by Emma Mills
“I don’t know, just like … conversational stuff. About your life.”
“Conversational how? I’m just talking to myself.”
“You’re talking to the listener.”
“I don’t think the listener cares about, like, what I had for breakfast or where I’m going for college and all that.”
Sasha looked up from her laptop. “Do you know where you’re going?”
Joydeep nodded. “Pomona.”
“Where’s that?”
“It’s one of the Claremont Colleges in California. My brother Vikrant goes to Harvey Mudd. They’re, like, incredibly selective.”
“And you already got in?”
“Early decision.”
“Why’d you pick it?”
“’Cause my brother’s there,” he said, like it was obvious. “My uncle lives out there too, there’s this whole West Coast branch of the Mitra family. They’re in Anaheim, though, so close but like, not too close, you know?”
“You could talk about that on-air,” I said.
“The West Coast Mitras? That would be weird. And why do you care anyway?”
“About the West Coast Mitras?”
“About the show. Why does it matter what I talk about?”
“I’m the producer,” I said. “I’m just … trying to produce.” Though the question was apt—why did I care? The bare minimum would carry us through this. But for some reason I had a weird feeling of wanting to iron out the wrinkles, as Jamie had put it. And he was doing his part, putting the playlists together and in a thoughtful way, not in a random, just search the year and press shuffle kind of way that Joydeep originally suggested. And Sasha had come in today and shown us the social media accounts she had started for Sounds of the Nineties, all of them branded with a logo that she designed herself. They looked pretty legit—substantially more so than the actual show seemed to warrant at the moment.
“Let’s just go with the flow,” Joydeep replied, and that was annoyingly hard to respond to. Like, what can you say to that? Disagree, let’s go against it. Let’s walk this thing upstream.
It was quiet after that. In between links, everyone did their own thing. Sasha worked on content to post. Jamie sat on the couch, a notebook open in his lap, working on next week’s playlist. Next to me, Joydeep was on his phone, typing furiously. Every couple of minutes he would pause, shake his head, tap the screen a couple times, and then begin typing again.
“What are you doing?” I asked finally, because it looked like just the kind of work that was begging to be inquired after.
He looked up at me with a gleam in his eye.
“You know Cat Chat?”
“Yeah…” We had all shared our show themes in class by this point. In honor of the Meridian North Bobcats, one of the groups had titled its show Cat Chat: Judgment-Free Advice for the Bobcat in Need. It was that girl Sammy I had French with sophomore year, her boyfriend Colby, and a couple of other girls. They billed it as a “write-in advice show for students and the community at large.” Joydeep had quietly scoffed when they presented their idea.
“Way to set themselves up to fail,” he had said later.
“I don’t know. It could be fun,” I had replied with a shrug. They were the only group in our class not doing a music-based show. The upside of doing an all-talk show was that you only had to do one hour instead of two. The downside was that you had to talk for basically the whole hour—a couple music breaks were allowed, but the majority of the time had to be talk-based.
Joydeep had just made a face in response, a healthy mix of disgust and contempt.
Right now he said, without a moment’s hesitation, “I’m sending them bogus questions.”
“Why?”
“Because of their mission statement to be totally nonjudgmental. That is bullshit. I will get them to judge something. Also, Colby is my bro. We’re on the soccer team together. We do this kind of thing all the time. Here, listen to this.” He cleared his throat and began reading in an official-sounding voice: “Dear Cat Chat colon Judgment-Free Advice for the Bobcat in Need. I can’t stop eating plastic wrap.”
Sasha let out a snort, and Joydeep’s lips quirked.
“There’s more. From the top: Dear Cat Chat, etc. I can’t stop eating plastic wrap. Sometimes I make food just to wrap it in plastic wrap, so then I can eat the plastic wrap with the food sauce and flavors already on there. I just love it. I call it plastic flavor.” He paused, frowning. “Clear flavor?”
“Invisible flavor,” Sasha said, and Joydeep nodded. I shot Sasha a look and she just shrugged and gave a sheepish smile.
“Perfect. Invisible flavor. I find the texture of the plastic wrap to be…” He made a chef’s-kiss motion with his hand. “Intoxicating. Is this weird? What do you think? Would you ever give it a try? Do you think I should be concerned about the long-term effects on my intestines?”
Sasha let out a snort.
“Sincerely, Gladly Glad-Wrapped in Broad Ripple.” He looked up at us. “What do you think? Should I send it as is? Does it need a little more sizzle?” He didn’t wait for a response. “I’m gonna send it.”
“How do you know they’ll even answer it?” I asked.
“Because they’re desperate for material. No one is sending in questions.”
“Not true,” Sasha said. “I heard part of their first show. They answered questions basically the whole time.”
“Clarification: They answered my questions basically the whole time.”
“You submitted all of those?”
“Sure did.”
“They were normal, though! How to deal with a friend who moved away, what should I tell my little brother about our cat that died. Stuff like that.”
“I had to lull them into a false sense of security. Then, bam! Invisible flavor.” He looked way too pleased with himself. “You might say that I am the invisible component that gives their show flavor.” Then his expression turned to one of disgust. “No question left unanswered. A judgment-free zone. What complete bullshit. I love Colby, but literally no one is more judgmental than him. He once gave Taylor Barnett shit for like two weeks for wearing red pants.”
“What’s wrong with red pants?” Jamie said.
“Nothing. Colby’s just a prick.”
“I thought you said he was your bro.”
“He can’t be both?” Joydeep replied.
I grinned.
9.
ON SATURDAY AFTERNOON I WAS heading downstairs to pick up a package for my mom when the elevator doors opened at the seventh floor, and there was Jamie.
I used to go months at a time without running into him at the Eastman. It was a big building, after all. We didn’t live on the same floor. But I guess when it rains, it pours.
Today he was dressed in black pants and a black dress shirt, an apron slung over one shoulder. His hair still looked as messy as usual, but a little like he had attempted to corral it.
“So what are you … some kind of waiter?” I said with a delivery like it was an actual joke, despite it not being one at all, not even a little bit.
He flashed a quick smile anyway, stepping into the elevator and pressing the “door close” button.
“I work for Pipers. The catering place?”
The Eastman was a historic building, and part of its history was as a wedding venue. There were three ballrooms of varying sizes located off of the lobby—they had formal names, but as kids, we always called them Papa Bear, Mama Bear, and Baby Bear—and a big, glass-roofed atrium, where the ceremonies were usually held.
There was also an in-house wedding planning and catering company called Pipers, which apparently Jamie worked for.
“I thought you worked at that bagel place, though?” I tried sounding casual, like I didn’t know exactly what BAGELS! was, like our mom didn’t used to take us up there on weekends for breakfast when we were younger.
“Yeah, the weekend hours there are just mornings, so I can do both.”
; The elevator doors opened then, and we stepped off into the lobby. Next to the elevator was the Mama Bear ballroom, which was already set up with tables covered in purple cloths. A few people also dressed in black moved around laying place settings.
Jamie paused in front of the ballroom, so I paused too. “It’s good money, if you ever want to…” He trailed off, scratching his head. “Just … They’re usually looking for extra people, especially for spring and summer, so you know … If you’re looking.”
I nodded. “Cool.”
“It’s also kind of fun,” he said. “Seeing the weddings and stuff. Like, it’s cool seeing…”
“What?”
He looked a little embarrassed. “Just … seeing people happy like that.” A shrug. “Anyway, I should…” He gestured to the room.
“Yeah, no. Me too. See you.”
“See you,” he said, and headed off into the ballroom.
I watched the line of his shoulders as he retreated, and was seized suddenly with the memory of him sitting across from me on the school bus in middle school. We used to take up our own row on the ride home after school, sitting with our backs to the windows, facing the aisle and each other. Rose usually sat in the row in front of us, headphones on. Sometimes she’d join in whatever we were talking about, but oftentimes, she kept to herself. You and Jamie are in your own world, she’d say. Seriously, the things you guys talk about sometimes …
And we did talk about all manner of things, dissecting movies and shows we’d both seen, talking about teachers and school stuff, trying to think up the weirdest hypothetical situations.
“Would you rather be a clown or marry a clown?” I asked one afternoon. Jamie had pondered this as the bus rolled to a stop and a kid near the front headed off.
“Clowns make people happy,” he replied eventually. “I would be the clown.”
“Clowns are terrifying, though.”
“Maybe it’s like fifty-fifty, happy to terrifying.”
“Like terrifying half the time, or terrifying to half of all people?”
“Second one,” he said. “I guess I’d try to avoid the terrified half, and stick to the happy half. What about you?”
“Neither.”
“You can’t neither this, that’s not allowed.”
“I guess I’d be the clown? But I don’t like the idea that half of all people would hate me. And I feel like it’s at least half. Maybe more like seventy-thirty.”
“Then maybe you should marry the clown.”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that. They’re terrifying,” I replied, and Jamie had grinned.
10.
WE WENT TO THE DANTIST’S for a movie night that evening, me and Mom and Sidney. Sidney and I went downstairs to the basement “media room” after dinner to check out Dan’s collection of DVDs and pick one for us all to watch. Dan was fairly behind-the-times with respect to streaming services.
The DVDs sat on shelves lining the far wall. On the opposite side of the room was Dan’s video-making setup. He had an easel where his latest project was displayed (a bouquet of flowers in a glass vase) and a little table with paints and brushes and stuff on it. There was a camera set up on a tripod and one of those lights with a white umbrella behind it, like a real photographer might have.
“There’s a lot of weird stuff in here,” Sidney murmured, running her fingers along the titles on the shelf. She sputtered a shocked laugh. “The Big Easy? Ew. Ach. Blech. Yuck.”
“It’s a nickname for New Orleans,” I said.
She pulled out the case. “Why does the cover look like that, then?”
I shrugged. “It’s probably about people having a bunch of sex. In New Orleans.”
Sidney recoiled, shoving the DVD back in the case. “I don’t wanna watch Dan’s sex movie.”
“It’s not really a sex movie. I just said that.”
“We can’t risk it.”
“If it were bad, Mom wouldn’t let us watch it.”
“Should we bring it up there and see what happens?”
“No. Pick something normal.”
“You’re supposed to be picking too.”
“I trust your judgment,” I said, though that was patently absurd. Sidney did have her wise moments, but once when she was younger, she ate half a bottle of tropical fruit Tums because she thought they were candy.
I wandered over to the easel while Sidney reviewed our options. I peered at the half-finished painting, the little squiggles and segments with tiny sky-blue numbers inside them. It was actually really detailed. I wondered how long it took Dan to do one of these things, how long it took to get a video together.
I stepped over to the camera. For as much as Dan eschewed Netflix and the like, he seemed pretty cutting edge when it came to his video technology. The camera looked totally professional. I reached for it to get a better look, but it was attached to the top of the tripod. A little lever was positioned to the left, and I tried to slide it to release the camera. It was stuck, though, so I had to give it a good bit of force.
But I didn’t know the lever would release the top of the tripod attached to the camera, and that with the jolt of force, both pieces would shift and fall …
I fumbled for the camera, but it was too late. It hit the ground—the concrete underflooring—with a loud crack.
“What’d you do?” Sidney looked up sharply, a copy of WALL-E in one hand, The Da Vinci Code in the other.
My stomach sank as I crouched down to pick up the camera. The back screen was cracked, and the lens had popped off.
Sidney came over, still holding the DVDs.
“Oh, bummer,” she said in that sort of sibling way that’s part aggrieved for you, part relieved that they’re not the one who did the thing.
“Yeah.” I wondered dully if I should leave it exactly where it was, undisturbed like a crime scene, so the damage could be assessed in full.
But I just straightened up with the parts in hand.
When I emerged from the basement into the kitchen, Mom and Dan were loading the dishwasher. They were mid-conversation, and Dan turned to us with a smile on his face, which slipped when he saw the camera.
“Oh, Nina,” Mom said. A familiar chorus.
“Sorry,” I said weakly. “There was … kind of an accident.”
“Nina didn’t mean to break it,” Sidney said helpfully, really cementing that she had nothing to do with it.
Dan just took the pieces, inspected the damage to the screen and the lens, and then nodded thoughtfully.
“Well, you know, these things happen, don’t they? I’ll send it back to the company, get a quote for repairs.”
“What about your videos?” Mom said. “You’re right in the middle of one.”
“Oh, that’ll be all right. I used to shoot them on my laptop, you know. I can just set it up on the table—it has the camera built right in. The film quality might not be as nice, but I think it’ll be just fine. Helps to have the footage right there in the program. Don’t have to mess around with importing and all that. That DSLR footage takes ages to get onto the computer.”
“Sorry,” I said again. “I can help to … I’ll pay. To fix it.”
“Don’t worry about that.” Dan waved a hand. “We’ll get it all sorted out.” He then turned to Sidney, who was still holding the DVDs. “WALL-E or Da Vinci?” he said brightly. “What’ll it be?”
* * *
“Those cameras aren’t cheap,” Mom said on the way home.
“I know.”
I already felt terrible. Guilty and also, like, irrationally annoyed at Dan’s niceness? It made no sense, but it grated, that I could be shitty and careless and he could be so nice about it. Maybe that’s why I felt compelled to add, “I didn’t do it on purpose,” even though picking an argument with Mom was not a super reasonable thing to be doing.
“I didn’t say you did,” Mom said. “I just … wish you would be a little more careful sometimes.”
Snapping I am careful! didn’t
seem to be the kind of thing that a truly careful person would do, so I held back and instead kept silent the rest of the ride, even as Sidney tried to spark a discussion about the movie.
I googled it later anyway, even though I knew Mom was right—those cameras were expensive, and it wouldn’t be cheap to fix.
I felt another irrational surge of annoyance at Dan, seeing the prices online. Why did he have to have such a nice camera in the first place? More to the point, who told him to be a fifty-something-year-old YouTuber anyway?
I shut the top of Rose’s laptop and fell back against my pillows. Rose was still out—sans computer, clearly—and Sidney was showering, so our room was empty for a moment, silent in the way that it could never really be silent at the Eastman—the sound of the shower, the TV on low in the next room, the thump of the dryer, and the whoosh of the elevator.
I reached for my phone. Opened up a text and added Jamie.
We had all already texted for Sounds of the Nineties planning purposes anyway. So this wasn’t that weird, just texting him. And anyway, he told me I should let him know if I was interested:
Hey who would I talk to for a job at Pipers?
11.
PARIS AT NIGHT: VALUE SWAP!!!! Published by TheArtfulHeart, January 30
… So now that we’ve got our colors arranged, it’s time to start in on our foundational work. My apologies for the lower film quality today … Hopefully you can still catch all the details here.
You know, this reminds me of when we first started on this journey together, before I got my, uh, recording setup upgraded, if you’ve been watching since then. If you have, I sure do appreciate you. If you’ve just popped by, well, I sure appreciate you too. Any length of time you’ve chosen to spend with me is meaningful to me. It’s about the art, but it’s also about the human connection, isn’t it? We wouldn’t be here without that.
12.
THURSDAY ROLLED AROUND, AND I made my way to the studio for our 1992 broadcast. Jamie was programming the playlist when I arrived.
“Hey,” he said, glancing up as I dropped down into one of the rolling chairs.
