She continues. “You’re good at that—weaving a story. Like with Vartouhi’s cooking class.”
Miniature pride bombs explode in my chest, followed by that same longing pulling at me. Maybe if I can show Richard how serious I can be as a reporter, he’ll allow me more freedom in my stories.
Then she pauses, and I wait, feeling she’s about to say more. “I wonder, though, if I might ask...”
She sounds hesitant, and I feel like I know this: Someone is about to say something that could sting. I hold my breath. She says, “On your Instagram, you don’t infuse it with that same level of storytelling. I mean, it seems to be working. You have tons of people adoring you. But for a reporter and for someone who notices the mildew at Disneyland, you don’t capture that. I suppose that’s what I’m saying.”
A slow car appears up ahead, and Erebuni eases into and out of the left lane to pass it, still so constant. I am instantly hurt by her words, like I’m in a boxing ring without gloves, getting battered. I am so, so bad at taking criticism. I have two modes of response, shrink down and say they’re right and apologize endlessly or ram back with still greater charges against the person (reserved mostly for Mom—sorry, Mom). And the thing is, Erebuni has a point, but...
I concentrate on not sounding terribly hurt. Only a little hurt. “That’s not what people want to read, though. What’s popular are flat lays of latte foam art on a white marble table with some loose flowers in the corner of the frame.”
“Ah, so your goal is the most viewership.”
“I... guess? That’s—that’s a good question.”
I started posting almost as soon as the app came out. I used to write lengthy captions about single subjects—rediscovering myfather’s golf tournament trophy, the feelings behind Nene’s Earl Grey—but none of that seemed to capture the public imagination like selfies and café flat lays, so I stopped with that type of storytelling. Once I felt the love, I kept giving people what they wanted, and the likes and comments kept growing. It makes me feel like at least I’m good at something. Worth something. But what is it that I’m good at? Not photography—I learned a couple of tricks, that’s all; small accounts’ photos are way better than mine. “Peoplelikeme, damn it,” is what I want to shout about my Instagram, to defend it. Then I remember Raffi’s message, begging to see more selfies, and I wonder what exactly it is that I’m trying to get people to like about me.
“It does feel hollow after a while,” I admit. “But I don’t know what to do about that.”
Her voice ticks up a notch. “I’m sorry if that upset you. That was rude of me, considering I’m a hack artist who’s taken up a whole year on these crystal khachkars and still haven’t gotten to where I want to be. You have a gift for this, and I just disrespected you over it. It’s not my place.”
I give her a couple ofNo, it’s okays. She shakes her head. “That could have been me talking to myself. I am trying to push myself to be the best, to maintain artistic purity in my vision. Who the hell am I to slander someone who’s made it?”
“I haven’t made it. I only have thirty thousand followers or so.”
“You have. I’ve seen the way people fawn over you in the comments.” Then, a twitch at the corner of her mouth. “Got a little jealous of the ones under your selfies, to be honest.”
I make atsksound (Armenians love to do that, the Greatest Generation is all about it). “Stop, you didn’t.”
“I did. Then had to talk myself down.Ere, you have no idea ifthis woman is remotely interested in you. Though she did mention pride in a strange way, so that might have been her signal.”
I burst out laughing at the memory of my awkwardness. And we recount that evening from each of our perspectives, adding layers and layers to the memory.
•••
We’re in frontof my home now. The road is thrown into an orange glow by the streetlamps and the mist slicking the streets.
“The family home,” I say. It’s true. I’ve lived in one house my whole life, with the exception of my four years at Davis. I can’t imagine this building not beinghometo me forever. Even if I don’t live here later (which, like, I hope I don’t; I would like to get my own place at some point), with Mom and Nene living here, it’ll always be home base. There are our treacherous stairs leading up to the front door—the eucalyptus tree’s roots have been slowly pushing the steps around for years, so pieces of stone are coming apart or slanted. The roof has Mediterranean-style shingles and the architecture is what I’d call “boring late 1920s.” We were too late for the ornate Victorian and Edwardian and iconic Marina-style homes and got a nondescript box with a few smaller boxes attached. But there is one unusual ornamentation—on the front face of the house, above the living room window, there’s a keyhole surrounded by leaflike flourishes.
“I would have killed, as a teenager, to have grown up in the city. I hated Fresno then, the oppressive heat. I had a summer job cleaning cars at one point. Theinteriors. And every day was at least ninety, usually more like a hundred. And you got to grow up here, where at the height of summer your home is being hugged by the fog.”
A hug—not how I would ever put it, but I like seeing the summer cold through her eyes.
She perks up. “Hey, speaking of, tomorrow is the summer solstice.”
I marvel at how time passes so quickly once you leave school. I can’t believe we’ve already almost hit the longest day of the year and I’ve hardly gotten to enjoy it.
“The solstice is a celebration of the Earth, and her lover, the Sun, being as close as possible. It’s supposed to be the perfect day of creation. There’s a bonfire at Ocean Beach with some of my Wiccan friends if you want to come.”
I typicallyhaaaaaaateSan Francisco’s beaches, because—you guessed it—freezing frickin’ cold. Violent winds lashing your hair across your face. Like, even if you tie it, the winds pull it right out and whip the baby hairs all up in your eyes. And if you try to go in the water, God help you. Your feet will crack right off. I have shivered my ass off at Ocean Beach one too many times. But this is Erebuni asking, and a Wiccan bonfire does have my witch-hearted little-kid self dancing at the thought.
“I’m in.”
“Bring something to burn. A sacrifice.”
“Not a virgin, right? I don’t know anyone left in that category. Though there is this one guy from editing who’s a real incel jerk type—”
She smirks. “Something you want to let go of, clear out. Something to purify your creative process.”
