of Maggie, and then I got to the business card. It’s a whole chain reaction. Anyway, I really hate the idea of owing her a favor, but if it’s a simple job I can get just long enough to earn some quick cash, that’ll give me time to work out the whole situation with the Meet Cute Diary. Or, even better, it’ll distract me long enough for the problem to go away.
I get up and dig through my pile of dirty laundry to find the card tucked away in my pants.
I start by pulling the place up on Instagram. I don’t know how long they’ve been around, but the place looks a little old-timey, with lines of moss along the outside, and there’s a little patio café, so I can hopefully get some free coffee once I work there.
The place is called Sur La Page Books, and I type it into Google to look for any obvious scandals or life-threatening standoffs. Once they clear that, I decide to give them a call and see if they hire teenagers.
The phone rings a couple of times and a deep voice comes through on the other end with, “Hi, what can I do for you?”
Which seems like a wanting introduction, but I say, “Hi, I was wondering if you might be accepting job applications?”
“Um, yeah, sure, I guess,” the guy says. “I don’t know what the official process is. Just gimme a minute.”
I stand by as the guy puts the phone down, the sound of footsteps and muffled chatter drifting through. A few moments pass before he comes back and says, “Hey, sorry, so we actually don’t take applications, but if you wanna come in later, you can do an interview.”
“Later? As in today?”
“Yeah, can you do one p.m.?”
I glance at the clock on my phone. It’s just after noon. I don’t have the fare for a ride, but it’s probably only about a twenty-minute walk, so if I leave soon, I can get there on time. I mean, this is a pretty sudden offer, and I’d take it as a sign if I ever saw one.
“Sure,” I say.
“Cool. I’ll let her know you’re coming.”
The line dies before I can ask who she is and what exactly I should be wearing to such an interview, but it’s fine. If Fate is pushing me to get this job, then I might as well go with the flow and check it out.
I don’t own anything remotely dressy since my wardrobe renovations, but I fake it—somewhat clean black jeans, a T-shirt under a vest. I’ve never done a job interview before, and all I’ve really got for reference is Queer Eye, but I also don’t have a whole lot to work with, so I cut my losses and move on. Then I pull up a résumé I made in my computer class freshman year, change the contact info, and print it out before racing out the door.
It takes me a half hour to walk to the bookstore, and I’m sure that has very little to do with the fact that I’m extremely out of shape. It looks like it did in the Instagram photos, except it’s a bit bigger in person, stuck between two vacant retail spots that look like they’ve been that way for a long time.
When I first step over the threshold, a little bell chimes, and the guy from the phone calls out, “One sec!”
My first impression is that there’s way too much junk in this place. Boxes upon boxes of books line the floors, cheesy book puns line the walls, and a soft cinnamon smell drifts around me. I hear footsteps before I see the guy as he navigates the massive stock of books.
Then I freeze. It’s Ice Cream Shop Guy.
I silently thank the meet cute gods.
“Hi, anything I can help you with?” he asks. He looks a little different than he did when I ran into him at the ice cream shop—his hair is a little messier, his clothes a little dressier, no group of friends flanking him—but his eyes are just as dreamy. He doesn’t seem to recognize me, but maybe he’s just playing it cool, trying to slow his breathing while his heart races at the very sight of me.
I follow his lead. “Yeah, I’m here for the interview.”
“Oh,” he says like he’s surprised I’m the guy from the phone. I know the feeling.
And my voice tends to be like three octaves higher in person. I haven’t quite unlearned that habit yet.
“Gimme a sec. Amy’s in the back.”
He jogs back through the stack of books, and I wonder if I should’ve read more before coming. I mean, they didn’t really give me a whole lot of time to prep for the interview. If anyone asks, my favorite author is Fitzgerald because I really love fruit, especially when it’s angry.
That is what it’s about, right? Maybe I shouldn’t have gotten all my knowledge of The Grapes of Wrath from VeggieTales.
A woman shouts, “Sorry!” And then I see her jogging up to meet me. She’s short, chubby, her hair in a little pixie cut around her head. “Hi, you’re here for the interview, right?”
“Right,” I say, passing her my résumé.
She smiles and takes it without really looking at it, then shakes my hand. She’s one of those middle-aged white ladies who dramatically overenunciate everything and use their hands to illustrate I don’t even know what. “I’m Amy,” she says. “What’s your name, hon?”
“Noah.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Noah. So, all I’m really looking for is someone to kind of keep watch of the shop. I’ve got lots of stuff to do behind the scenes, and I can’t leave Drew at the register all day without a break. Apparently it’s a felony or something.”
She laughs, and I force a smile. Drew, huh?
“Anyway,” she says, “it’s not a whole lot of work. You just have to run the register and help customers find stuff if they’re looking. The whole shop’s organized alphabetically.”
I glance around at the scattered books because I highly doubt it’s organized at all, but I don’t interrupt. It’s a miracle this lady is even considering me at this point.
“Anywho,” she says, “what do you think? You like books?”
I nod. “Yeah, Fitzgera
ld’s great.”
She laughs, clapping me on the shoulder. “You read classics? You struck me as more of a manga kid.”
I blink. “Wait, that counts?”
“Yes, of course it does.” She chuckles, steering me farther into the store. “We’ve got a whole section for it. Those kids come in here, and they are hungry. What kind of stuff do you like?”
“All of it,” I say, my mind gravitating toward the massive stack of manga I packed up before the move. It’s all in California by now, probably collecting dust in some Public Storage. Growing up with Japanese grandparents, I’d always been into anime and manga and those corny action shows with the specialized martial arts, but I mostly shoved them away in grade school when everyone started calling me a weeb or asking me to be their waifu or whatever. It was like, how can I even enjoy this part of my culture when people have turned it into a fad and a joke? But I never really gave up manga. It’s just the one place I can still find storytelling that acknowledges that part of my heritage.
Of course, every teacher and librarian I’ve ever met made it very clear that anything with pictures didn’t count as a “real” book once you passed the age of, like . . . six. So books with pictures, inverted text direction, and Eastern storytelling conventions? Definitely not. And frankly, while manga’s always been a huge inspiration for me storytelling-wise, I can’t remember the last time I really talked about it.
“I started this new series about a girl who’s running from this curse—”
“There’s this real popular one. Kids come in here wanting to talk about it for hours, and, well, I just don’t understand,” she says, waving her hands through the air. “Some academy thing. Boca something?”
“Boku No Hero Academia?”
“Yes, that’s the one! You read it?”
I shrug because, yes, I read it, but she doesn’t need to know the extent to which I read it.
“Lovely! I have a couple questions for you, just to see how well you’ll do here.”
