by Brea Brown
“Your sentences are too damn long.”
“I will not dumb it down for any reader,” I instantly bristle.
Ignoring me, he continues, “In emotional passages such as these, short, brisk sentences are more powerful. They make the reader read at the same pace that the protagonist is thinking. Or even breathing. Think about it: when you’re upset, do you feel in long, prosaic sentences? No. You think like this: ‘I hate this fucking asshole. Who does he think he is? When can I leave?’ I know I think in short bursts when I’m angry or annoyed. ‘I can’t believe this. Saddled with a no-namer. She writes fluff, for fuck’s sake!’ See?” He looks up at me and holds my eye contact, as if we’re talking about nothing more emotional than the price of unleaded gas.
I blink in a way that probably makes me look insane. But I honestly don’t know how to respond to what he’s said to me. To my chagrin what finally falls from my lips is a lame proviso about the version of the book to which he’s currently referring. “I’ve changed a lot since that version. I tweak it all the time. I like to tweak.”
“Not anymore, you don’t,” he informs me. “From here on out, you don’t touch a damn syllable in this manuscript unless I tell you to.”
“Anything else?” I snip.
“Yeah. Since you’ve pointed out I don’t have the most current copy, you need to email that to me by the end of the day. Preferably by 2 p.m. Or if you have a copy with you,” he nods toward my ever-present laptop bag, “you can leave it with Sally on your way out.”
Dismissed, he effectively says by standing up.
“You’re going to actually read it?” I ask caustically, taking my cue from him and rising from the sofa. There’s no way I’m going to let him look down on me.
Disgusted with my childish question, he sighs and answers, “Of course I am. It’s my job, isn’t it? If you get it to me by two, like I’ve asked, I’ll have my first run-through completed by the end of the day.”
“How gracious of you.”
Maybe it’s my sarcasm. Or maybe it’s the traitorous wobbling of my voice when I say that. Either way, he seems to soften.
“Listen. Ms. Greer. Don’t take it personally, alright? Your manuscript doesn’t fit into my usual genre. And I’m a bit annoyed that I have to divert attention away from my other authors—who are established writers with proven selling power—to hold your freshman little hand.” When I say nothing, he finishes in the same patronizing tone, “Surely you understand.”
I loop my laptop bag over my head and drop it from such a height that I grunt when the weight settles on my shoulder. “Totally,” I tell him in a stone cold tone of voice as I walk alone to his office door. Then I make sure it’s wide open before I turn back to him and loudly say, “And you are an asshole,” before stalking from the room with my nose in the air.
Chapter Two
While I wait for the slowest elevator in the world to arrive, I seethe and try to recover my composure. Then I remember Editor Douchebag’s request for my manuscript and mutter, “Shit.” A guy standing next to me tries to pretend he’s watching the floor numbers light up, but I can tell he’s looking at me from the corner of his eye. Ignoring the tiny smirk my outburst has produced, I turn on my heel and return the way I came.
Sally smiles politely and blankly at me when I stop in front of her desk again. “Ms. Greer,” she says pleasantly. “Did you forget something?”
I dig a thumb drive from my laptop bag and hold it out to her. “Would it be possible for you to copy a file from this and get it to Mr.—” I stop myself right before calling him one of the dozens of rude nicknames I’ve invented for him since storming from his office a few minutes ago. “…Edwards?”
As she’s taking the plastic device from me and plugging it into her computer, the man himself emerges from his office. When he sees me, he pauses as he shrugs into his suit jacket, but he quickly recovers, pretending I’m not even there as he continues on his path across the small public area to one of the other office doors, which is marked, “Blanche Turner, MA, Ph.D., Senior Editor, Creative Design.”
I also pretend to ignore him, going so far as to turn my back on him as he raps his knuckles perfunctorily on Ms. Turner’s door before opening it and saying without preamble to the occupant, “Who the hell do you have working down there on cover art, anyway? That painting elephant that’s always in the news?”
A tinkling laugh spills from the office. “God, I wish! Maybe then we’d get something original once in a while.” There’s a pause and then a teasing, “Sheesh, Luke. Rough morning? You look like someone called and told you your pet turtle died.”
Instead of answering, he grumps, “Are you coming with me for coffee, or not?”
“Not, if you’re going to be an ass-face the whole time,” she replies lightly, but I can hear her opening and closing a desk drawer and her voice coming closer to the reception area as she provokes, “Does Lukey-Pookie need a hug?”
At this, Sally focuses all of her concentration on her computer monitor and tries valiantly to hide a smile. I can’t resist turning to see his reaction to such a horrible pet name said in such a baby-talk tone in earshot of other people.
I’m surprised to see that he’s trying not to laugh. His face looks completely different when it’s not so stormy. Before he catches me watching, though, I look down and pretend I’m reading something on my phone, which I’ve had out of my pocket since leaving his office, preparing to call Tullah as soon as I’m clear of the building.
“I’m about to take back my invitation,” he threatens impotently, pushing playfully on her shoulder as they stroll casually toward the elevators. “I hate when you get like this.”
“No, you love it,” she accuses.
Then he says something too low for me to hear as they move further away, but whatever it is makes Blanche (who could be the model for the woman in the convertible on the mint book jacket) throw her head back and laugh so loudly that people poke their heads from their offices to see what’s going on.
Returning my thumb drive to me, Sally mutters, “Thank God for Blanche, or we’d all be walking on eggshells around here all the time.”
“Yeah,” I commiserate with her, even though I’m not sure I feel exactly thankful for flirty Blanche.
She’s one of those women that I generally distrust. You know, the kind who’s beautiful and knows it; who struts her stuff and uses her looks to get her way with everything—and every man. I don’t have much respect for women like that. Or maybe I wish I had a bit more of that in me. Life sure seems easier for people like her.
Trying to ignore my jealousy, I focus my attention on my original target and say to Sally, “He seems like a real winner. I don’t know how you work with him.”
She smiles shakily. “Oh, he’s not all that bad.” It sounds like she’s worried she’s being recorded, and anything she says can and will be used against her. “We try to keep him happy as much as possible. He has a bad temper, but other than that, he’s a good boss. And anyway, he’s the best in the business, so he’s allowed to be somewhat… volatile.”
I roll my eyes as I zip my bag. “Well, so far, I’m not impressed. He needs to work on his people skills.” He’s probably had people like Sally making excuses for him his whole life, though, so there’s fat chance of that, I guess.
Now the administrative assistant smiles more warmly. “And you caught him on a particularly bad day, which is your bum luck.”
“I think I’m the reason for his particularly bad day, unfortunately,” I tell her, on the outside chance she doesn’t already know. “Next time I’ll know to bring him a lamp made out of dead animal parts, and maybe then I’ll be on his good side.”
This statement earns me a laugh almost as loud as Blanche’s. Approvingly, Sally surveys me and says, “You know what? I’m sure you’re going to be just fine with Luke. As long as you keep your sense of humor about things. Dish it right back to him.” When I raise my eyebrow at her, she blushes. “Well, o
bviously, I can’t do that, but there’s no reason you can’t. You two are equals. And it sounded like you were holding your own in there earlier.”
“With less-than-perfect results,” I point out, but I appreciate the encouragement from someone who obviously knows what I’m dealing with. “Thanks, Sally. And, uh, thanks for getting that file to Mr. Edwards. He said he wanted it by 2:00.”
“Then he’ll get it at 2:00,” she replies with a wink. “No need rushing it and making him feel like you’re going to jump every time he snaps, right?”
I like this girl.
******
If one more person tells me how brilliant Lucas Edwards is, I’m going to puke. They’re supposed to be telling me how wonderful I am. When I slip and say that on the phone to Tullah, she laughs.
Recovering quickly, she says, “I think it goes without saying that I think you are. And I think it’s even more obvious that Thornfield thinks you are, since they assigned you to Luke. Trust me; he’s the best.”
“He’s an A1 dickhead,” I quickly point out. “He insulted me about six hundred times in a fifteen-minute meeting that was more perfunctory than a gynecological exam. He used the word ‘fluff’ to describe my book!”
It was almost a week ago, but the memory of it still upsets me, and I haven’t been able to get in touch with Tullah to tell her about it until now. Even my condensed retelling of what happened brings it all back like it happened yesterday.
I can hear the indulgent smile in her voice when she says, “Well, that wasn’t very nice. I’d be more than happy to talk to him about it, but I’m afraid that’s not going to help your cause. Remember: you don’t have to be friends with the guy. But he’s a pro and knows what he’s doing. If you cooperate with him, you may be surprised at how much you can learn from him. Now, I have to go. I’m sitting in on a meeting between Thornfield and a studio that wants to option your book.”
She says it so matter-of-factly that I almost say, “Fine. Bye,” without blinking. But when my brain catches up to my ears, I stutter, “Fi—what?!”
“You heard me. Now be a good girl and do your job, which right now is doing what the rest of us tell you to do.” Her tone is gentle, but the message is clear: “You’re the new kid and should probably do more observing and less talking until you figure out the hierarchy in this process.”
I feel about six years old when I hang up, but with the words “option your book” bouncing in my head like a ping-pong ball in a lottery machine, I soon decide it’s petty to dwell on certain slights perpetuated by a bit player in my professional life, which seems like it’s finally about to take off after years of stagnating.
Yes, suddenly, it’s a lot easier to put Mr. Edwards in perspective.
I mean, what did I expect? Did I think everything was going to be perfect? Did I feel that once I procured an agent, who in turn found a publisher for me, that everyone would bow down to me and kiss my feet? Is that what I deserve? My grown-up, logical side tells me that’s ridiculous, unrealistic, and egotistical. But the six-year-old in me says, “Yes! I’ve been through a lot! I’m ready for some happiness! I’ve earned this success! And I shouldn’t have to put up with insults at this stage of the game! It’s not fair!”
Too many exclamation points. One of my weaknesses. In addition to long, rambling sentences, apparently.
That thought makes my brain itch. I want so badly to find the nearest bench, crack open my laptop, and find every instance like the one Lucas Edwards circled in my manuscript. But… I’m under strict orders. First of all, I’m not allowed to do any more tweaking until I get my marching orders from the red pen of Mr. E. Second, I’m supposed to be cooperative and follow all orders given by the publishing pros, including Mr. E. Even if I’d rather willfully disobey him while sticking out my tongue and taunting, “Nah-nah nah-nah boo-boo!”
I’m a professional writer now. Emphasis on “professional.” I’ve almost attained a goal that I’ve been dreaming about since… since… well, I can’t remember a time when it wasn’t a dream of mine. So, I’m willing to do anything to see it through. What could Mr. Lucas Edwards possibly say or do to stop me now?
Chapter Three
“Shut the front door!” Gus nearly shouts when I tell him what Tullah said about her meeting this morning. Then he quickly and dramatically covers his mouth with his palm as several heads turn our way. Obviously, the other visitors to the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library aren’t interested in Gus’s interjections.
“Sorry,” he muffles behind his hand. After removing it, he continues at a much lower volume, “That’s… bajiggity. What a situation!”
I sigh, feeling twenty years old again, and not in a good way. Being transported back in time several years by this conversation is making me feel slightly queasy. Suddenly, I get a flash of the two of us in the library at Indiana University, where we met while getting our undergraduate degrees. He was always talking too loudly there, too. Or laughing. Or crying. Or otherwise making a scene. We even got kicked out once. No, twice.
What’s giving me the biggest feeling of déjà vu at this moment, however, isn’t the threat of being kicked out of the JFK Presidential Library (although that would be an embarrassment on a whole other level). No, it’s the fact that after all these years, Gus still talks—and acts—like he did as a college student. He uses the same made-up words and a vernacular that’s unique to him in an overly-dramatic way that’s a transparent ploy to grab as much attention as possible. I’d forgotten how maddening it is. And I’d hoped—although I know otherwise from keeping in touch with him since we went our separate ways for our respective careers—that he’d outgrown it.
But even though he gets on my nerves after the smallest of doses, he’s the closest thing to a brother—or any family—that I have. He’s like a case of athlete’s foot: persistent, recurrent, and impossible to ignore. And I have to admit, he’s the only one who’s shown that he cares enough to stay in my life, no matter how often I try to shake him. That’s meant a lot to me.
It’s not that I can’t make friends; it’s simply that I generally don’t want to make friends or get close to anyone. That’s one of the many charming byproducts of losing almost everyone near and dear to you at the tender age of eighteen. I never want to go through anything like that again. And life is too fickle and fragile to believe for an instant that it won’t happen again. It will. That’s why when I find myself getting attached to someone—platonically or romantically—I withdraw.
I make it sound like I’ve had lots of opportunities. Ha! I’ve viewed dating (and sex) very similarly to how I viewed drinking in college. It’s something I felt I needed to try, to say that I’d done it. But when it wasn’t as great as everyone made it out to be, I checked it off the list and moved on. As for friends, there are very few people I can tolerate. Oddly enough, one of the most challenging people I’ve ever met is the one whose friendship has stuck.
So now, keeping my eyes pinned on the diorama of the Nixon-Kennedy television debate, I inhale deeply through my nose and count to five before responding to Gus’s melodramatic response to my announcement. After all, a small part of me would have been either disappointed or worried if he’d replied with something bland like, “Oh, that’s nice.” And this news is big. I’m too new to the whole publishing experience to pretend otherwise.
“Yeah. I’m trying not to get my hopes up, but… it’s an amazing prospect,” I say with a grin and a pleasant little shiver.
“Who do you want to play Rose?” he asks eagerly. Before waiting for my answer, though, he rushes in with, “I’m seeing Scarlett Johansson. She’s the perfect blend of vulnerable and spunky, don’t you think? Plus, you kind of look like her…”
I resist the urge to insist that the protagonist isn’t me. Must not protest too much. Besides, everyone thinks writers base their main characters on themselves, so it would seem over-the-top for me to question Gus’s assumption. Play it cool, Jayne.
I wrinkle my nose at h
is choice. “I don’t see the resemblance.”
“Stop being humble, girlfriend,” he mildly scolds. “Trust me; I’ve given this a lot of thought. By the end of my first reading of your manuscript, I had the Hollywood cast figured out. I knew it was going to be a hit.”
His confidence is touching, and it’s a much-needed injection to my self-esteem after the week I’ve had going back and forth on the phone with Lucas Hard-Ass Edwards. To my dismay, I feel tears sting my eyes.
When I don’t say anything right away, he assumes I’m still hesitant about his leading lady choice, so he continues, “I know… she’s getting older, but I think she can still pull off a wide range of ages, including the youngest parts of the story. I mean, if Tom Hanks could play a high-school kid in Forrest Gump, then really…”
I laugh shakily and blink to eradicate the tears. “You know, I think you might have something there. She was good in Girl with a Pearl Earring. Like you said, the perfect blend of vulnerable, yet strong.” When it’s clear he hasn’t detected my sentimental reaction, I relax and get into his game a little more, focusing on the character in the book that most closely resembles the “Gus” in my life. “And for Jack, I’m seeing…” I pause for dramatic effect, pretending to think hard about it, but I know exactly what he wants to hear. “…Nicholas Hoult. Boyish, sensitive, and bespectacled, of course.”
“A Single Man Nicholas Hoult, not X-Men Nicholas Hoult,” he clarifies.
“Exactly,” I agree firmly with mock-seriousness.
He nudges me with his shoulder. “I’m serious!”
“I know!” I nudge back. “Who else?”
By silent agreement, we walk toward the exit, both of us having lost interest in the museum. Gus shifts his messenger bag for a more comfortable position on his shoulder. I pull my lip balm from my jeans pocket and moisturize my dry lips before passing the tube to Gus, whose upturned palm awaits.
He quickly applies a layer to his lips and presses them together with a “THWOCK!” Returning the stick to me, he states as we push through the exit doors and breathe in the salty late-spring air that holds the faint promise of summer, “Mom and Dad will be Joan Allen and John Schneider, respectively.”
