“Why didn’t you get something both of us would like?”
He shrugs. “I was hungry after my afternoon workout, so I ate early. I wanted to treat you. I know you’re having a rough time.”
Ohhhhhhhhhhhh. Right. I see now. Feed the menstruating bear, and you might stay off her shit list. If you’re lucky and don’t make any sudden moves.
His thoughtfulness should be endearing, but I’m too strung out to be coddled. It’s suffocating.
When I say nothing to his veiled reference to my “rough time,” he returns to the previous topic, one I’d hoped he’d forgotten. “I can ask some of the guys if they’d show up and sign autographs. We could probably swing it in the afternoon, after practice, since it’ll be the middle of the week.”
“You guys are already doing that for Arnold next month.”
“So? We don’t mind. It’s fun.”
“I want to do something different. It’s a job fair, not a meet-n-greet.”
“Sometimes you need to get people in the door. Everyone wants to meet NFL players.”
No longer hungry, I toss my chopsticks in one of the half-empty trays and fall back into the couch cushions. “If everyone were as enthusiastic about getting jobs and working, think how great this country could be.”
His jaw twitches. “It was just an idea. Shit.”
“Well, I have my own ideas,” I lie.
“Great!” He doesn’t sound that happy about it, though. I’m glad he doesn’t pick up that pad of paper and look at that lame list or ask me to share any of my nonexistent concepts.
“Don’t pout, all right? I can’t handle it right now.”
“I’m not pouting!”
“You are. You do it so much, you don’t even realize when you’re doing it anymore.”
He snorts. “Whatever.”
While he most definitely pouts, I stare at the unwatched film playing in front of us. What would someone in a movie do right now? Rocky would jump some rope and run up and down some stairs. Jerry Maguire would hop on a plane to scout the next big thing in football. Dolly Parton would type a kick-ass memohhhhmygosh.
“Oh, that’s it!”
“You know, I’m just trying to be sup—”
“Shhh! I’m being brilliant.”
He bites the inside of his cheek. “Ewkay…”
Sitting forward, I place my hands on either side of my head, as if to hold the ideas in place. “I know what the theme of the job fair is going to be.”
“Theme? Like, ‘getting jobs’?”
“No, something better.” I drop my arms. “Colin suggested having a theme, and at the time, I thought, ‘Whatever.’ But all the job fairs we’ve hosted in the past—including the one I’m helping Arnold organize next month—have been so boring! And our answer to that is, ‘Get some football players to sign autographs,’ or ‘Give away free food,’ or ‘Have a raffle for a stupid piece of shit nobody wants.’”
“I’m in,” Jet quips.
“But that has nothing to do with getting a job. Or finding a career.”
“Nope.”
“So we have to make job hunting, itself, fun.”
“Mmmm… Passin’ out résumés and filling out applications. My favorite pastime.”
I swat his shoulder.
“Ow!”
“Be quiet and listen.”
“I’m listening!”
I jab a thumb at the TV screen. “What if, for each employer’s booth, we have a picture—or several—of movie characters with the jobs that employer is offering?”
He closes one eye. “Um, give me an example.”
“So, like, for the Highway Patrol, we’ll have life-sized cardboard cutouts of famous cops and forensic scientists from movies.”
“I can’t think of any movie cops who aren’t dirty,” he says with a wince. “Or bumbling idiots. Like in the Police Academy movies. That’s probably not what you had in mind.”
I wave him off. “I don’t need you to think of any for me; I can think of a ton. And lawyers and doctors and teachers and—”
Jet nods at Dolly. “Secretaries?”
“Administrative assistants, yes! And chemists. Scientists. Politicians. Chefs. Writers. Lots of writers! Journalists.”
“Sounds like you have a winner of any idea.” He busies himself consolidating the half-eaten sushi rolls into fewer trays and stacking them for eventual transport to the refrigerator.
“I have to implement it, and it might be a huge pain in the ass, but I still have enough time. The marketing campaigns will practically write themselves.”
“Great. See? You’ve got this.”
Hit by yet another thought, I bolt to my feet and run around the front of the coffee table, between it and the TV, where I pace, kicking aside my discarded pen and paper. “And something else! Career planning is similar to film composition, you know?” Opening my arms to their full extension and stopping to face him, like a lecturing professor, I say, “The wide or establishing shot is your long-term plan, your five-, ten-, and twenty-year goals.” I move my hands closer together. “The medium shot is what you’re doing to get there: college, training, blah, blah, blah.” I frame my face with my hands, Madonna-Vogue-style. “And the close-ups are of you, getting the jobs and advancing through your career with promotions, until you make it to the top!”
Jet watches me, pausing in his housekeeping. All traces of the pout are finally gone. “I like it. That’s super-clever.”
“I know! I mean, thanks. The theme’s tag line…” I sweep my hand in front of me, plastering it on an invisible marquee. “‘Be the Star of Your Life.’ Yes! That’s it. Nailed it!” I pump my arm twice close to my side.
“Hey, that’s my touchdown move,” Jet mock objects, laughing. He stands next to me.
High on inspiration, I throw myself at him. At the last second, he realizes what I’m doing and grabs me before I knock us both over.
“Oof! Whoa. Hey.” He chuckles into my face and pushes a strand of my hair from my eyes. “We need to practice our end zone celebration. That was almost a disaster.”
“Sorry about that.” I gulp. “And I’m sorry about that other stuff, too. It was mean. You were only trying to help. I’m a real jerk when I’m stressed out. Good thing I don’t care about too
