“Why did I agree to do this again?” I asked Cleo, who was bent over a plastic folding table set up in the corner of the NYN greenroom, smearing cream cheese on an everything bagel. “I haven’t been on TV since I was interviewed by the local news in third grade about why New Haven pizza is the best in America. And I had a crumb under my nose the whole time, and for the rest of elementary school, kids called me ‘Booger.’ That should have been an omen or something.”

“How the hell have I never heard that story before?” Cleo asked with a guffaw. “That’s hilarious.”

“Because it was traumatizing, and I’ve tried everything in my power to forget it. And of course my mom texted me about it today.”

Wow honey your first time on TV since third grade! Good luck! is what she’d messaged me earlier this morning, followed by How is the job search going? It hadn’t even been a week, and already I could feel her maternal worry hovering over my shoulder, which always left me feeling stressed, afraid I’d somehow let her down.

My mom and stepdad’s opinion had always been that the best kind of job was the one that pays well, not the one that fulfilled your soul. Just the fact that I’d pursued a creative career had always made them nervous, and while they tried to keep that anxiety to themselves, I could still vividly recall them both sitting at the kitchen table, teeth clenched, as I described yet another low-paying internship. Maybe they worried like this because I was an only child. But then again, I had a lot of friends who were the only kid in their family, and none of them seemed to feel like they existed just to make their parents happy.

My job at Spayce had checked all the boxes for them, though, and maybe that’s why I’d been comfortable staying put. It paid well. It was steady. Still, if I texted my mom back and told her I was abandoning all my interior design dreams to become an accountant, she’d be thrilled. The practical always won out with her, no matter what, and I hated feeling like I was on my way to disappointing her and also proving her right.

“Well, look, you’re doing this because she said it was a good idea.” Cleo shook her head at Lola, who was wedged into the corner of the couch I was perched on, squinting at her iPhone.

“Lola said you should do it because it’s bullshit that someone can take a photo of you on the subway and make up a story about it like it’s some sort of movie,” said Lola in a chiding tone. She glanced up to glare jokingly in Cleo’s direction.