A recent venture of mine. This is rated M for a reason – hint? The sex.

Disclaimer: I do not own Degrassi, or the Charlatan – that really does belong to Carleton University. The Daily Apple Accent is a byproduct of my imagination, though, which is why the name sucks so hard.

Enjoy.

"What's it like? I need to know, Clare; I'm trying to live vicariously through you."

"What's there to tell?" I sighed into my phone. I had only been in my new apartment for one day and Alli was already pressing for the latest buzz.

An eager beaver, that one.

"Well, that's just not exciting," she pouted. "When do you start at the paper?"

I toed off my shoes and sat cross-legged on my couch – the only piece of furniture that was assembled in my bland, new-to-me home. "I have to be there in three hours for a meet-the-team kind of thing. Then I'm discussing my first story with my editor, but aside from that, I'm pretty sure my first day in my own office will be Monday."

"I can't believe you're in New York. Just think! In a couple of years, you could be at the New York Times, living like a superstar!"

"I don't think journalists live like superstars, Alls." The New York Times, eh? One could dream.

"So I'm guessing that there won't be any clubbing for a certain Miss Edwards?"

"I said I'm not a superstar, I didn't say I'm boring."

"Great, so when should I schedule my train ticket for a weekend visit with my sistah from another mistah?" Alli giggled, and I couldn't contain my smile.

"Soon, I hope! Just let me get settled in here and you'll be taking a much-needed break from Baltimore before you know it."

This is how life had been for the last four years; Alli and I had hardly gotten to see each other while I was studying journalism at Carleton U and she was kicking ass and taking names at MIT Pre-Med. Somehow, we managed to stay close with as many Skype calls as possible and countless text messages and e-mails.

Our last year of high school had been less than ideal – I didn't get accepted into my dream school after my grades slipped thanks to stupid cancer putting me behind; I was practically running Student Council because my President, and now good friend, Drew, was more interested in parties and macking on the brainless, underage broads of Degrassi; and then my boyfriend and I broke up after I cheated on him with my idiot President in a moment of insanity, though Eli had cheated on me first so I tried justifying it. Unsuccessfully, of course.

"Splendid, because Johns Hopkins is just not the party scene that I've been craving."

"Right, because all of the Dave Turners and Johnny DiMarcos aren't exactly fleeing towards medical schools."

Alli laughed and I could hear her shuffling papers through the speaker. "What happened to rule number one?"

"Never speak of DiMarco," I groaned jokingly. "Though you should probably reconsider that rule since you decide to spread your legs for him every time you head back to Toronto for breaks."

"I plead the fifth."

"You would."

"Agh, I'm going to be so late and it's looking an all-nighter is in the cards for Backwoods, so I'll talk to you later? Text me; let me know how everyone at your office is – especially the attractive ones."

"Will do. Later, Al."

I looked around at my bare apartment, wrinkling my nose at the seemingly endless stacks of cardboard boxes that needed to be unpacked. This is what Adulthood felt like, huh? Fresh out of university, an awesome job opportunity in a city full of nothing but opportunities, and my first apartment . . . to live in all alone.

Maybe I should get a cat.

xxxx

The Daily Apple Accent was not hard to find, although my handy-dandy Maps app likely deserved all of the credit there.

"Clare Edwards! It is so nice to see you again." My Editor in Chief, Liberty Van Zandt beamed at me. Her manicured hand stretched out to shake mine and I felt immediately welcomed. I had only met Liberty once before; she spoke to me at a job fair that I was covering for The Charlatan, my University's independent newspaper. She told me that she respected my moxie and the next thing I knew, she was offering me a columnist position in New York City.

Who was I to refuse?

Two months and multiple video chats with Liberty later, I was graduating from Carleton and making plans for The States. To say that my mother was proud would be entirely understated, but the water works were brought into full blast when she realized that I wouldn't be coming back to Toronto after leaving Ottawa.

"This is so amazing, I really don't know what to say. Thank you for giving me this chance, Ms. Van Zandt."

"Please, Clare, call me Liberty. We're all friends here," and her smile never faltered, not even a little. The door to the conference room we sat in opened quietly and in walked who I presumed to be Boss Man. "Oh, right on time! Toby, this is Clare, our brilliant new journalist. Clare, I'd like you to meet Toby Isaacs, our Publisher.

Boss Man, indeed.

I stood awkwardly and offered Toby Isaacs my hand. "Hi – hello! It's so great to finally meet you."

My new boss smiled warmly at me, shaking my hand politely and taking his seat across from me, next to Liberty Van Zandt – er, Liberty. "I've read your portfolio, Clare – is it okay if I call you Clare?" I nodded. "I've read your portfolio and I'm impressed. It seems as if you can cover everything and you do it seamlessly. I'm really excited to have you on the Accent Team; Liberty only recruits the best."

"Thank you so much, Mr. Isaacs. I'm so appreciative, and I promise I won't let down either of you."

While I sat in that conference room with the two people who were taking a chance on the neurotic, twenty-two year old journalism major from Southern Ontario – when they had a superfluity of brainy, balanced hopefuls from right within their own city limits – I felt an overwhelming surge of belonging.

During the meeting, I was introduced to plenty of other columnists who I would be working with, given a tour of the building and the keys to my office.

My office.

I could get used to that.

Also, I'd been briefed on my first assignment which would be an on-going piece. Evidently, I had been hired to primarily cover the arts which I was absolutely ecstatic about. Theater had always been a second love of mine, mostly due to the fact that my parents tugged Darcy and I along to any and all musicals and dramas that Toronto had to offer when we were kids.

I was covering an original play simply named "Cynical," though I had not yet learned who the director was. It was an off-Broadway show that was expected to put this writer/director on the map, and I would have the chance to interview him or her from the beginning of stardom which was a huge deal to a lowly news newbie in The Big Apple.

Walking down the bustling streets of the city, trying my hardest not to look like a tourist, my phone chimed and I glanced down to see a text message from Rebecca Baker, and I was quickly reminded that she also lived in the city; she had recently graduated from Columbia, the school that rejected me. I wasn't bitter.

Hey, do you still want to meet for a quick bite? I'd love to catch up with you! -BB

I smiled fondly. Becky Baker had certainly transformed over the years; she had gone from homophobic New Girl and my ex-boyfriend's arch-enemy, to my best friend's girlfriend, and then she became one of my closest friends, too – along with Imogen, who I missed deeply.

When and where? I'm on 42nd Street now. Anywhere close?

xxxx

"You're gonna explode," I laughed in the picturesque twenty-four-hour diner we sat in. "How many milkshakes can you drink?"

"You'd be surprised," Becky answered, slurping up the last bit of her third. "I'm so glad you're here, Clare. Seriously. It's been like a Degrassi reunion around here lately – and I'm loving every second of it!"

My eyebrows rose while I popped a french fry into my mouth. "Degrassi reunion? Who else from our graduating class lives here?" I teased.

Becky's quiet giggle and hand wave almost disguised her sudden look of "oh shit oh shit oh shit."

Almost.

"Oh, well – no one from our class. Do you remember Fiona Coyne? I never met her at Degrassi, but Imogen talked about her incessantly so I added her on Facerange. I saw that she lives in the city, so we, you know, grab dinner sometimes. With friends. Nothing special." She was rambling. And stuttering.

"Wow, three whole people from Degrassi?" I smirked. "Hardly sounds like a reunion."

Becky gulped and averted my gaze, waving the waiter over for a fourth milkshake – vanilla, this time.

"Anyway! I bet you're dying to start at the Accent," she slid gracefully into a new subject. "What column are you writing for – did they place you yet?"

My cheeks hurt from smiling so hard. "I did and you're gonna love this. I get to cover the arts!" The two of us squealed in our booth, Becky reaching over to squeeze my shoulders.

"Clare, that's awesome! If you ever need a date to a show, I'm your girl," she smiled in a way that was so Becky. I always admired her love for drama – I mean that theatrically, not literally. Her personal drama, I could have done without.

But that was the past.

I was elated to have a friend like Rebecca Baker here with me during all of the new craziness in my life. I made a mental note to send Fiona an e-mail so that we could catch up as well.

"Seriously, I get to watch musicals and plays and talk to brilliant writers for my job. I thought for sure that my first assignment at The Daily Apple Accent would be boring editorials or book reviews, not something so exciting."

"You deserve it, though. You worked hard for this."

I did, didn't I?

"Yeah, it's just unreal. It blows my mind that high school was four years ago. Things changed so fast. We're like . . . adults now." We both laughed quietly. "That's scary stuff, Becks."

"Agreed," she nodded. "So what's your first piece? I've been too busy with work, lately, so I really couldn't even tell you what's playing right now."

"Uh, I don't know much about it yet." I bit my lip, trying to remember the name of the play I would be covering. "'Cynical'! It's called 'Cynical.'" And Becky dropped her spoon into her milkshake glass but I chalked it up to clumsiness and continued. "It's apparently in the early stages of production and it won't be playing for another few months. My editor is setting up a meeting with the director sometime next week. I don't even know who she is," I chuckled, embarrassed that I couldn't offer more elaboration on my project.

"He," Becky whispered, barley audible.

"Sorry?"

"He," she repeated, still quiet. "You don't know who he is. But I do."

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Thanks for reading! -CK