A car pulls to the curb. Alice starts walking toward it.
“Well,” she says, “the acting was really good.”
I nod and get in the back seat in silence. The driver was playing something slow, quiet, but quickly switches to a fast pop song as we settle in. Alice leans forward and talks to him. I lean back and close my eyes. Now I know all the Oscar buzz wasn’t just an exaggeration. I don’t know how he does it, but Marius Canet can really act. Maybe it’s a fluke, like first-movie luck or something, but I don’t think so.
God. How do I talk to someone so talented without freaking out?
“Don’t overthink it,” Alice says, snapping me out of my thoughts. She’s looking down at her phone. “It’s just a movie.”
But it’s not. At least, it doesn’t feel like just a movie. Not to me. Not anymore. It’s getting harder to breathe. I force short breaths through my nose.
“It was really good,” I say. Gulp a deep breath. Try to feel like I’ll be okay. “You could tell it was written by a white dude, though. Because Marius’s character…didn’t act Black.”
“How do you act Black?”
“You know what I mean,” I say, even though it does sound kind of wrong. “I mean there wasn’t really context. Like, I get that Art Springfield is white and he’s playing the father, so they were trying to imply that Peter is mixed. But there was still stuff that didn’t make sense for Black characters, like his mother calling the police on him for no reason.”
“Oh.” Alice leans her head back against the seat. “Yeah, you’re right. And the way he yelled at them in the beginning. Imagine yelling at Mom like that?”
“She’d probably murder me.”
“Not probably,” Alice says. “We know she’d murder you.”
I glance over. She’s grinning. It’s the first smile we’ve shared in a while. I’ll take it to the press conference for good luck.
@JosieTheJournalist: fear of public speaking isn’t silly, it’s totally warranted
I’ve done most of my journalism from school or our living room, calling people or spending tons of time on Google. I’ve never actually been around so many journalists doing their jobs before.
You could almost mistake it for a business meeting, except for the fact that no one is wearing a suit or carrying a briefcase. Some of them type frantically on phones or chat with one another. A security guard at the door checks press passes. I force myself to breathe.
“Come on,” Alice says. “How long are we going to wait out here?”
I try my best to ignore her, but it’s pretty difficult when she’s right next to me.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I’m not supposed to go in until we meet Ms. Jacobson—”
“Josephine?”
I blink. In front of me stands a white lady with dark brown hair and round glasses.
I don’t respond, so Alice nudges me. I let out a little squeak.
“Yes,” I say. “That’s me. Josephine. Or, well, I go by Josie.”
“It’s so nice to meet you,” Ms. Jacobson says, sticking out her hand. “You look just like your picture.”
We were supposed to send in pictures with our initial applications, so I chose my senior picture. I just look like me but in a cap and gown. It isn’t really anything special.
“Oh,” I say anyway. “Thanks.”
“I read the pieces you submitted with your application,” Ms. Jacobson continues, reaching into her purse. “And they were absolutely amazing. You’re so talented.”
My tongue seems to be stuck to the roof of my mouth. Between the compliments, meeting a new person, and having to go to a press conference only a few hours after touching down in California, I think my brain is going haywire or something. I can feel Alice looking at the two of us like we’re gigantic nerds.
“All right,” Ms. Jacobson says, pulling out a folder. “I know we already emailed about the itinerary and travel plans, but I wanted to make sure you got a physical copy of everything.”
I take the folder and flip it open. There’s a page labeled “Itinerary,” listing cities and plane times and hotels. I’m supposed to interview Marius Canet tomorrow—gulp—and once in almost every city. There’s another copy of the contract Mom and I signed, with a deadline of December 20 in bold letters at the top, then a guide to asking questions and writing stories. Part of me wants to laugh at it. The other part thinks I could really use some help with the talking part.
Alice jabs me again. Her elbows are pointy.
“Thank you,” I say, looking at the folder instead of at Ms. Jacobson. “This was nice of you.”
“Well,” she says, pulling at her purse straps, “it’s part of my job. And so is answering any questions you might have. If anything goes wrong, you can text or call me. Do you still have my number?”
I nod. She emailed it to me last week and I already programmed it into my phone. There have been a couple of moments when I wanted to text her—when I was wondering what to wear, what to say, who to hang out with. But I figured she’d find me annoying if I texted her a million times before I even got my first assignment.
“Good.” She smiles, glancing between Alice and me. “And I already got approval for your sister to join you as a chaperone, so there shouldn’t be much of a problem. Do you need anything else before I go?”
My stomach drops. “You’re not staying?”
“Well, no,” she says. “I spoke to your mother about this
