I look over at Peter, who is pouring Maggie a whiskey, a tender yet smug expression on his face.
How far would you go to get what you wanted?
And that’s when it hits me. I could write for the school newspaper. It would give me material to send into The New School. And it would be—ugh—real.
No, scolds a voice in my head. Not The Nutmeg. That really is going too far. Besides, if you write for The Nutmeg, you’re a hypocrite. You never hesitate to tell anyone who will listen that you hate The Nutmeg—including Peter, who’s the editor.
Yes, but what choice do you have? asks another voice. Do you really want to do nothing, letting life just happen to you like you’re some kind of loser? If you don’t at least try to write for The Nutmeg, you’ll probably never get into that writing program.
Hating myself, I head over to the bar, pour myself a vodka cranberry juice, and sidle up to Maggie and Peter. “Hi, guys,” I say casually, taking a sip of my drink. “So Petey-boy,” I begin. “I was thinking I might want to write for that newspaper of yours after all.”
He takes a sip of his drink and looks at me, irritated. “It’s not my newspaper.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t. And it’s very difficult to communicate with a person who can’t be precise. That’s what writing is all about. Precision.”
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