Going Up?

I am running so late. I race down the sidewalk on 5th street, hurrying towards the large skyscraper in the distance.

I finally got an interview with Holman Publishing, and I can't believe that I'm running late.

My heels click rapidly as I trot towards the building.

When I finally make it, I stop at the door attempting to catch my breath.

I pull out my inhaler.

Shake. Pump. Breathe.

I walk into the double doors that are being held open by a man in a nice suit.

This is his job I think. He just stands there holding a door open.

I stifle a laugh as I think about what my dad would have to say about this.

"Are you trying to air-condition the whole neighborhood?"

Focus. It's 9:17

My ADHD is running wild this morning.

I walk up to the desk.

"I have a 9:00 interview," I say sweetly, embarrassed that I'm late.

She looks up at me.

"Amelia Chase?"

I nod.

"Take the elevators to the 22nd floor. I'll let the receptionist up there know that you're on your way up."

“Thank you so much,” I manage, as I turn quickly to the elevator, whose doors are about to close.

I’m not going to make it, but I walk briskly praying that God loves me a little extra today.

And I guess he does, because an arm reaches from inside, preventing the doors from closing.

Thank you, Jesus.

I walk in grateful, and my eyes meet the face that belongs to the arm that saved the doors.

He has bright blue eyes and messy brown hair. His clothes are wrinkled, and he’s dressed like a slob.

I catch myself staring.

“Um, thanks, for, um, the door.”

He smiles.

“No problem, going up?”

I nod and stare at the binder in my hands.

This holds my future.

Literally.

My parents, we disappointed last May after I graduated when I told them I wasn’t going to college, but instead was becoming a freelance writer.

I saw the hurt in their eyes, as they realized that all those years of private school, tutoring, and late nights studying had gone to waste.

I cannot disappoint them. 

I will make my parents proud.

I watch as the numbers go up slowly.

10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 14

“Wait, why are we stopping?” I ask panicked.

Slobbish Guy looks at me like I’m crazy.

“Someone’s getting on.”

I feel so embarrassed. I panic too easily sometimes.

A woman with a coffee mug gets on.

“What floor?” Slobbish Guy asks.

“Seventeen.” She replies as she continues to quietly sip her coffee.

15, 16, 17

The door opens, and she steps off without a word.

18, 19.

I hear a crash, and then the lights go out.

“Oh my gosh, oh my gosh!”

This cannot be happening to me.

Why me?

The emergency light comes on, casting as red haze in the elevator.

I skirt to the doors, pressing any number my finger finds.

“Can you calm down?” Slobbish Guy asks nonchalantly.

I turn fiercely towards him. “Who are you to tell me to calm down? I have an interview. Judging by the way you’re dressed, you probably don’t have one and never will!”

That was a low, low blow but I can’t help it.

Not only am I late, but I’m severely claustrophobic. I can’t take it here.

I retreat back to the corner.

“I wasn’t trying to tell you what to do, I just didn’t want you to panic. You know these things only hold so much oxygen.” He says.

“What?” 

I run back to the doors, now pounding on them.

“I can’t die here, I’m too young!” I say franticly.

He laughs a deep, loud laugh. I turn around to look at him, his face illuminated by the red lights. He’s holding his sides laughing like I’m the funniest thing in the world.

“What is so funny?” I demand.

He stops laughing.

“You’re not that smart, are you? Do you know how many vents are in here? We’ll never run out of O₂. I was joking.”

My face gets hot, and once again, I retreat to my corner. I slide down to the floor.

“I didn’t realize that I’m just super claustrophobic,” I say quietly.

He looks over at me.

“You’re not going to like hurl or anything are you?” 

I laugh, but I don’t mean it. I just think it’s funny that that’s the first thing that comes to his head.

“No, I’m not.”

We stay silent for the next five minutes until I remember what I said to him earlier.

I need to apologize.

“Hey, so, um, yeah, I am so sorry for what I said to you earlier, I was, um, I was upset, and I really shouldn’t have said that to you, but um yeah, I’m sorry.” I manage to say.

He’s sitting with his knees to his chest, and his face in his knees.

“I deserved it.” He says, slightly muffled.

I wait for him to continue with some backstory, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he asks, “Why is that binder so important?”

“Why would you think that it’s important?”

He smiles, “You’re holding it like a baby.”

I immediately relax my grip on my worn out binder.

“I’m being interviewed or was supposed to be. It’s my manuscript.”

“What’s it about?” He asks, scooting an almost unnoticeable inch closer to me.

“It’s a fiction, about a girl.”

He smirks, “I hope you weren’t planning to say that at your interview.”

“No, I just don’t want to jinx it, Okay?” 

He doesn’t stop, “Can you read me the first chapter?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No!”

“I’ll trade you a bag of Skittles.”

That catches my attention.

“How do you know I like Skittles?”

He reaches over and touches the charm bracelet on my wrist. 

“You only have Skittles charms on this.” He says as he rolls my wrist over in his hands looking at all of the different color Skittles on it. I bought it a few years ago 

“They represent every single flavor I’ve had,” I explain.

“Oh,” he replies. He lets go of my wrist. “So is that a yes?”

“Depends on what flavor and size you have.” 

“Bright Side, in party size.” He says and pulls a large yellow bag of Skittles out of his backpack.

My mouth hangs open. 

“Why do you have those?”

He places the now open bag between up and smiles. 

He rolls up his pant leg to reveal a charm bracelet. The same one I’m wearing.

“I like tasting rainbows too.” He says, and we both laugh.

I take a handful out and shovel them into my mouth.

“Mmm, they never get old,” I say. “I’m Amelia by the way.”

“Jackson,” He says.

I open my binder to the first page.

“It’s called Ink & Paper.”

I take a breathe and begin reading the first chapter.

“I’ve been reading since I was three years old. I remember on my fourth birthday when I unwrapped my very own copy of Dick and Jane. I remember in third grade, when the school librarian didn’t know what to do with me when I told her that I’d finished all the books, including those on a twelfth-grade reading level. I remember when every year for my birthday I would ask for books, and only books. That is where it started. That is where I found my purpose in life.

  Writing is all I know. While most people have talents like singing or dancing, mine is writing. It just comes naturally for me. Give me a plot and I’ve got a story. Give me a character, and I’ve got a life. I think it’s my huge imagination. I spin stories like spiders spin webs, they just come out.

  This is my passion. This is the only thing I’m good at. I’m failing in almost every subject except for English. My parents don’t understand why. They think I’m chasing wild dreams. They just don’t know that this is all I am. I will never be the doctor or lawyer they imagined. I can’t tell them this, of course, it would break their heart. So, I lie. I tell them that I’ll bring my grades up, while my best friends ‘help’ me with my homework. I tell them that I want to be a pediatrician, while I steal away to my room at night working on my novels. I tell them that I’m happy, even though I’m so sad. I tell them that I’m okay when I’m very far from that.”

“Wow, that was, just wow,” Jackson says.

I smile, “You like it like honestly, you think its good?”

“Duh! Like this is deep, but good!”

I laugh, “Well hopefully Mr. Holman likes it.”

“I’m sure he will.” He says.

I’m about to ask him if he wants to hear more when the lights come on.

I stand up quickly, and my binder drops to the floor. Papers go everywhere. I must’ve accidentally opened up the rings.

“Oh no!” We scramble to pick up the papers, but it’s not going to help, they’re all mixed up now.

“Can this day possibly get any worst?”

Ding!

The elevator doors open, revealing two firemen. 

“You guys okay?” One of them asks.

“Yeah,” Jackson replies.

My papers are crumpled and shoved into my binder. I walk out of the elevator defeated. 

I slowly approach the desk. 

“I had an interview at 9:00, but the elevator stopped, is it too late?”

She types something into her computer.

“Mr. Holman actually hasn’t gotten her yet, but I’ll walk you to his office.”

She gets up.

Maybe I’ll have time to fix my papers before he gets here.

She unlocks a door and motions for me to go inside.

“He’ll be here shortly.”

I sit down and begin the tedious task of sorting my papers. At least I know my story well enough to know which chapters the pages are from.

I’ve gotten a fourth of them sorted when the door opens.

Jackson walks in, now clad in a suit and tie, with a mug of coffee in his hands.

“Oh, hello, did my receptionist let you in?”

“Jackson?”

He smiles, “Yeah?”

“Wait, no, oh my gosh, you’re Mr. Holman?”

I’d thought his face looked familiar earlier.

“Yes, I am.”

I look back at my binder. 

“I might need to reschedule due to this,” I say motioning to the mess in my lap.

He sits on the front of the desk.

“There’s no need Amelia, I’ve heard enough remember?”

“Oh, yeah,” I reply.

He reaches into the desk and pulls out a manilla folder and hands it to me.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“Your contract.”

“But, you haven’t even read all of it.”

He smiles, “You had a strong beginning, plus anyone who loves Skittles like me has to be good.”

I laugh. 

“Do you have a pen I can use?” ask reading over the contract.

He picks up one but hesitates before he gives it to me.

“Under one condition,” He says, “We have to finish our Bright sides together soon.”

I laugh, this time from the heart.

“It’s a done deal,” I say, and I sign my name.

“Welcome to Holman Publishing!”