Begin Again

“I’ve called him like, fifteen times,” says Shay, pacing the tiny space of the recording studio. “He’s not picking up.”

“Maybe because he’s driving?” I wish out loud.

“As much as I admire your unflappable optimism, he clearly overslept. I’ve been calling for almost a half hour, and his parents’ house is a ten-minute drive from campus.” She pulls the phone away from her ear, letting out a groan. “And we’re five minutes from doomed.”

Now four, according to my phone, which I’ve also been using to text him. I try not to wince. This isn’t not my fault. This, and everything else that’s gone haywire on campus these past twenty-four hours.

See, yesterday Professor Hutchison nearly had a fit when not one, not two, but three different students fully conked out during statistics. Shay told me her English professor let class out early because he, direct quote, was “going to fall asleep standing up.” And Milo was so tired that after dinner at his parents’ place, he decided to spend the night there.

He was already asleep when I got a text from Sean and discovered that in my plan to un-zombify Milo, I’d flown too close to the sun—Sean had forgotten to look at the labels I put on the fully decaffeinated Eternal Darkness blend, and in doing so, accidentally decaffeinated half the student body. Including one very sleepy, unsuspecting Milo Flynn.

Which leads us to this moment now.

“Isn’t there like, a backup or something?” I ask Shay. “Someone who can go on if Milo can’t?”

She presses her finger and thumb to her eyelids, rubbing them hard enough to bruise. “He was supposed to find someone for that, but of course he never did.”

“Well,” I say, “you already know all the information for today’s broadcast like the back of your hand. Can’t you go on?”

Shay pauses, only so she can frown. “I mean . . .”

I sit up a little straighter in the swivel chair by the computer, clutching my tea. “Actually, this could be another great opportunity to explore a potential major,” I realize. “I could totally see you as like, a professional podcaster. You have a great voice, the sense of humor—”

“Why don’t you do it?” Shay counters.

Embarrassingly enough, I choke on my own spit. “That’d be silly, I only got here a few weeks ago,” I say after I collect myself.

“Weeks you’ve spent answering a bunch of listener questions over email.” Shay gestures at the microphone. “Today is ‘Call-in Friday’ anyway. Judging from last week’s, you’d just be doing the same thing, except out loud.”

I shake my head, feeling sweat sting at the line of my temple, itch under my arms. “I, uh . . .” I clear my throat. “I’m bad at doing stuff on the fly. I . . . I need a script. I need to practice.”

“So do it like a conversation. Like you’re leading Werewolf at the dorm, or you’re just talking to me,” says Shay, tapping the backside of the chair. “You sure don’t need a script when you’re telling me what you think I should do.”

I let out a laugh so breathy that it feels like my throat’s being squished. “Shay, I can’t.”

“Why not?” Shay asks.

“Because . . .”

I don’t even notice the ache as much these days, because it’s been a constant. But in this moment it’s changing shape again. Hardening. Reminding me of the early days after my mom died, when for a while, it felt like the only feeling at all.

The first time I publicly humiliated myself was a few weeks after my mom died, at a school assembly about road safety. I was one of the student crossing guard helpers and was all set to do a skit with Connor about bike helmets. But he clicked the strap on his chin and waited for me to say my line, and I looked out at all the other kids—saw them all watching me in a way they never had before, with some mix of intrigue and pity—and I felt like a stranger to my own self. Like I wasn’t the same girl I was in their eyes, or mine, either. I choked.

It’s not like I gave up after that. For a while, I’d actively volunteer for the morning announcements or to help host the school talent show. It was like some kind of amateur exposure therapy—I thought I could shake the fear if I just confronted it. Instead the fear just shook back, harder than I could take. I’d never feel nervous in the lead-up, but then I’d feel people’s eyes on me and the words that used to come so easily would dry up on the spot.

All these years I’d spent as “the brave one”—the years I spent mapping out these dreams about big platforms, talking on stages, and flying into television studios—and without any warning, all of the nerve that drove it was simply gone.

It was Connor who convinced me to go easy on myself. To find other ways to channel what I wanted to do. “What if you did something behind the scenes instead?” he said. “If you were doing stuff and nobody knew it was you, would it scare you then?”

It was the seed that grew into “Bed of Roses.” Into the quiet acceptance that there were some parts of my dreams that were going to change when I changed, too. And an even quieter relief that I wouldn’t have to worry about my mom’s legacy anymore, because I was taking myself out of it before I could do anything to hurt it.

And that’s just it. The kind of fear I feel about this—it’s not because of some dumb assembly skit. Not because of a potential talent show blip. It’s . . .

“Because of your mom?”

Only then do I realize my eyes drifted toward the wall again. I snap them back onto Shay’s fast enough to give my retinas whiplash.

“Andie,” Shay says quietly. “I’ve caught you staring at that picture more times than I can count. Didn’t take too much to Google Amy Janson and make the connection. You’re here because your mom was the first-ever Knight.”

I close my eyes. Not out of any kind of sadness, but appreciation. I’d been so fixated on keeping this part of me tucked away that it didn’t occur to me Shay would figure it out on her own. That instead of shying away from it like so many of my friends did growing up, she would quietly keep it to herself until the time was right to talk about it.

“Yeah,” I say, trying not to let myself get overwhelmed by the surge of gratitude, of strange relief. “But it’s not just that. I really do love answering the listener emails and spending time with you and Milo. It’s the best part of my day.”

Shay reaches out and puts her hand over mine, squeezing it for a moment before she lets it go. “Well, that’s fucked up, because I wouldn’t wish this sleep schedule on anyone.” I let out a sharp laugh, and she adds, “We like having you here, too. And it seems to me like this whole thing is kind of in your blood.”

“That’s just it.” I’m not looking at her, but the mic. “I feel like . . . like if I did badly, I’d be letting her down.”

Shay’s mouth twists to the side. “Your mom was what, eighteen when she started this? You really think she was perfect?”

It’s not that I expect that she was perfect. It’s that I used to be—or at least, my little-kid self thought I was. It used to come so easily, so thoughtlessly, and even if I try again, it will never be like it once was. I will never again be that guileless kid with the mic, the one who made my mom smile.

“Maybe . . . maybe some other time Milo’s out for the count.” My voice sounds pathetic even in my own ears, but it doesn’t change the facts. “When I’ve had some time to think about it.”

“Or overthink about it,” says Shay.

But she holds my gaze for a moment and relents with a sigh. I feel that light-headed swoosh of post-adrenaline and expect the relief to soften it, but the feeling is heavier than that, mingled with a strange disappointment.

“Fine,” she says. “But you have to sit next to me with the notes, so you can point out anything I’m missing.”

I push past it, hopping to attention. Shay positions herself at the mic. I position myself right next to her, scanning the notes so intensely that within thirty seconds I’ve managed to tattoo them to the insides of my brain. “Construct on Main 2–6, ribbon LA building 5, talent show signups @ portal . . .”

“Okay,” I say to myself, soaking it all in. “Okay.”

“Okay?” says Shay, holding the music stand with the notes on it closer to me.

I nod. “I got it.”

“Good,” she says. Then she inexplicably slides off her chair, and pushes the mic toward my mouth. “You’re live in five . . . four . . .”

I reach out to grab her arm, but she’s already out of reach. “Shay.”

She taps the record button to show me she is extremely not messing around, and mouths the words, Three . . . two . . . one.

A few seconds of dead air follow. Me with my mouth wide open, Shay with her eyes possibly even wider, the two of us locked in a game of chicken that may or may not end with me tossing my literal cookies (Ellie shared a massive box of Oreos with us last night) into the mic.

I suck in a breath. And then I say, “Hi.”

Shay scowls and mouths back, Hi?

I shrug, my shoulders jerking up so fast it’s a miracle they don’t knock off my ears. Shay points at the mic. I take a breath, but it gets stuck halfway up my throat.

“Um, hello. Friday.”

I wince, looking over at Shay, certain she’ll bail me out. This is the point where someone steps in—a teacher pulls me offstage. Another student steps in to grab my dropped line. And Connor tells me it’s okay, that we all have different strengths and I am lucky to have so many others in the first place.

But Shay doesn’t do any of those things. Instead she looks me right in my semi-hysterical eyes and makes a “go on” gesture.

“What I mean is—it is Friday. Today. So . . . good for us.”

Yikes. I look at the notes that I helped Shay compile mere minutes ago and they look like they’re written in hieroglyphics. At some point I must have started to sweat, because I can feel it itching at my armpits and my brow. Right along with the familiar churn in my gut.

I put my hand over the mic and mouth the words, I can’t do this.

“You’re already doing it!” she whispers back, with this unyielding, no-nonsense look that has some real Grandma Maeve energy to it. “Keep going. Anything other than dead air.”

Dead air. I remember my mom explaining to me what that meant. When she’d first gotten sick, they hired a temporary host for the radio station while she was in and out of chemo—“There’s enough dead air in his broadcasts to put people to sleep,” she’d complained. And when I innocently asked if that meant there was alive air, she’d laughed harder than she had that whole week.

I smile thinking about it. Thinking about her eyes gleaming back at me in the studio the days she brought me in for quick segments, the two of us like twin flames in the little booth. Thinking about a time when this wouldn’t have seemed like a nightmare, but an opportunity. A beginning.

My shoulders loosen and my lungs fill up with the cool air of the studio.

“Well, in case my voice being a full octave higher didn’t give it away, I’m not the Knight,” I say, scooting my butt farther into the stool to get my mouth closer to the mic. “I’m . . . I’m the, uh . . . Squire.”

Shay pulls up her sleeve so she can dampen a laugh with it. I grin back, and some of the spell is broken. For a moment it really does feel like it’s just the two of us having a conversation, just like she said.

“‘Call-in Friday,’” she prompts me.

I nod vigorously. Then remember, of course, that none of them can see me. “I’m, um—I’m also the person who’s been answering your emails asking for advice, so if you have anything to ask, go ahead and give us a ring when we get to the call-in section of today’s broadcast.” My voice is still wavering, but it could be worse. “But first—the latest.”

I take another breath and it feels like I’m breathing in my own fear, like I’m swallowing it before it can swallow me.

“The construction on Main Street is, much to nobody’s surprise, taking longer to finish than a triple major in their fifth year, so you’re going to have to avoid that area between two and six today.” I’m not great with the pacing, saying some of it too fast. I take another breath, half channeling my mom, and half channeling Milo. “But if you’d like to make use of the time you’re taking the long way around, you might want devise a talent act for the annual Blue Ridge Talent Show, because sign-ups for individuals and groups are opening up on the student portal starting today. And if you happen to be near the literary arts building today, congrats! You’re about to get front-row seats to the bloodbath of freshmen trying to get ribbons for the next round of the Knights’ Tour trivia tonight at five P.M.”

Shay gives me a thumbs-up, but it’s short-lived. The soundboard is lighting up. We have a caller.

“Looks like we already have someone ringing in for ‘Call-in Friday,’” I say, so nervous at the idea that I am trying to reach into the back of my brain for what Milo usually says. It comes up empty. All I hear is my heart pounding in every vein in my head.

“Knights’ Watch,” I say once I hear the call connect. “What’s on your mind, friend?”

“Uh . . . well . . . wow. I guess, first I want to say thank you? Cuz if you’re the same Squire that helped my roommate with her finances, she’s like, way chiller now?”

“Oh.” My heart does this happy little thunk of a thing, and I smile at Shay again without meaning to. She’s already smirking back. “Glad to hear it.”

“Same. Which is why I was wondering if you could maybe give me some advice with my job? I signed on to be a part-time general assistant for the company, and . . . my boss is super rad and all. But she’s always asking me to do things like pick up her kids from school and get stuff for her sister. And that kind of seems like it’s not in my purview?”

“Oh, wow. Been there, navigated awkwardly through that.” It’s true. I’ve had enough part-time jobs that blurred the lines between “I just need a receptionist in the afternoons” and “actually, can you pick up my family’s groceries on your way home?” to relate. “So first, how’s your relationship with your boss?”

In the next ten minutes, we hash through the caller’s work history, make a solid plan to approach talking to their boss about it, and even form contingency plans if their boss reacts badly. After that we take two more callers, and then—much to my surprise—Shay taps an invisible watch on her wrist, letting me know to wrap it up.

“Well, you know where to reach me. Happy Friday, everyone,” I say, before panicking and ending the show with a graceless “Ta-ta!”

And then it’s over. I survived. I gave advice in real time, while actual people listened in. Sure, it was anonymous. Sure, I couldn’t actually see anyone. But the rush of it is so intense that for a moment, it doesn’t matter. For all the time I’ve spent trying to make myself fit in here, it feels like I just carved out a piece all my own.

The swell of pride lasts for approximately two seconds before I remember the train wreck of the rest of the broadcast. I wait until Shay turns off the mic, then pull up my sweater and bury my face in it.

Shay pats me on the arm. “Ta-ta?”

“Murder me,” I moan.

“I would, but then who would take my bird’s-eye-view Instagrams when my hands are busy holding books?”

I pull my face out of the bunched-up cotton to see Shay still grinning at me.

“C’mon. We’ll come up with a killer sign-off for you later. But we have a shift to get to,” she reminds me, tossing me my coat.

After it lands in my lap I extend my arms out to let my armpits breathe. “I’m sweating through several layers of clothes.”

“Precious. Please tell me more.” I open my mouth and she holds up a hand to stop me from doing just that. “Andie. You were fine.”

I will myself not to look at the picture of my mom on the wall, shrugging on my coat. I may be able to ignore the picture, but I can’t ignore that all-too-familiar seasick feeling. The kind of sick where I know I’m not going to throw up, but my stomach will still feel like it’s in a knot I can’t undo for the rest of the day.

“I should’ve been better,” I mutter.

“And you will be. Next time.” Shay cocks her head toward the door. “Now let’s get out of here before Milo shows up and figures out you poisoned the coffee supply.”

Milo does not, in fact, figure this out on his own, but is quickly informed of it an hour later. He rolls up to Bagelopolis in an oversized corduroy jacket and jeans, his eyes bright but wary, his hands in his pockets and his posture apologetic. He locks eyes on me first.

“I can’t believe I overslept. Yesterday was nuts,” he says, running a hand through his curls. “I’m so—”

“It’s my fault,” I cut in before he can apologize. “Remember that decaf version of Eternal Darkness I made?”

Milo says without missing a beat, “I can still hear my Italian ancestors weeping, so yes.”

I wince. “I left it in the back and Sean accidentally brewed it yesterday.”

For a few moments Milo just blinks. “So you’re telling me yesterday I drank three cups of lies.”

“And then you overslept, and I did that terrible show this morning, and you have every right to be—”

“Oh, I listened to the show. You were great,” Milo says, so casually that he’s not even making eye contact with me when he says it, but focusing on the cream cheese display case.

My jaw nearly drops. I’m sure it goes against some RA policy to shred what’s left of my ego, but he doesn’t have to rewrite history here.

“Milo. I bombed.”

He waves me off. “You picked it back up. Anyway, consider your Friday mornings booked. I need a day off.”

That’s extremely not happening, but I’m too thrown off to press the point. “You’re really not mad?”

“Oh. To be clear, if you ever mess with Eternal Darkness again, I will take that Earl Grey tea you love so much and dump it in the lake like it’s the Boston Harbor,” he says, leaning into the counter. His eyes are on mine in that wholly focused way of his, but there’s something different about it now. Something wry. Something amused. “But no. I am not mad. Annoyed, maybe. But also impressed.”

“I really am sorry,” I say.

“If you’re sorry, then pay me back with an Everything Pretzel Bagel with bacon egg and cheese.”

The almost-smile on his face lilts a bit, just enough that I feel like I’m tipping sideways right with it. But then the guilt of screwing him over today kicks back in, and I tear my gaze away.

“Of course,” I say, typing his order into the screen.

Milo’s brother Sean clears his throat from behind me. “What, you didn’t scam enough free meals from home this week?”

“Thought I’d keep on theme, after scamming your old jacket from the house, too,” says Milo, stepping back and putting his hands in its pockets.

I feel Sean frown from behind me. “That’s not mine, bro. That’s Harley’s.”

Milo’s expression goes static, his almost-smile so unmoving that I find myself stopping in place, too.

“Or, uh . . . maybe it was mine first. Can’t remember. Too many little brothers,” Sean recovers. “It suits you, though.”

Milo’s entire demeanor changes as he pulls his hands out of the pockets. Before I can read too much into it and double down on my “don’t get involved” mantra, he’s looking at me again.NôvelDrama.Org: owner of this content.

“I mean it, new kid.”

I step back away from the counter, swallowing down some of the residual nausea. “Milo, I—”

He holds his hand up to interrupt me. “If it makes you feel any better, my first broadcast, I was so nervous I . . . basically burped uncontrollably.”

I don’t mean to smile. I only do because I remember his first broadcast. I rarely miss a show, and certainly not any show where a new Knight is introduced. He was endearing as always, but he burped enough times to sponsor a soda brand.

He catches the smile and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. See you in the studio.”

Sean returns with a bagel and Milo sinks his teeth into it right there at the register, which gives me just enough of a beat to panic about the fact that I am not good enough to be doing any broadcast, let alone a weekly one.

“Damn,” says Milo through a mouthful. “How do these bagels just get better and better?”

I take in a breath, resolved. “I’m not going to—”

“Nope. I’m sleeping in on Fridays now. You owe me,” say Milo. “No ifs, Andies, or buts about it.”

Before I can protest, he takes the coffee Sean brings him and says, “If this isn’t the real thing, you both better hope I don’t die first and haunt you for the rest of your lives.” But he gives me a slight smile as he raises the cup to me and heads back out into the street.

In the lull between customers I stand uncertainly, waiting for the ache to harden again, or to roil in my stomach. Instead it seems to do something it’s never done. It reaches up and up, and it yearns.