me.
What a metaphor. She’s always on top of things, always ahead of me.
I slow down my pace and hide in the doorway of the bodega on the corner so she doesn’t see me. The last thing I need right now is a confrontation with my arch enemy. This day has already been terrible enough.
I wait a few minutes and head back to the office, riding the thankfully working elevator to the top floor. The newsroom is relatively quiet; people are only just starting to trickle in. I glance at my desk and see my in tray is piled up with messages.
Ugh. I’m not looking forward to trawling through those. At least I’ve been checking my email. I think about how many paper memos I would have to attend to if this were thirty years ago, before the advent of email.
“Childs! In here!” Sandra barks.
I keep my purse on my shoulder and walk into her messy office. She slams the door behind me.
“You didn’t get the draft into me. I need it. Publication isn’t for another five months but we need an idea of the shape of the piece.”
I sigh. “Sorry,” I say. “I’m just still not comfortable with publishing this.”
Sandra turns red from anger. There’s a vein throbbing at her temple. “This company just spent a fortune putting you up at the nicest hotel in London so you could get a good story. I expected you to be a goddamned journalist and actually go where the fucking story was, Childs. You didn’t do that.”
I wince at all the cursing she’s doing. Confrontation isn’t my strongest suit, but I seem to keep finding myself at the heart of conflict over the last few days, much to my chagrin.
I exhale. “I just don’t feel right-“
“Listen, sweetheart, you were the one who decided to fuck this guy, not me. That’s your guilt to carry around. All I care about is the story. You know that by now. And the last draft you sent to me is so fucking boring I fell asleep reading it.”
“I know it needs some tweaking but-“
“Hand your notes to Brenda. She’ll write it for you. She’ll get the byline. You can go stand in the breadline if you’re not willing to meet this deadline. Is that what you want?”
I gulp. If I do that, it’ll all be for nothing. Brenda will be writing the story about Ryan from my detailed, intimate notes; the article will still be published. I won’t even get a byline on a featured piece. And Ryan will still hate me. What a waste of all of this.
I put my hand on my lower abdomen, thinking about the baby growing there. I can’t afford to lose this job at all. This is all I have. “I’ll write the story,” I say with false confidence. My stomach fills with dread and turns over as I say the words out loud.
Sandra claps her hand on her desk. “Good. I need that draft before day’s end, you got that? Otherwise, Brenda gets the story and you lose your job. This thing goes into print in five months. November issue. Get the damn story written. You’re a damn good writer. You’ve got this handled. Push your feelings aside and write the piece I know you can write.”
I nod and stand up. I already have the draft done and dusted. It’s the one that Ryan saw on my computer that I forgot to close out of. It’s the draft that made the father of my child not ever want to see me ever again.
Brenda is sitting out of her desk slightly out of breath and looking far too much like she doesn’t care. She’s pretending to be interested in a file on her desk. I have a feeling she overheard all of that conversation.
“Listening at keyholes again, Brenda?” The words are in the air before I can stop them.
She looks startled. “Like I give a shit about a conversation about your career, Childs.”
I’m filled with a sudden urge to slap her across the face. I get close to her, leaning in so she’s sure to see my face.
“I know you’re circling this story like a vulture, but you’re not getting it. Give up and move on already. Maybe you can actually work on making a name for yourself that
What a metaphor. She’s always on top of things, always ahead of me.
I slow down my pace and hide in the doorway of the bodega on the corner so she doesn’t see me. The last thing I need right now is a confrontation with my arch enemy. This day has already been terrible enough.
I wait a few minutes and head back to the office, riding the thankfully working elevator to the top floor. The newsroom is relatively quiet; people are only just starting to trickle in. I glance at my desk and see my in tray is piled up with messages.
Ugh. I’m not looking forward to trawling through those. At least I’ve been checking my email. I think about how many paper memos I would have to attend to if this were thirty years ago, before the advent of email.
“Childs! In here!” Sandra barks.
I keep my purse on my shoulder and walk into her messy office. She slams the door behind me.
“You didn’t get the draft into me. I need it. Publication isn’t for another five months but we need an idea of the shape of the piece.”
I sigh. “Sorry,” I say. “I’m just still not comfortable with publishing this.”
Sandra turns red from anger. There’s a vein throbbing at her temple. “This company just spent a fortune putting you up at the nicest hotel in London so you could get a good story. I expected you to be a goddamned journalist and actually go where the fucking story was, Childs. You didn’t do that.”
I wince at all the cursing she’s doing. Confrontation isn’t my strongest suit, but I seem to keep finding myself at the heart of conflict over the last few days, much to my chagrin.
I exhale. “I just don’t feel right-“
“Listen, sweetheart, you were the one who decided to fuck this guy, not me. That’s your guilt to carry around. All I care about is the story. You know that by now. And the last draft you sent to me is so fucking boring I fell asleep reading it.”
“I know it needs some tweaking but-“
“Hand your notes to Brenda. She’ll write it for you. She’ll get the byline. You can go stand in the breadline if you’re not willing to meet this deadline. Is that what you want?”
I gulp. If I do that, it’ll all be for nothing. Brenda will be writing the story about Ryan from my detailed, intimate notes; the article will still be published. I won’t even get a byline on a featured piece. And Ryan will still hate me. What a waste of all of this.
I put my hand on my lower abdomen, thinking about the baby growing there. I can’t afford to lose this job at all. This is all I have. “I’ll write the story,” I say with false confidence. My stomach fills with dread and turns over as I say the words out loud.
Sandra claps her hand on her desk. “Good. I need that draft before day’s end, you got that? Otherwise, Brenda gets the story and you lose your job. This thing goes into print in five months. November issue. Get the damn story written. You’re a damn good writer. You’ve got this handled. Push your feelings aside and write the piece I know you can write.”
I nod and stand up. I already have the draft done and dusted. It’s the one that Ryan saw on my computer that I forgot to close out of. It’s the draft that made the father of my child not ever want to see me ever again.
Brenda is sitting out of her desk slightly out of breath and looking far too much like she doesn’t care. She’s pretending to be interested in a file on her desk. I have a feeling she overheard all of that conversation.
“Listening at keyholes again, Brenda?” The words are in the air before I can stop them.
She looks startled. “Like I give a shit about a conversation about your career, Childs.”
I’m filled with a sudden urge to slap her across the face. I get close to her, leaning in so she’s sure to see my face.
“I know you’re circling this story like a vulture, but you’re not getting it. Give up and move on already. Maybe you can actually work on making a name for yourself that
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