If I Ask
RECOMMENDED TRACK: Cake – The Distance
It took a few days to finish the application, but that was the easy part, especially with Dr. García’s support. Getting the internship would mean nothing to my father for the same reason it was practically a sure thing: it was no victory when his name opened the door.
I would need something to make this more than a frantic stalling tactic to avoid returning to Moscow. It was one, and he would know that. But I had to prove it was worthwhile anyway. Just like when I wanted to demonstrate to Emma that our relationship was real, I would have to find a way to show my father that my value to him in America was real.
Emma tired quickly of me talking about myself in terms of value. I was curious to meet her parents someday, to see a different kind of family.
Hopefully I would get the chance to.
I needed something that would be visible. Some things, plural. A fluke would do nothing, I needed a pattern I could point to. And I had to be able to accomplish it in a matter of weeks.
At first, Emma was uncertain how she could help—she had no real sense of how global capital operates behind closed doors. But when I told her I was struggling with where to even begin, she lit up like a cute little Christmas tree decorated with books and pens. She snatched up a notebook and dragged me out of the apartment and into the biting winds of February in Connecticut.
“You need a change of scenery first,” she said as we walked down Pike, past Classic Vinyl and towards Nana’s.
“And a restaurant is supposed to be the right scenery?” I muttered as a gust blew past us, reaching out to tug her scarf tighter around her. “I should have driven us.”
She rolled her eyes. “It’s six blocks. And walking helps get the brain moving.”
“Your cheeks are already frozen,” I retorted, but we walked on.
Nana greeted us with her usual affection—for Emma, that is, for me she had the grandmotherly nagging that I loved no matter how much I complained. She practically shoved us into the corner booth and fetched us a plate of roasted mushrooms I can never remember the name for but cannot stop eating.
“Okay,” Emma said, taking a bite of a mushroom and opening her notebook. “I have no idea what’s plausible or what would impress your dad. But I can organize a thesis with the best of them.”
“I’m surprised you did not bring index cards,” I teased her.
She stuck her tongue out at me and uncapped her purple pen. “Let’s start with assets, the people you have on your side. Elliott…”
I twitched my mouth thoughtfully. “Parker’s family is oil. And he’ll be happy to help, but that line of business does not always move fast. And I do not think he is very involved.”
She began jotting notes onto the page. I loved her handwriting, legible but scribbly, like her pen couldn’t keep up with her mind. “You said Jacob Choi had connections?”
“He did an internship with BioLantis two summers ago before they blew up big,” I confirmed. “I know he still talks to some of the higher-ups. He’s basically guaranteed a job there after graduation if he wants it.” I stuffed two mushrooms into my own mouth, earning a glare from Nana as she served the old man who always sits at her counter a bowl of soup. “Tech moves fast. And Jacob is more directly involved with it than Parker is with his family’s oil.”
“Good connection, better opportunity…” she muttered as she wrote. “Okay. Now quit talking with your mouth full.”
I swallowed. “What about the man from the reception? The one you talked about that movie with. Bellamy.”
She thought for a second before her expression cleared. “Oh! We talked about Wicked, right. Marcus Bellamy.” She wrote the name down. “I didn’t catch what he actually does now though. I’m pretty sure he lost an election.”
“Yes, but now he’s a top aide for a senator,” I told her. “Cal Mercer. He’s on the Senate Commerce Committee.”
“Oh, wow. I knew you’d be good at this,” she replied with a smile that made me feel about a foot taller. “Anyone else?”
A few names came to mind, but we discussed and dismissed them—connections too tenuous, or too far removed from decision-makers—as we finished the mushrooms. Nana swooped in and replaced the plate with a bowl of ostri, beef stew in a tomato sauce that was perfect for a cold day. Emma thanked her and Nana patted her cheek with a maternal cluck before tottering off.
Emma tapped her pen, leaving a little constellation of thought on the page as her eyebrows furrowed.
“What?” I asked, scooping a serving of stew onto my plate and then hers.
“What about Adrian?” She looked up at me, shifting in her seat. “Even I know Calloway Global is a big deal,” she said softly.
I leaned back against the booth with a groan. “I do not think he is an option.”
“What if…I asked him?” I looked at her sharply. Her cheeks were pink again, not from cold but from discomfort.
That idea I did not like at all. And it was not only jealousy. I mean, yes, a primitive part of me wanted to be everything she ever needed. And Calloway? That same part of me roared in the back of my skull at the idea of her needing anything from him.
The jealousy was secondary though, to the sense that what she suggested did not feel right, not for her. “Then he might help,” I answered after a second of thought. “But I do not think you want to do that. You are not someone who uses people’s feelings like that, korolevochka.”
“That’s not what I—” She began, then paused. Her fingers flew up to tuck her hair behind her ear, leaving a little dot of purple ink on her cheek. “No,” she admitted. “I guess there’s no way for me to ask him for help that wouldn’t be…that, even if it’s not what I meant.”
I tugged her fingers up to my lips, pressing a kiss to the tips. “You are not selling your soul just so I don’t have to sell mine. Not even a tiny part of it.”
Her eyebrows angled upward, eyes conflicted, but she nodded. “I still think you should ask him, though.”
I released her hand as she tugged it away, taking a thoughtful bite of the stew.
She was probably right. He was by far the best connection I had on paper. Calloway Global was an international force. And he was actively involved in it, sometimes facilitating research or leaving campus to attend meetings. If Emma asked, he would help, I felt sure. Or at least make a show of helping.
But if I asked? I could not imagine him agreeing.
Nana came by then, refilling Emma’s water glass. “Working hard, both of you,” she commented. “What mischief is this?”
Emma smiled at her. “Plans for after graduation,” she said, honest but vague.
“We’re trying to decide which of my friends I can impose on for career help,” I added with a grin, expecting Nana to scowl and swat me with her towel as usual.
Instead, she nodded. “You are young. Your futures, they are important,” she said, patting my hand, her skin soft with age and wear. “You should be bold, Mishiko,” she proclaimed. “My grandmother, she had saying. Russian saying. ‘Dvum smertyam ne byvat, odnoy ne minovat,’” she recited, giving me a meaningful look and a final pat on the hand as she left.
I felt Emma nudge my foot with hers. “What does that mean?” She asked.
“’You cannot die twice, but you cannot avoid dying once,’” I said. I’d heard it before. Not one of my father’s favorites. “It is like ‘YOLO’ but with a side of angst.” I shook my head and chuckled. “Very Russian.”
Nana was more right than she knew, though. There would only be one chance at this. Staying in America was a long shot, but it was more likely than coming back, at least any time soon.
I sighed. “Alright. I will think about asking Calloway. But this plan?” I said, reaching out to tap Emma’s notebook as she perked up. “We should build it like he already said no.”
Bonus Content:
Sigma Socials #SpringLoading
Author’s Note
B-Side Track: Yungblud – I Was Made For Loving You
Ahhh…I hope you guys are starting to see where Misha and Emma differ (and complement each other). Misha is a strategic communicator; he has a pretty good idea of how people feel and his communication style is generally built around putting himself in the best position. (He does not use this power for evil. Generally.)
Meanwhile, Emma…she’s not quite an “I’m just honest and tell it like it is” person (that’s almost invariably code for “asshole who wants to get away with being an asshole”), but she also sees what people want beneath what they’re saying and tries to be sensitive to their needs and desires.
Both of those are critical life skills. Seriously.
FUN FACT:
Jacob nags the Sigs to participate in certain social media activities, like Halloween posts and #SpringLoading, where everyone talks about what their social media plans are. It’s the only reason Adrian ever posts publicly. He had the account before, but only to avoid impersonators.
By the way, walking absolutely does help get your brain moving. I had a therapist who taught it to me as a little “brain hack” and let me tell you that listening to your writing playlist while doing a 20-30 minute walk with the dog and thinking about your story is a great way to get through drafting a novel!
What’s your favorite thing to do (or place to go) when you need a change of scenery to think?