But First, The Eyes

Invitation

My day became colored by that word. Murder.

After I left Charlie at home to sleep off his night, I headed into town. I had an hour until the job interview—and a little less than that before the Forum closed for the day. My nerves were already hopelessly jumpy; in a small town, there were only so many jobs—and even less ones I wouldn't mind doing for a few months.

My mind wandered over interview questions, working through the recesses to locate examples of my excellent customer service. But the word echoed through my mind. Bouncing against my skull. Interview questions and half-formed answers were obliterated by the word's sheer force.

Each time I went around a curve, I expected there to be a person in the middle of the road. Holding an ax.

Dripping blood.

I shivered.

After a few more turns, I was in Forks. I slowed for the turn into the Forum and pulled into one of the vacant parking spaces. The truck's engine rumbled contentedly as I sat, hands immobile on the steering wheel.

I had made it to the one news outlet in town. And I could feel the primal terror slinking up my spine.

This is it, I told myself. This is what you want to do.

I took in a ragged breath. You just need to jump in.

Years had gone by with the kernel of hope inside me that said I would be on the other side of the glass. The other side of the newsprint, telling the world facts about what's important and what's happening. Or letting people know my opinion on the facts—if I someday reached the point of being beloved and trusted. It's a high mantel to reach for. A concept born from fantastical thinking.

And I craved it terribly.

Apparently, so terribly that I couldn't bring myself to conceive the possibility of me taking the next step and it working.

Scenarios ran through my head of me entering the office and speaking with the editor. All of them ended with me walking out and dejectedly accepting a job at my backup: the same summer job I've had for the past two years. Which was technically the interview I had prepared for.

"Is everything okay?"

A small woman stood beside a car that had pulled up next to mine. Her small, dark eyes squinted up at me.

"Oh, I'm fine, sorry—" I stopped myself. Push back your shoulders. "Actually, I'm here to talk with Karla Atkins." I paused. "The editor."

The woman blinked. "I'm aware of who that is." She shouldered the large bag she drug out from her passenger seat. "Follow me," she said.

I obliged.

"It'll be a minute," the woman said. She pushed open the glass door for me, and I was thrust into a new world.

In this world, there was endless key chatter. The smell of drip coffee slowly burning on a perpetually on hotplate. Fluorescent lighting dotted across the ceiling. A few chairs hung around two heavily used wooden desks, which were occupied by two men, both who were attempting to look aloof.

There were only two doors in the room—one of them connecting to the restroom. The other, presumably, Karla's. A small, black piece of plastic was stuck beside the door. Editor-in-Chief, it read. Definitely Karla's.

The woman stuck a key into the office door and shoved it open with her hip. "Come on in, but mind the papers."

I picked up the pace and went into the room behind her. Of course. The person I bumbled with in the parking lot is the editor. A predominantly large part of me was not surprised by my luck. That part of me fought the urge to sigh.

Karla dropped her bag beside her long, wooden desk and clicked on her computer monitor. The device buzzed to life.

"Now," she said. "Why are you here?"

My mind didn't comprehend the question fast enough. I hadn't prepared. Not for what I truly wanted.

Karla sighed and began shuffling documents on her desk. "If you don't have a reason to be here in person, I recommend using our email address—"

"I want to be a journalist."

She stopped and slowly settled the pages back into their haphazard positions. Paper slummed against her keyboard like drunk frat boys—though significantly less loud.

"You do."

Not a question; not really.

An invitation.

"And I think I could be a beneficial addition here," I said. "I'm currently in school for Journalism—"

"I'm going to stop you there," she said. "If you're looking for your big moment, Forks is not the place. The Forum even less so." Karla pointed out her office door toward the men outside who were definitely typing quieter than before. "Miguel and Antoni are my staff, and they cover what I can't. There's not much I can't cover. If you don't have a new angle or a specific area of expertise that would benefit our small newspaper: I can't place you here."

Karla smiled thinly and my heart slowed.

I think of the drive over and how the appointment for my true interview was approaching. The soul-devouring feeling of monotonously refilling clothing racks. Icy terror manifesting from working towards a degree I might abandon. The image of an ax. Blood, hitting pavement.

"My dad's the police chief; I can connect you to information easier."

The words came out in a rush, and Karla sat back in her chair, her smile deepening into a thoughtful frown.

Fear rose in my stomach. That was too far. Too eager. Too altruistic.

"You can't work the crime beat."

A pause.

"But we could use an intern."

The wall clock above her head ticked, catching my eye. I was five minutes late to my interview.