6. Jordan

SIX

"Lunch,"I say firmly the next day, cutting into Polly's waffling diatribe about our stats professor. Sure, the guy's a douchecanoe, but he can complain about it while I eat.

He stares at me blankly, proving he's been so lost in his own rant that he'd forgotten I was even here. "What?"

"Lunch. Let's get something to eat, and you can keep whining."

"I'm not whining! I'm just?—"

"Whining?" Calla, one of our classmates, asks as she pauses beside us. She's cool, and we've hung out a few times. I've seen her at our ball games occasionally—you get to recognize the regulars when the crowd isn't capacity. And I think she has a thing for Polly, but he swears she's a lesbian. I'm trying to teach him that just because he saw her making out with another girl doesn't mean she's a lesbian, but for some reason, he won't accept that. He's normally cool about that stuff, so I think he likes her but doesn't want to get his hopes up.

Polly pouts. "Not whining."

"He's whining," I tell Calla. "Wanna come to lunch with us? I'm starving."

"Sure. Dining hall?"

"It's closest."

We set off in that direction, Polly trailing behind, still muttering about how he's not whining, and of course it's chaos when we get there.

"Ten minutes ago, when class actually ended, it probably wasn't this bad," I observe, taking in the line.

"Too bad Polly was busy whining," Calla agrees.

"I wasn't whining!" Pol shouts, loud enough for people to hear and turn around. A micro-silence falls, all eyes on us, and Polly's face gets red. "Well, I wasn't," he mumbles.

I clap him on the shoulder. "Sure, you weren't."

We join the line as the noise begins again, and Calla says, "Okay, Polly… you have until we sit down to rant, and then you're done. Go."

"Why are you like this?" he asks her.

"You're wasting precious time," she sings, moving forward with the line.

"How come you're not annoyed too?" Pol bursts out. "You're both in the same class as me. You've seen how he is."

Calla shrugs. "Yeah, but there's nothing we can do about it. He's an asshole, but not any more than everyone else. You gotta learn to go with the flow in class and then spread a rumor that he has herpes or something. Maybe you should take up yoga."

I snort-laugh, and Polly glares at her. "I already do Pilates, fuck you very much, and why are you even taking this class, anyway? You're an arts major."

"Yoga and Pilates are different. Do both. And since I plan to run my own business someday, this class is an investment in my future. There will come a time when my understanding of statistics will enhance my business so much that I can sit back and sip champagne on a pile of diamonds, and I'll think fondly of Professor Douchebag Brooks and the fact that he'll probably still be slogging away teaching whiners who hate him."

Polly and I stare at her, and she smiles. "What? I have dreams, too, you know."

"A pile of diamonds sounds uncomfortable," I observe. "Are they huge diamonds or thousands of tiny little ones?"

"Does it matter? They're diamonds, and they're mine." She frowns. "Probably lab ones, though. I don't want to support the exploitation of children in Africa."

Polly throws up his hands and stalks forward to order his food. I grin at Calla. "I think you're wearing him down." It's the first time I've hinted that I think she's into him.

"It's a long game," she agrees.

I really like her. "Just so you know, you've got an ally on the inside." I hold out my fist, and she bumps it. The rings on every one of her fingers make it a little uncomfortable, but the artsy vibe reminds me of something. "Hey, you're doing design, aren't you? Like fashion and stuff?"

She rolls her eyes. "Yeah, fashion and stuff."

What else do I call it? I file that question away for later. "I was talking to someone, kind of a friend, who does designing for, like, costumes for movies. Well, he's trying to do that. He said the internship he wants to apply for is unpaid and he needs to save up for living expenses first."

"I'll have the chicken sandwich, please. And chips and a soda," Calla tells the server, then looks at me expectantly. "Is there a question?"

Uh… is there? "I guess I was hoping he was wrong? And that you'd know of some paid internships he could apply for? Because he's really good, and he graduated last year." That was something else he told me before I left yesterday.

"He's not wrong. Sorry, Jordan. Internships are mostly unpaid. There are a couple that might offer a really small stipend, but he'd still need the money to cover living expenses first, because it's seriously not enough to support a whole person."

"Shit."

"It's not my fault, man," the server tells me, an offended look on his face.

"Sorry. I wasn't swearing at you, I promise. Uh… I'll have what she had." Because I haven't even looked at what's on offer, and I don't want to make him wait after I already sort of swore at him.

But seriously, unpaid internships? That sucks so hard. What I really hate is that my dad—both of them, I guess—works for a company that doesn't pay interns. Do they know that? Grant technically works for Joy Universe, not Joy Inc., and neither of them are based in LA or more than peripherally connected to the studio, but still. They're execs for the company.

I grab my tray, and Calla and I head toward where Polly's already staked out some seats at a table. "Who's your friend? Maybe I know him. The design school here at FU is small and incestuous, even if it is mighty."

"Blaise," I say, then realize I don't know his surname. It doesn't matter, though, because she blinks in recognition.

"Blaise? About so tall"—she holds a hand up near the top of my head—"dark hair and eyes, great style, thinks the Met Gala started out as a great thing but is now way overhyped?"

"Uhhhh… I don't know about that last thing, but otherwise, yeah? So you do know him?"

"He's one of my besties," she announces confidently as we sit. "How did you meet him?"

"How did you meet who?" Polly asks, stabbing his fork into some kind of casserole that frankly looks unidentifiable.

"My friend Blaise," she tells him. "Unless the world has turned upside-down, you wouldn't know him."

Polly looks insulted. "I know people."

"Design people?"

"I know you," he points out.

"Uh-huh. And who else?"

"I'm really starting to not like you."

She blows him a kiss, then turns back to me. "Talk."

"It's not that interesting." Not the parts I'm willing to tell her, anyway. "I ripped my game day suit, and Uncle Luke told me just to get a new one since apparently I wasn't supposed to have had that one for so long. So I went to the mall and Blaise sold me a suit."

"How long did you have the old one?" Polly asks curiously.

I shrug. "I got it for homecoming junior year."

Calla shudders. "Oh, honey, no."

"What's wrong with having a suit for nearly four years?" I can't help being defensive. I don't know what the problem is here.

"It's not the four years part, it's the part where you were, what, sixteen then? And now you're twenty. Teenagers change fast."

"I'm not twenty until March," I mutter, like that makes a huge difference.

Calla pats my hand. "It's a good thing Blaise was there to take care of you."

She has no idea how true that is.

Uncle Luke calls me just as my last class of the day is letting out, and panic flashes through me. He doesn't call. When I left for college, he told me he understood that I'd be busy with my new life so he wouldn't be calling. He does send messages to remind me that I have family who worries about me, though.

"Uncle Luke? Is everything okay?"

There's a pause. "Oh, kid, I'm sorry. Yeah, everything's fine. I didn't mean to scare you."

I breathe easier. "Nah. Okay, yeah, for a second I was a tiny bit apprehensive."

"Well, I'm sorry about that. I just wanted to see if you'd had any luck finding a suit."

I start walking toward my dorm. I've got practice in twenty minutes, so I can't delay. "I went to the mall on Sunday and got one, like you said. And some shirts and stuff. It needed to be altered, but I picked it up yesterday."

"Good. That's great news." He sounds relieved, and I wonder if I should be offended by his lack of faith in me. "Send me some pictures later."

I miss a step. "What?"

"I want to make sure you don't look like a hobo."

"I can't even with you, Uncle Luke. I'm not taking a photo like you made me for prom."

"Fine. Did you at least charge it to the credit card like I told you?"

"Duh. I didn't even look at the prices." That's kind of true. I didn't look at the tags, but I know how much the total was because Blaise told me before I handed over the card.

Uncle Luke makes a choking sound. "Okay. I guess if the transaction went through, it couldn't have been too terrifying. I hope," he adds in a mutter. "Anyway, I know you have practice today, so I'll let you go."

"Actually," I say as I reach the dorm. One of the guys from the first floor is coming out and holds the door for me, and I give him a smile and an up-nod. "I wanted to talk to you about something."

"Shoot."

"Why doesn't Joy Inc. pay interns?"

Uncle Luke takes a second to digest that, and I hit the stairs. "That was not what I was expecting you to say. Uh… I didn't know they didn't. I haven't worked with an intern while I was there."

"I was talking to the guy who sold me the suit, and he said he wants to apply for a costume design internship, but he needs to save up for living expenses first. That's not cool."

"It's not," he agrees. "You didn't tell him?—"

"That my dads are Joy executives and I have honorary uncles who work in theater and have connections? No. Of course I didn't." I like Blaise, and not just because he got me off and wants to do it again. I think we could be friends. And it's not like any of my connections could solve his problem—he needs money. Once he's ready to apply, I might ask Uncle Luke to put a good word in with whoever handles that stuff. We'll see.

"I don't know what to tell you, Jordan. I can ask some questions, because I agree that it's not okay to expect someone to work for free. But it's not my department, and ultimately, whoever is in charge would need to get the budget for it signed off by the CFO."

"Who you don't like," I finish as I let myself into my room. Uncle Luke had a really great working relationship with the previous CEO and CFO, but they're both in their eighties now and retired a couple of years ago. He says the new ones are good enough, but their vision and approach are a little different.

"It's not that I don't like him," he begins as I put the phone on speaker and toss it on the bed. "It's just?—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Anyway, I just wanted to see if you knew, and register my opinion." I pull my sweatshirt over my head.

"Noted, and I'll take an action item," he replies. "Any other news while I've got you on the phone?"

"Not really. I'm heading to practice in a few minutes. Our game this weekend is an away one, so I'll be off campus almost the whole time. Oh, and I worked out that I'm either bi or pan."

"What?"

My roommate walks in, and I flip him a wave. "Gotta go, Uncle Luke. Talk later."

"Wait, you can't?—"

I end the call. Even if I wasn't in a hurry, now wouldn't be the time to talk about this. I'll definitely hear about it later, though.