Page 29 of Your Kiss Is On My List

They’re like ghosts. I have only three people there. My dad, my grandmother who passed away when I was six, and now Trey. I resisted relegating him to the ghostly space inside me for the past three years, keeping him alive and allowing more hope than I should have if the stabbing pain through my chest is any indication.

I reach the communications building, already familiar with it from my visits to the studio, and enter the main door this time with a small trickle of other early-bird students. Shit, students here at SPU are more serious than at NYU, more ambitious early birds than I would have expected. Taking out my phone again, to change my alarm, making it thirty minutes earlier, I sneak another look at my texts and the lack of red dots shouldn’t surprise me. I turned the sound down to vibrate only and as I push through the door into the high-ceilinged lobby of the new, yet traditional-looking building, I shove the phone into my pocket, cursing my stupid hope for a reprieve, for a do-over of last night, for something to miraculously be different today.

For Trey to have a change of heart and track me down. Though I don’t know why he would. I was the one who tracked him down after the three-year ghosting. He apologized, but he hadn’t made the first move, hadn’t missed me enough while I was out of sight. And it’s no wonder if the attention he gets from Summer and every other girl in sight of him tells the story. Crap.

Finding the door wide open, I stride into my first class of the day with Professor Augustus Dooley and when I spot him at the front of the room, I pick up my pace and my smile rises from the gloom of my morose thoughts. He greets me with his signature grin and I wave as I drop my backpack front and center of the smallish classroom of no more than thirty seats. He comes out from behind his desk and gives me a hug.

“My favorite student—don’t tell Heather I said that.” I laugh and the momentary lightness blankets the sad turmoil but doesn’t erase it, and I wonder how long I can go on with that unresolved trouble spoiling my insides. This has never happened to me before. I’m the eternal optimist. Dooley inspects me at arm’s length.

“What’s the matter? Tell Uncle Dooley—or is this more than a two-minute problem?” I shake my head, unsure what to say, then decide on the truth.

“Trey and I broke up.” My tragic voice almost breaks and I scare myself with the intensity of emotions that threaten to erupt in the form of a torrent of tears. The panic on Dooley’s face as if he’s worried about having to console me almost makes me laugh-cry, but I take in a deep ragged breath and push it all down. I’ll be all right. I always am.

“Shit, hon. Let’s save this for after class.” He squeezes my hand and glances around at the room filling up. “Crazy early birds,” he mutters. “I gotta get started. Hang in there.” His voice is firm and reassuring and I grasp onto that, attempting to shift tracks like a giant unwieldy locomotive from my trouble with Trey to my career. It’s what matters most, doesn’t it? I need to be independent and successful. I need to be able to count on myself because clearly, I’m the only one I can count on.

Except for Lou. And her parents and my mom and… heck. I plop into my seat and smile back at the nice-looking guy who sits next to me. Dooley lowers the screen and fires up the room’s video projector. My official studenthood at SPU is about to start and the ember of anticipation, though a far cry from giddy, is more welcome than the ice cream truck on a hot July day.

The minute Dooley opens his mouth, I have a feeling this is going to be my favorite class.

Until Summer Philbin takes the seat on my other side. Shit.

I look at her, but she doesn’t acknowledge me as she turns on her tablet and looks straight ahead at Dooley.

“How would you like to win a prestigious award for TV and film before you even graduate from SPU?” His dramatic words create a stir and my pulse ticks up because he sounds serious. “I thought so. Well you can.” He runs a short clip and narrates it.

“This is the American Film & Television Production Association Annual National Collegiate Competition, the most prestigious contest of its kind in the country. They have several categories of awards, including the Best Personal Profile Award for undergrad students of TV/film and broadcast journalism. And the prize?” He pauses and looks around. I’m on the edge of my seat, literally, holding my breath to hear more.

“The AFTPA awards a prize of ten thousand dollars for first place.” He claps his hands and there are hoots from the back of the room and more clapping. I let out a whistle and feel Summer’s eyes on me. When I turn, she looks away, but I catch the disdain in the set of her mouth.

Dooley goes on, “And there’s a second and third prize but who cares? If you win the first, most importantly, you get bragging rights. Why am I telling you all this, you ask? Because I do have a bigger reason than to merely make you aware of the opportunity. Oh yes, my young students. So much more.” He pauses again and paces, feeding the escalation of energy in the room. Seeds of giddiness return in the form of heart thumping as it speeds up, if not races with Dooley’s obvious ploy to bait our rapt attention. Then he stops and the room is silent.

“You will all be entering this competition. Your midterm project for this course will be to create and submit a personal profile piece for this competition. You will each produce and conduct an in-depth profile on a person. Tell their story in such a compelling way, no matter how obscure a person they are, so that you have a chance to win.” Dooley face lights with passion and his hands fly with his characteristic flourish. He’s very expressive and I’ve caught the excitement of this opportunity like it’s a plague making me feverish. The whole class is infected, buzzing about the possibilities.

“Winning this award is the kind of thing that can launch your career faster than a supernova, so let’s take it seriously. Someone has to win it and it could be one of you.” He points at the class, his finger waving around until it narrows in and ends up directed exactly at me. He winks.

A kid from the back of the class calls out, “It sounds like a semester project, like we’ll need more time to do it.”

“Bad news is the submission deadline is in six weeks,” Dooley says. “Good news is everyone is under the same gun. Give it your best shot.” He aims a finger at the kid and shoots. I raise my hand like a little kid, bouncing in my chair, fully aware that I’m acting like a dork and not caring.

“Mr. Dooley, are there any parameters on who we should profile?”

“I’m sending the contest guidelines to you as we speak. Check the SPU blackboard.” With another flourish, he aims his index finger at the keyboard in front of him, clicks on it and then rubs his hands together. “We’ll be spending one class a week for the duration where I’ll give you personal guidance and advice while you work on the projects. Your homework tonight is to review the guidelines and come up with a proposal for a subject and a concept, no more than one page. Make it pithy. I’ll review all the proposals and approve them—or not approve them—next class. Make this one count, people.” He shoos us with a wave of his fingers. I jump from my seat and rush to the front of class, beating Summer by a hair. A crowd forms behind us because almost every one of the twenty-two people in this class is anxious to talk about this opportunity.

“Mr. Dooley—” I don’t get any further before Summer interrupts to get his attention.

“Is there an advantage to profiling someone famous?” she asks. He nods at her, lips pursed as if to say of course, and then turns to me. He winks again.

“Miss Innocent?” He leans close and whispers, “I’ll see you later.”

“Never mind.” I turn and walk away as the others crowd in around him asking their questions about whether there are examples of past winners they can view, whether they can profile him, and one kid asks if he can use his dad’s studio to edit the project. As I push outside the door, I swing my backpack over my shoulder and break into a run. I can’t wait to tell Trey, because this is too important, too big for a misunderstanding to get in the way. That’s what I’ve decided last night was. A misunderstanding—which I’m going to clear up immediately.

Three things are very clear to me. First, I need to convince Trey that we’re still friends above all else and that I’ll never ask him to be any more, pretend or otherwise.

Second, there is no doubt in my mind that I’m going to win this award.

And third, I know exactly who the subject of my personal profile is going to be.

Chapter 11