Off the Record by Camryn Garrett (read more books TXT) 📕

right,” the moderator says. “Let’s pass the microphone over, shall we?”

Someone shoves the microphone into my hand. Alice forces me to stand. Everything feels too hot, even though there aren’t any lights shining on me. Art Springfield is looking at me, which is so weird, because I’ve always seen him on TV when my parents were watching his movies. They’re all looking at me—not just the people on the dais, but all the journalists, too.

“Um.” I do something wrong with the microphone, and it makes this horrible shrieking sound. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

My hands are sweating. It feels like the microphone is going to slip out of my hand.

“Um,” I say again. Grace Gibbs leans forward like she can’t hear me—or, worse, like she’s trying to get a good look at me. “So. Um, I guess I was wondering, um, how Peter’s Blackness factors into his journey, for you?”

Grace Gibbs looks at Art Springfield, who looks at the director. Penny Livingstone quirks her mouth to the side. After a second, Marius Canet pulls one of the microphones closer to him, but then Dennis Bardell, the director, speaks into his own.

“I actually don’t think I know what you mean,” he says. “Could you expand on that?”

Oh God. I swallow. How do I expand on that? I don’t even know why I asked it. I should’ve asked my question about high school, even if it made me seem basic.

“So, like,” I say, shifting on my feet, “uh, if you watch the movie—”

“I think we all have,” Art Springfield says. Everyone laughs. I try to join in, but it sounds more like I’m panting.

“Yeah,” I say. “Right. But, um, Peter and his mom are the only Black people living in their town, so I was sort of thinking that maybe that would add more tension, and even if we don’t explicitly see it on-screen, that could add to the way that, um, you know, the actors would play the—”

“I’m so sorry,” the moderator says. “I would love to let you finish the question, but the cast has another event right after this that they can’t be late for.”

“Oh,” I say. It echoes throughout the room.

I feel tears in my eyes, but I’m not going to cry. I’m not going to cry. I’m not a baby. I force myself to sit down and ignore the pitying looks Grace Gibbs and Marius Canet give me from the dais. I ignore the way Alice stares at me like she can’t believe I made such a fool of myself.

“Well, everyone,” the moderator continues, “let’s give it up for the cast and crew for being here!”

Everyone around me claps, but I don’t. I’m too busy trying not to melt into a pool of embarrassment.

@JosieTheJournalist: oui oui mon ami i’m lafayette and i took spanish in school instead of french

According to the itinerary, I’m supposed to interview Marius today, but I have no idea how to get through it without making an even bigger fool of myself.

“Seriously,” Alice says, already waiting on the curb for our Uber. “I’m sure it won’t be as bad as last night was.”

I want to say something like Gee, thanks, but I can’t really breathe. I settle for glaring at her instead.

Last night, after the embarrassment that was the press conference, I lied to Mom and Dad on the phone and told them everything was going great. I bounced between wanting to look over my questions and wanting to ignore them and pretend that today wasn’t happening.

I finger my notebook in my bag. I’ve been buying the same type ever since I was thirteen, a classic black Moleskine, and the familiar sight has been with me through everything. Hopefully it’ll bring me some sort of luck now.

When the car stops fifteen minutes later, I still can’t breathe. I hate when it gets like this. I forget all the coping skills my therapist or guidance counselors or social workers have ever taught me. I’m just there, a tight ball of intricate knots, and I’m not sure how to untie myself.

Sometimes I try to imagine myself in the future, weeks or months from now, far away from this moment. Where will I be in six months? Will I know who I’m rooming with at Spelman? Will it be easier to breathe?

The car has pulled up in front of a line of stores. Alice doesn’t hesitate. She’s out of the car before I can grab my bag. I force a breath, but it’s shallow. Then I follow her out the door.

I can’t help but think about the negatives—that I’m already sweating, that I look backward with my long messenger bag at my side, that my tummy is already showing. Mom is always talking about how my shirts aren’t big enough for me. I’m not sure if it’s because of my boobs or stomach or both, but my stomach tends to peek out when I stand.

I pull my leggings up. They never stay, but I still have to try.

Alice stands at the café door.

“Just texted Mom,” she says in a tone suggesting I should’ve texted Mom. “She says to have fun and call when we get back to the hotel.”

I nod. I can’t speak. Alice frowns, opening the door.

My eyes aren’t sure where to go. Inside is like Starbucks on a slow day. It smells like coffee beans and wood. A few chairs are open, but many are filled. There are abstract paintings on the walls—people twisted up into odd shapes—and pan flute music playing. I look everywhere except at the people sitting down.

“There,” Alice says, nodding her head forward. “Okay, try not to look so nervous. And stop staring. Just look normal. And don’t say sort of or like when you’re asking questions. Be confident in yourself.”

She says it as if it’s easy.

I hold my breath and turn my head half an inch. Once I see him, I can’t look away. He’s getting up. There’s an easy smile on