Jenna was left-handed. Her wrist cupped over in a claw and she held the pencil like a murder weapon. She had a neat, angled script that stood tall in a mix of lowercase and capital letters. Jack focused completely, his tongue piercing his lips ever so subtly, like his hero’s, like Jordan’s. Will scratched away in a tight, tiny, twelve-point font. Whitney wrote like she was icing a cake. The lightest loops and verticals. Jenna marveled aloud that Whitney could get any of her lead to stick, as she’d already torn through two of the wax-paper napkins.
“Whit?” Will said when time was up.
“I still don’t want to go first.”
“I’ll go first,” Jack said. “I didn’t know how many to do?”
“I’m sure whatever you’ve got is the exact right amount,” Will said.
Jack held his napkin to his nose so he could read his scrawl.
“Okay,” he said, stuffing the smile back into his face, like a seven-year-old steadying to present a science project. “I believe in the jump shot,” he began. “The pick-and-roll. The alley-oop. I believe in grilled chicken. And fried chicken. And chicken à l’orange…”
Will and Jenna burst out laughing, and Jack raised a long index finger to quiet them, to signal that he was just getting started.
“…I believe in the Loop, the lake, the Bulls, the Bears. I believe it’s better when teams win titles at home rather than on the road. I believe that Wrigley Field is probably the most important structure on earth. I believe in Christopher Nolan. And the Batman with Heath Ledger. I believe in brown-haired girls—and blonde-haired girls who are Jewish. I believe in Breaking Bad. I believe in big beds. I believe in imported cheeses and meats. I believe in the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost—at least for my mom’s sake. I believe in America. I believe in basketball still. And…” He looked up. “That’s it, that’s as far as I got.”
They whooped. They’d been smiling the whole time. They couldn’t believe it. He’d taken it so seriously.
“Holy shit,” Will said. “I wrote down, like, five things.”
“Look at that stack,” Jenna said. “He went through an entire napkin dispenser.”
“See what I mean?” Will said. “You’re hired!”
“What do you do again?” Jack said.
“Don’t worry about it,” Will said. “Follow any path besides mine.”
“All righty, then,” Jack said. “Who’s up?”
They were silent. Jack grabbed an olive pick in the shape of a plastic sword and dropped it from his height onto the table. The blade pointed to Whitney.
Will looked at her and jutted out his lower lip expectantly.
“I don’t want to go,” she said. “Mine’s stupid compared to that.”
“Nobody cares!” Will said.
“C’mon,” Jack said.
“He’s right, literally nobody cares,” Jenna said, flat.
Whitney looked at her, put off, then stared at her napkin, then stared at Will.
“Whitney,” Jack said, doing his best Susan Sarandon, “What do you believe in, then?”
“Well,” she said, seeing no way out but through, “I believe in the Met…”—she looked up to clarify—“…the museum, not the baseball team. I believe in the essays of Joan Didion. I believe in the paintings of Helen Frankenthaler and Lee Krasner. I believe in Julia Louis-Dreyfus, Elisabeth Moss, and Nora Ephron. I believe in Shondaland. I believe that the television shows of Aaron Sorkin and David Milch are—what’s Costner’s line?—self-indulgent, overrated crap. I believe in The Daily Mail. I believe in Us Weekly. I believe in The New York Post and TMZ. I believe in Ninth Street Espresso, Momofuku Noodle Bar, autumn in New York, and the MoMA corporate rate. I believe in MTV reality programming. I believe in dogs that look like their owners. I believe in Lorde and Cat Power. I believe in barre classes, even though they’re getting a little basic. I believe in RBG—and Hillary, still. And I, uh, I believe Save the Cat! ruined a generation of Hollywood screenwriters.”
She looked up, a snapping to. She’d resisted the wave, then ridden it into shore until the words on her napkin ran out. They looked as though they weren’t certain she was through. But Will was smiling. Hearts were spilling out of his eyes like coins from a jackpot.
It was halftime. They killed the bottle. Jenna flipped a euro and told Will to call it in the air. Will lost.
“There’s a lot of pressure,” Whitney said, “given that you proposed it. That you must’ve thought this through before. That you weren’t coming to it blank like the rest of us.”
“Honestly?” Will said. “I’ve never had the opportunity. I’ve never actually gone through with it. So lower your expectations. It’s as impromptu as all of yours, and a tenth as well-executed.”
“I can’t wait till you get fired for harassment when you try to impose this on an applicant,” Whitney said, laughing loosely for the first time since they’d started.
“They’ll be doing me a favor,” Will said.
“C’mon, get on with it,” Whitney said, rolling her eyes.
Will cleared his throat as a joke.
“Ready?” he said. It was all for Whitney at this point, it was just the two of them again. “I believe in the taco, the burrito, the tostada, and free chips when you sit down. I believe in point breaks, grommets, and beaches in Baja. I believe in the Pacific Ocean and palm trees and the Sela del Mar pier. I believe in L.A. people who live on the East Coast and East Coast people who live in L.A. I believe that California can secede from the Union but shouldn’t. I believe that if it does, New York should turn into the capital from The Hunger Games. I believe in good governance, due process, and the Ninth Circuit. I believe that libel-law litigation is out of hand. I believe in William Goldman scripts. I believe in women who make way more money than men. I believe in summer-dress season in New York. Especially in the East Village. Especially at Young Lawyers happy hours…” He smirked without looking up and could feel the pleasant heat of
