Chapter 23
“— y es, Maria, I know doctors often scribble their signatures like a flat line with a little squiggle. But if you look here,
at the bottom of your practice checks, see how I did mine? Just a nice, curvy line, see? Connect the letters. No, we don’t
use cursive anytime in life, really, but for the test, they’ll want to see if you can write your name like this. Like on the
board. Now grab your pencils, and start writing out your signatures on the practice checks— Are you kidding me? ”
Pencils stop as the students all around me look up midscribble.
The class is packed today.
The next round of GED tests is in four weeks, and I’ve decided during the wait to go as speedily as I can. My goal is to get
as many students through the GED tests as possible in the next two and a half months. And while I have so very little I can
control, this I can.
I’ve extended hours in class time and added evening sessions.
Sure enough, Gloria was halfway right, and I’ve ended up opening my home for group study sessions—particularly for the students
who are close to taking their tests.
I went back to work last week. The hour after I shot off that email to Jack.
Realized I couldn’t sit on my hands any longer. I had to go.
Had to do.
It’s been helpful, this rushing around, teaching the students as quickly and efficiently as I can. Grading tests. Printing
off extra practice tests.
Mr. Platt in the level above secretly resents me for this. Five students moved up to his advanced level just yesterday, and the look on his face when I knocked on the door surrounded by them, saying with a cheery, overbright, “Look who passed their level 4 exams!” was priceless.
I don’t blame him.
We’re all stressed.
But it’s not going to stop me from trying to get them moved up and to graduation level before the semester ends.
Now we’re in class, and I’m teaching through lesson 22 on writing checks.
And it’s been going great .
Until I get the email from Jack.
“ Unbelievable ,” I hiss, staring at the email.
“Teacher?”
Lakshmi is frowning at me, concern etched across her face. Pencils are drooping in students’ hands all around.
“Yes...,” I say distractedly, but one hand has found its way to my hip, and I’ve started breathing like an angry hippo
about to charge. “All fine.”
“You don’t... ,” Lakshmi says hesitantly, “look fine.”
“Not the definition of fine.” Fen points at his dictionary, then up at me. “More like—”
“Keep writing.”
The sound of thirty-five pieces of lead scribbling on papers fills the room again. And it’s like this—this deathly but for
the scribbling silence—for another five minutes until...
“Murderous expression,” Socorro announces loudly.
All eyes turn to him. He props up his dictionary for all to see. There’s a zoomed-in picture of a bald male on the page, with
a beet-red face and flared nostrils. I think he might be holding a hatchet.
“Teacher, you look like murderous expression,” Socorro says with the satisfaction of a job well done.
“Keep. Writing ,” I say again, this time with a definitive snap. Pencils pick up. Heads drop to their papers.
I swivel around to face the blackboard, back to the students, and read the email again while picking up the eraser and beginning to erase the board.
The nerve.
The absolute nerve .
Jack is threatening to... to sue me?
Me.
My ex-boyfriend of a whole seven days is now prepared to sue.
Well, Gloria’s had her share of fascinating dinner party stories to share from sore ex-lovers, and now, apparently, it’s my
turn to pull my weight. Entertain the masses with a tale of unbelievable revenge over cheese sausages on toothpicks.
When I turned in the email with the Meet Me Under the Bridge manuscript last week, I was courteous. In fact, I assumed (apparently wrongly) that this would be a dream come true for Brooks
Publishing.
A joy. A relief. I was polite. I was professional. I pretended none of the pain he and they had caused me existed.
And with my email I would have proof, in writing, that I was a responsible person. A tactical, logical, reasonable adult.
Somebody other publishers would love to have as a writer on their team.
The email had gone like this:
Dear Jack,
In accordance with my contractual duties, I am attaching my next manuscript.
You will note that the title has changed. This is true, and I assume that given there are, according to Amelia’s wishes, no
references to children or any other discrepancies she wishes to acknowledge, this will not be a problem. Give it a read and
I think you will find that I have saved my final, favorite work for last.
I sincerely hope that with Meet Me Under the Bridge , Amelia and the team will receive their greatest wish in securing her as the rom-com writer of her time. After this manuscript, consider my contract completed.
Best regards,
Bryony Page
It took two hours to receive a reply from Jack.
And in it were the simple words:
Dear Bryony,
Absolutely not.
Which was maddening , but no matter.
Fine. He wanted to play the immature, irrational child? I would lean even further into my role as the rational, mature adult.
I simply worked around him and forwarded the manuscript to the rest of the team.
It took approximately thirty minutes to get a series of celebratory messages.
Thank you for your prompt work, Bryony!
Another winner, no doubt. Very much looking forward to diving in.
Received and accepted. Thank you for your submission.
Susanna’s came last. Twelve hours after everyone else’s emails came in. She had dropped everything. Read the manuscript. And
her reply to everyone was soothing to my weary, bandaged soul.
Bryony,
You have outdone yourself. This is, by far, the best manuscript you have ever brought to my desk. Thank you for your upstanding work. You should be incredibly proud of yourself. I know I am.
Susanna
And then, just as I was feeling a little happy, just a glimpse of it, I got another email privately from Jack, after which an email thread ensued.
Jack: I am not accepting this manuscript.
Me: Well, this is the one I’m giving. And the team has accepted it.
Jack: We need to talk. Face-to-face.
Me: I am completing my contractual duties and giving you my thirty days. I have looked into the contract we signed, and apparently
we need notice in writing. Consider this my notice in writing.
I then deleted his next six emails.
It took a massive amount of self-control, but I did it.
Gloria stood behind me as I did so, rubbing my shoulders soothingly and telling me I was doing the right and brave thing,
not because she thought so, really, but because I had asked her to. I needed confirmation here. I didn’t want any lingering doubts.
So she trusted my gut instead of hers and gave me what I needed: unconditional support.
And then... this email slipped through the cracks while teaching this morning.
I opened and read it, simply because of the dreadful subject line: Notice of Pending Lawsuit: Bryony Page X Sterling Literary
Agency
It read:
Bryony Page,
In accordance with the terms of your contract, section 13 subset 3b: Writer will perform Promotional Services, if any, at the times provided in Part 1 or, subject to Writer’s prior professional commitments and reasonable availability, at such other times as Publisher may reasonably request and, if requested, as part of the Promotional Services, will sit for video- and audio-recorded interviews, which Publisher may reproduce, distribute, display, perform and adapt for promotional purposes. All reasonable expenses incurred by Writer in performing Promotional Services will be paid by Publisher.
You were expected to attend and support a book launch tour, running from July 18 to August 1, and any spontaneous events thereafter.
You have failed to perform such duties and left without notice. Reasonable efforts of communication on the part of the literary
agency were made, and you have failed in this regard as well.
If you do not attend the final event of Amelia Benedict’s tour, we regret to inform you that you will be charged with failure
to comply and face criminal punishment.
See attachment below for information regarding tour date and time.
We look forward to seeing you in attendance.
Jack Sterling
Senior Acquisitions Agent
Sterling Literary Agency
I’m breathing fire .
“Teacher?”
Saliha draws me out of myself, and I look at their faces. Follow the trail of their expressions back to my hand on the board.
See why the students are staring at me that way.
The board is covered in practice sentences with action verbs but for the single circle of area directly in front of me, where apparently I had been swirling the eraser over and over until it was one perfectly clear space on a board otherwise covered with words.
Hastily I set the eraser down.
“Teacher,” Socorro begins, “are you ok—”
“Unhinged?” Fen puts in, finger on his dictionary.
“Yes, I am fine . I got news that is—” I’m trying to find the word, but the pesky ball of flames in my chest is making it difficult.
“Demented?” Socorro interjects, pointing to another word.
“ Unfortunate ,” I throw out, before he can start on a round of insults. “I just found out some... unbelievable news... and I’m having a hard time processing it.”
“What are you going to do?” Miho says in her polite, careful voice.
“Do?” I suck in a breath. Look down at the email. “I don’t know. I suppose...”
I can’t be sued.
I really, really can’t be sued.
The words feel like sticky tacky in my mouth. “I suppose I’m going to go to”—I read the attached location—“ The Bright Show .”
My stomach churns.
The biggest, most viewed morning television show in all of history.