The Real Real by Emma McLaughlin, Nicola Kraus Page A

face. “Caitlyn.”
    She shrugs, staring out the windshield, her eyes watering as she shakes her head back and forth. “Oh my God,”
    I murmur. “I’m so sorry.”
    “But I’m . . . really happy . . . for you,” she manages as the tears roll down her cheeks, seeping into her white down coat in dark wet spots. “I just . . . want you to know.”
    “Cay, I know, but—”
    “No. Just—I’m happy for you, and I don’t think I can really talk about this right now or with you or . . . maybe at all.”
    She rakes her sleeve across her face, and I feel a cold seep up my chest.
    “You know I didn’t expect this—I’m the last person who would expect this! If it wasn’t for the scholarship—”
    “I know. I know that. But I can’t . . . I’ve been holding it together for the past two days. I just—need to go home, okay? I’ll drop you. But can we just not talk about this?”
    She grips the steering wheel with the fingerless gloves my grandmother knit for us both last Christmas.
    “Yeah, yes, whatever you need.” I sit frozen beside her.
    She inhales deeply, blinking up at the wilting fabric coming down around the defunct roof light.
    “So how was the French test?” I try.
    “Fine.” She reaches out to push on the radio and Akon fills the space between us. She twists up the volume, 62

    underlining how much she doesn’t want to talk. Putting on my seat belt, I follow her lead to clear off the windshield condensation with our coat sleeves. She puts the car into drive and, sniffing back her tears, navigates us out of the lot and onto Main Street. As we slow in front of the first stoplight, I struggle with the temptation to jump out so she can roll over me with all four tires.
    I grab the knob to lower the music and turn to her. “I wanna shoot myself.”
    “No!” This just makes her cry harder. “Jesse, no! I’m happy for you! I just really wanted this. Really really. It seemed like the answer to everything.”
    “Okay, well, I am reporting back from the front that it is, in fact, literally, a giant, sweaty pain in the ass.”
    “But I wanted it! I wanted that giant, sweaty pain in my ass!” We stare at each other, her eyes wide, her words hanging between us. She can’t help but break into a grin.
    We both crack up, warmth flooding my chest like someone poked a giant sewing needle through the crapbox’s roof to break the tension.
    “This sucks.”
    “So bad,” she sighs, leaning her head against the headrest and taking the turn off Main.
    I look at her splotchy cheeks, and it is suddenly clear to me that this—this post-needle poking laugh about sweaty butts is how things need to be. The part where she’s sobbing and I feel lower than roadkill’s gotta go. “Okay, XTV
    is not going to rain on our last semester.”

63
    “Pissing. They’re pissing on it.”
    “There has to be some way to get you on.”
    “ I don’t have what they want. I don’t have the long hair and legs, or the drama or whatever.”
    “What they want . . . ” I twist my lips, racking my brain, as we turn onto Clover Road and I catch sight of the ludicrous Roman fountain that makes a promise the rest of Trisha’s sprawling ranch just can’t deliver. “Turn around!”
    I slap the dashboard.
    “What?” Caitlyn slams on the brakes.
    “I’ve got the drama to get you cast. Turn around!”
    “Jesse, I’ve got to get the car home so my mom can get to work.”
    “I have my bike—just turn around before I lose my nerve!”
    “Kara?” I call out as I step into the trailer, past the benches, past the kitchen, past the gray bulbs lining the makeup mirrors, to the door ajar at the far end. I stand for a moment between the bulging clothing racks to give myself a two-second pep talk before walking into the blue light spilling from the doorway. “Kara?”
    The only illumination comes from a pyramid of television monitors stacked atop a desk, which also currently supports Kara’s earphone-covered head. I freeze,