As You Are

by Claire Cain

  “I understand your position, Ms. Kent. I can imagine it’s upsetting to hear this news, and honestly, I want to believe you. I’m inclined to believe you, but you know I can’t represent someone who has a whiff of this on them. Publishers won’t even look at it.”

  “It is most certainly original, Ms. Quint. This is madness, and I have no idea what to do,” I said, feeling a little drop of venom enter my words. I closed my eyes tight and took a deep breath as she spoke.

  “Ms. Kent, I think it’s best I refer you to our legal lead, Mr. Berry. I’ll email you his contact information. I hope he can help with this, because truly, I’m rooting for you. But short of a clear admission from the thief, I won’t be able to continue our correspondence. Goodbye.” And she was gone. Just like that, she hung up.

  I didn’t get a chance to defend myself. I’d tried, but I was the presumed thief? How was this happening? How had I spent hundreds of hours tapping out words on my computer, straight from my own brain, only to be accused of one of the most accursed and loathsome sins a teacher or writer could fathom?

  I felt that familiar warring of rage and hurt split my chest, and I didn’t know whether to scream or cry. I felt very near both and decided I couldn’t stay at work. I dropped by Erin’s desk on the way out.

  “Hey, I’m going to head home early. I’m feeling pretty bad,” I said and sniffled for effect. Except it wasn’t, because the tears I’d suppressed as I signed out of my computer and gathered my things won out for a moment before I shut them down and my nose started running in response.

  She must have seen something in my face to confirm that because sweet Erin with her freckled nose and strawberry hair nodded and said, “Feel better” and gave me a pitying look. Fortunately, I avoided any scrutiny from Bec or Lacy and made a break for my car.

  I wanted to call my parents, but that impulse was quickly checked by the very real sense I didn’t want to face their scorn, or worse, their pity. I hadn’t come clean with them about my desire to write or my lack of desire to teach. I hadn’t put it in words they’d understand, and coming to them now with this failure, even if it wasn’t a failure I could control, was intolerable.

  I’d call Alex, but I still couldn’t figure out how to tell her. In the span of a little more than twenty-four hours I’d lost the ability to pursue a project I cared about and also provided for my basic needs so I had time to write, and I’d lost any sense of surety I had in my ability to write. This didn’t have anything to do with my ability to write, and yet somehow I was being called a cheater—a thief, and I couldn’t stand it.

  As soon as I walked in my apartment, I threw my keys and purse and really wanted to punch something. I wasn’t particularly prone to physically acting out, but I felt a kind of momentum building in me, and I had to find a way to unleash it on something other than the next person I talked to.

  I had to wait until Angelica contacted me with the legal department’s information. But then what? Was I going to have to get a lawyer? I didn’t have money for that, nor did I want to spend the time. Not that I could stand not to defend myself—that didn’t seem like an option either.

  I checked my email and found Angelica had followed through and sent the agency’s legal person—Mr. Berry’s—information. I emailed immediately (and would have called, but there was no number listed). I laid out a thorough accounting of my records, indicating drafts of the novel were saved every five thousand words. It would be easy to see it in development and then as I revised to get it to where it was when I sent it to Angelica.

  After sending that email, I paced the apartment and checked my email a dozen times in the span of ten minutes. I couldn’t stay there circling my computer like a vulture, so I tossed on workout clothes and went out into the too-warm early summer air. It was only May, but it was into the high seventies with blazing sun before noon. This would be a way to relieve some of my fury.

  I thought through my plan of attack, and what I’d do next. I guessed at how long Mr. Berry would take to get back to me. I ran five miles and decided I wasn’t ready to deal with the reality yet, so I kept going. Finally, I let myself space out and focus on my breathing, the tightness in my chest from the fast pace I was setting, and on the songs that pumped into my old iPod shuffle clipped on the strap of my sports bra.

  By the time I slowed and began walking at the edge of the apartment complex’s parking lot, I’d run ten miles. I was overheated, underfed, and under-watered. I’d run a personal record for pace, but the runner’s high that usually came was absent so far—I could tell I was sunburnt, and I felt absolutely ill. I followed the sidewalk that wound around the property and was almost home when I saw Jake.

  My heart pumped louder again, and I wished I had my phone so I could pretend to be on it. He walked from his car to his house, maybe home for a late lunch or off early, I didn’t know, but he saw me. He stopped, like the sight of me surprised him, and then changed course to walk toward me.

  As much as a huge part of me wanted to go to him, let him hug me and comfort me, the thought of telling him about all of this made my insides pitch and roil. Add to that my frustration with myself about how I felt about him, and us, and it was just… I couldn’t do it. This was all assuming he would even be willing to talk to me. I couldn’t face a rejection—another one—from him. Not today.

  So, I looked away. I averted my eyes and followed the path around to my house without acknowledging him. He knew I saw him—we’d made eye contact. But I couldn’t face him. I couldn’t.

  I made myself wait until I was showered to check my email. I thought maybe it’d help guarantee I’d have a response. One small happiness—this worked. I had an email time-stamped ten minutes earlier.

  The news was not good, and my hopes sank lower. Mr. Berry provided me the name of the person who submitted the work to another agent at the agency first, by about a week. The bad news was Mr. Berry didn’t seem to think there was any amount of information I could provide them that would prove I was the original author and that the content had, in fact, been stolen from me.

  The continued bad news was I knew who it was and had known from the moment I’d received Angelica Quint’s email. That meant this wasn’t all just a huge, horrible misunderstanding, and that filled me, if possible, with an even stronger sense of dread.

  Her name was Cathy Matthews, or “CathMath77” as I knew her through our writing workshop discussion board. We’d paired up after many months of thoughtful feedback. I’d sent her my almost-final draft for reading. I thought of her as a colleague, a peer, a friendly neighboring writer.

  The fact that she hadn’t had a full draft ready to show me hadn’t caused concern. I was writing like a bat out of hell, and I was a single woman with no kids—I had time like no one’s business compared to many aspiring writers. I could understand she hadn’t met the totally arbitrary deadline of March fifteenth we’d set for our full peer review—but she knew I had an agent in mind I wanted to query as soon as I could, so she’d had no problem reading my book. I hadn’t thought twice about that. I never would have guessed she either didn’t have her own novel, or she was planning to steal mine.

  Those damned ides of March—I should have known!

  She’d said she would have a draft for me, but it would take a while. But she did give me helpful feedback. She’d been doing it all along. So why, in the name of all that was honest and decent and not totally trashy and cheatery and rude (rage made me eloquent) would she steal my novel?

  I couldn’t even think. What should I do first? Hunt her down or contact a lawyer? I pulled up the discussion board, looked for her there, and sent her a private message. I also sent her an email at the address where I sent the manuscript months before. I knew, once I hit send, there was no way I’d hear from her.

  Then, I composed my email back to Mr. Berry at Quint. I laid out every single draft, the date ranges, and even the copied text of emails from peer review from Matthews back to me. I offered to forward the email in which
she gave me feedback in the document of my novel. I did everything in my power to sound reasonable and even managed to avoid typing in all caps and italics and bold. I considered placing it entirely in Impact or Stencil font for effect, to better convey the veracity and vigor of my words. I resisted this, too, knowing any coat but that of Times New Roman in a dire circumstance such as this, dealing with the ugliest of sins a teacher and writer could name, would be ineffective.

  Once I sent the email off, I felt even more upset. I thought about how the agency immediately suspected me. My initial feeling was of an injustice, but could I fault them? They’d identified another writer’s work as the original because she’d submitted her work (false: my work) to an agent a week before me. The timing was suspicious, but wouldn’t they assume the original author submitted first?

  I’d once had a case of collusion in my freshmen writing courses. Two students had turned in essays that were nearly identical. In the end, one student had outright cheated, and the other had been foolish enough to leave his essay up on his computer screen while he went to the dining hall. Even though his was the original, it came in second.

  But I remembered the moment the unsuspecting student’s essay came in, and I saw the match. I remembered thinking he must have been the cheating party, if both students weren’t, because he’d turned his in second. It turned out he hadn’t finished his conclusion or works cited page on the draft that was stolen, and these were items that were missing from the other student’s essay that was submitted hours before. They were left out because she couldn’t summon the will to complete even those small portions for herself.

  In my case, I could grudgingly admit that being the second person to submit a novel, even if there were small differences between the drafts, looked bad for me. Really bad. And that only made me angrier.

  What I couldn’t grasp was why she did it. Why steal someone’s work? I could mentally assent, on some level, to the fact that cheating in college, particularly in general education courses, made a certain amount of unethical and completely problematic but logical sense.

  But this? Writing a work of fiction as a hobby or even as a potential career? How would she expect to repeat her work? How could she possibly take a contract and then plan to do any writing herself knowing her voice was different than mine?

  I sat on the couch, my laptop closed beside me to keep from incessantly checking for a response from Mr. Berry, and my mind was blank. My body hurt, my heart hurt, and my mind was an exhausted pile of mush. I was startled out of my mental void when I heard a knock at my sliding door.

  My heart jumped into my throat because I knew exactly who it’d be. I summoned what little energy and bravery I had left for the day and rolled off the couch. I pulled back the sheer curtains that hung there, and there he was. I felt a surge of gratitude for him coming, but it danced with the equally powerful sensation of dread. I didn’t want to tell him about these failures. I didn’t want to admit I wasn’t the best. I didn’t want him to tell me he didn’t want me anymore.

  I slid open the door reluctantly, and even though I was feeling more and more upset at seeing him, a small part of me sighed a little, relaxed to see him there.

  He stepped through the door, neither of us speaking, and before I could drop back to the couch where I’d been sitting, he put a hand on my shoulder and turned me to him.

  “What’s going on Ellie?” His face was so sincere and concerned, I felt a pang of something. It was like nostalgia—a longing for him in a different life.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t speak to you earlier,” I said, starting with the simplest thing first.

  “I could tell you were upset. Tell me what’s happening,” his voice was pleading, not demanding—he was worried about me.

  “I don’t… I haven’t wanted to. It’s just… it’s so…” I couldn’t speak in a full sentence. My thoughts were racing, and I didn’t know where to start, or if I even wanted to tell him. A part of me did, but I knew the largest section of my internal pie chart said hell no.

  “Tell me. Please.”

  I pursed my lips, smashing them together, and felt the anger and frustration and desperation I had felt building in the last two days simmering, but I nodded and then spoke. “I lost the project, to start with. I can finish what I have, but no extension. They think it’s done. They said, ‘Great job, you’re amazing, we love what you’ve done, but we’re good.’ They said they thought what I gathered was all they’d need to push for new policies and other stuff they didn’t specify. They awarded the grant to someone else—a different project,” I said, trying to relax the snarl in my voice.

  “But you applied for—”

  “Yes, I applied for other grants, but they were all small, just things to supplement. There’s no way I can do it without that one.” I clenched my teeth. He watched me, unblinking, and I waited for him to respond.

  “But can you reapply? Challenge their decision? Or—”

  “Listen, I’ve thought it through. There’s nothing to be done here—at least I don’t think there is. That’s done now,” I said, my voice so sharp it might have cut him.

  “Ok,” he said in a low, calm voice. It was the voice you’d use to speak to a wounded animal or a baby who just finished crying maniacally. It spoke to the clawed, hollowed-out part of me, and it infuriated me.

  “Well it gets better! Today I got an email from my would-be agent telling me they suspect I plagiarized my novel. The novel I just finished. The novel I spent hours writing over the last few months and I’ve been thinking about writing for several years.” I shrugged off his hand and started pacing a circle around my couch. He stayed in place and crossed his arms.

  “Wow,” he said, shaking his head.

  “I know. I know. And I can’t do anything about it. I’m trying to talk to lawyers. The agent I’ve been in contact with assumed I was the person who plagiarized, and the agency’s legal rep is essentially treating me the same way. I have no way to pay for a lawyer to deal with this by myself, and…” I felt my voice catch and gritted my teeth. I didn’t want to cry about this, not in front of him, not right now. “I know who did it. I can’t believe they’d accuse me of this, even though I know it’s part of their job, and this soulless thief of my work is cowering somewhere in a hole instead of dealing with it like a woman. I don’t know what to do, and I’m pissed off, and I don’t even know what to say or do now.” I blew out a deep breath, continuing to pace. It funneled my energy, the adrenaline that had calmed down and been exhausted during my run now pumping freely in the face of reciting to Jake what had happened.

  “Well… did you plagiarize?” His words seemed to echo in my small apartment, despite the fact that made absolutely no sense acoustically.

  I felt my breath flow out of me on a whoosh, felt my jaw drop, and my eyes were wide with disbelief.

  It felt like he stabbed me. He took that nasty word to a smith and had it fashioned into a blade for the sole purpose of stabbing me in the heart.

  I snapped.

  “You need to go.” My voice was low and shaky, and I was holding on to the back of the couch with one hand, the other hand a fist clutched to my chest to stop the bleeding I swore I could feel.

  “Ellie—”

  “Go Jake. Just go. I can’t do this right now. You need to go.”

  “This isn’t something you should have to—”

  “Please. Please go,” I said, an edge of desperation coloring my words as I walked away from him toward the bathroom. I shut myself in and leaned against the door, not able to understand anything other than wanting him gone, and I knew he would be when I came out.

  A few minutes later, I walked out to the living room. No sign of him was there, and for whatever reason, that was what broke me. I shattered there, facing the now-closed patio door. The force of my sob shook me so hard I bent over, no longer able to stand up.

  I slid down against the back of the couch and wrapped my arms around my knees. I could feel the wood frame
of the couch digging into my shoulder blade through the fabric of my shirt and the couch itself, but I didn’t move. I sat there and let myself cry and cry and cry.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I didn’t move until my phone buzzed on the coffee table behind me a while later. It was a text from Alex. I’m at an event tonight but it has been too long! I’m coming to Luke’s for dinner tomorrow but let me come by and see you first. Will you be home?

  I felt a mingling of relief and sadness wash over me. I was glad I’d get to see her tomorrow, but I wanted to talk to her tonight. I didn’t have the energy, but I wanted help, comfort, everything to be fixed so bad I could hardly breathe. It was like all of this madness had piled up inside my lungs, the pneumonia of my failures, and I couldn’t take a breath until they were removed. I knew Alex would help remove them. I knew it.

  For now, I was left to wallow, which I did with a healthy dose of Nancy Meyers. I watched Something’s Gotta Give and then moved to It’s Complicated but only got five minutes in before I remembered Alec Baldwin’s character’s name was Jake.

  Even though he and my Jake, Jake Harrison, shared nothing in the way of looks or bearing or appeal (sorry Alec, but even when my heart is both broken and enraged, he wins by a mile), I couldn’t hear it. I couldn’t hear Meryl Streep say his name and not want to cry. Why Meryl? Why can’t you let me stay away from that mental mess and enjoy you and Steve Martin being adorable and making pastries together?

  I reluctantly abandoned the TV and went to bed. I couldn’t stop Jake’s words from sounding in my head as I lay in the dark, exhausted but fully conscious. Did you plagiarize?

  He’d asked me as though there was even a remote possibility I would. That I could. That my integrity was at question in some way and I could have done it. I didn’t hear judgment in it, but maybe there was—there probably was. There had to have been. This man was the pinnacle of high expectation and achievement, so if he thought for even a moment I cheated as I was explaining what happened—