Chapter 11
Penny needs a new job. That’s all there is to it.
Nobody deserves to be doing this.
I have spent the past three of the last six hours wearing an earpiece to send subtle voice messages to Amelia all while serving
as a human tray, holding random items as Amelia hands them off to me because, as she says, “I can do a better job if you’re
close.” Always without looking. Always with some big, flashy smile through massive glossy pink lips. Always in near hysterics
of giggles with some mob of fans as she laughs like they are children at a sleepover sharing great big jokey secrets over
extremely insignificant things. Laughing together over a comment she made about the rain. Laughing together over a joke about
spilling bottled water (after which somebody dropped a pack of napkins in my hands—I’m currently cleaning it up, on hands
and knees, while she carries on).
I have saved her butt twice so far. Once when she started to go down a terrible road of saying that Roman’s interference with
his daughter was unintentional (massive “no” eyes from me there, followed swiftly by a corrective snap through my earpiece) and once when she started to
say there was no meaning in the baseball cards. (Of course there is meaning in the baseball cards! The baseball cards are everything !)
Oh, and then once when she said she would be interested in writing a spin-off from Daniel’s story in A Room for Rose .
Absolutely.
Not.
I will not be revisiting that story again.
I can see why she loves going on these tours. It’s just one massive group of fans swooning over her every smile and begging for autographs.
She’s the... the Narges Mohammadi of Nobel Peace Prize laureates. The head of the debate team at the state competition.
The Taylor Swift of the book world.
And it’s all jokes and champagne and frosted cookies in the shapes of books until three-quarters of the way through the event
in Seaside, Florida, when things fall on Amelia’s head.
“No, I’m—I’m sorry.” The girl is speaking at the front of a long line during the Q&A.
The girl clasps her hands in front of her awkwardly.
“I just, you know,” she continues, fumbling for words. “It’s just, I’m an aspirational writer myself, and I’ve been told how
writers grow as they write, so, I mean”—she casts her eyes desperately around for fellow comrades, causing everyone to stare
down at the books in their laps—“I just thought it was really interesting in the class I took, where we compared your first
and latest novel, and how you’ve grown as a writer—”
Oh, the pain.
I drop another paper napkin on the floor. One of the flimsy napkins I was handed when the bottle was tipped over. Which are
absolutely useless for soaking up even a teaspoon of water.
“—from your character depth—” she continues.
I wince as I drop another napkin on the puddle. It disintegrates immediately.
“—your subplots. Actually, Party Girls in the USA didn’t seem to have a subplot at all.”
I drop a couple more. Somebody stop this poor word-vomiting woman.
“I just, I mean, it’s obvious”—she throws a hand out wide—“ The Seven-Year Holiday is just worlds above. I mean, Party Girls in the USA was fine, but when you really look at them side by side... clearly your talent has grown exponentially. So would you say, maybe, you have some tips for the rest of us? You know, maybe just... some insight”—she gives a strangled laugh—“into what you’d recommend to skip the Party Girl stage of writing and get straight to The Seven-Year Holiday ? For us newbies?”
The room is entirely silent. The woman herself looks like a blueberry, her cheeks so inflamed and swollen it looks like she’s
about to cry pink tears of humiliation and stress. She clutches the lanyard she has on over her shirt with about thirty book-related
pins tacked on. Her skirt, featuring colorful watercolor books, quakes at her knees.
I drop the rest of the napkins on the floor, move them around a little, and scoop the whole soggy mess in my arms. It’s time
to get off this stage before I jump in to relieve this poor, panicked soul.
I step off to the sanctuary of the side of the stage, dump the load of napkins in the bin, and give Jack a look that screams
a sarcastic, “ Isn’t it just so wonderful I was here to pick that up? ”
But his eyes are glued to his phone. He looks lost in thought with brows furrowed as he scans something on his phone and hastily
begins typing a response.
His phone rings and he picks up as he’s wheeling himself toward the outside doors. “Hey. Well, I know I’m annoying you, but
I wanted to finish the conversation—”
I belatedly realize that the room is still silent as I turn back to the scene before me.
There is Amelia, looking at the woman with that vulture-on-a-branch-waiting-for-you-to-die expression. I’ve seen that look
on her plenty of times. Behind closed doors. Away from the public.
But here?
I take a deep breath, feeling both anguish for the woman but also a sense of justice. “ See?! ” I want to cry as I throw out my arms. “ See who she really is? ”
But then, like a pebble dropped into a pond, there is a ripple of movement and Amelia’s face clears. She smiles. Nods, as
though she knows and agrees with exactly what the woman was trying to say.
“What tip would I give to help you”—her voice wobbles almost indiscernibly—“ skip the Party Girl stage and go straight on to the good stuff? Well, that’s a good question. And if I told you, I suppose I’d have to kill you.”
She starts laughing, a high, utterly innocent laugh, and the room joins in because what could possibly be more delightful
than your favorite author pretending to be mad and then pronouncing murder on anyone who dares to compete with her?
“No, no, but in all seriousness,” she adds, not sounding remotely serious as she raises her champagne, “hire a ghostwriter.”
She continues to laugh. They continue to laugh with her.
“They’re a dime a dozen.” She breaks off to continue with more laughter and takes a long sip of her champagne with a smile.
The tension in the room has exploded like a popped balloon, the audience members even happier than before at this comedian
who isn’t just brilliant with her writing but can joke.
But as she lowers her glass, in the midst of a distracted hum of conversation around the room, her blue eyes lock on the woman
with the lanyard. And between the two of them, a little silent signal is passed as Amelia’s smile slips from her face. A tweak
of her lips. A look that somehow says, “ But seriously, mess with me, and I’ll make your life a living nightmare .”
The woman’s face goes white as a sheet and she turns, gathers up her purse and books, and rushes out the door.
And then Amelia does something that surprises me. Her eyes slither my way and she smiles. She knows. Knows I alone was watching
the interaction all along.
Wordlessly she raises her glass as if to say, “ Well? It’s empty. Do something about it. ”
My nostrils flare.
And nobody sees it. Nobody sees the extent of her evil like this, those little manipulations that would scare the living daylights out of psychologists
in their easy chairs. She’s just stringing me along. Getting her vengeance for that woman’s comment. Trying to push me back
in my place.
And ruffling my feathers without having to so much as say a word.
Penny looks at me with a frantic look of “ Are you going to fill it? Somebody needs to fill it! ”
The overeager bookstore owner is now looking at me, a little frown forming a crease between her brows as if to say, “ What is this PA doing? Stop just standing there and fill it! ”
I take a step forward, my chest pinched tight as I bring the bottle over, pour the champagne in.
Yes. Here I am.
Another person moves to the front of the queue and asks her what the inspiration for the book was, and several people subtly
roll their eyes at the unoriginal question. It seems that there is some sort of game going on at these events. People are
racking their brains to get in line, feeling some sort of group pressure to make their question unique. Witty. Memorable.
Proving how well-read they are by making it painfully intricate and well-researched. Cross-referencing multiple books. I don’t
know if this is some new trend or has been this way all along, but more than one person in line has their book flipped open
to a page and roughly a hundred rainbow-colored tabs highlighting pages. They come prepared .
I’m starting to see why I was prompted to come along.
“And so, when you referenced the eighteenth-century word hibernacle on page 220, were you referring symbolically to a winter retreat with regard to Harriet’s soul needing refuge after the losses
in her life and emotional meandering, or were you speaking more specifically about the haven she’s discovered at the Magnolia
Bookstore and she and Nate’s yearly meetups?”
I swivel round. Take a few steps backward into the dark protection of the staff hallway behind me where I was strategically
set up. With one raised finger I tap the back of the earpiece as I face the stack of cardboard boxes spilling over with books.
Actually, the answer is: It was neither. I referenced hibernacle because I came across it on a defunct-word-of-the-day calendar
Gran gave me for Christmas, and I liked it enough to slip it in. If I had to pick an answer from the two choices, however, I’d go with Magnolia Bookstore and Nate being a haven for Harriet. One could easily make a case for it.
And I should go on and make a case for it, I suppose as I look down at the dozens of copies of a political book release from an open box,
a black-and-white photo of a man smiling a little too brightly up at me with his arms crossed over his chest. I should use the earpiece and feed this heartfelt answer to Amelia as I stare at this lovely cerulean-colored wall right in front of
me. And this champagne glass in my hand that I’ve just picked up.
But wouldn’t you know it, this book looks fascinating .
I pull out a copy. Swivel around. Take a sip of my champagne.
Amelia, from her seat just ahead, shifts a meaningful glance my way. “Oh. You know, I love that question.”
I flip the page.
Take another sip.
“I’d have to say...,” Amelia begins, fluttering her exceedingly long lashes toward the ceiling as though thinking deeply.
Another painfully long span of seconds elapses, and then I look up.
Our eyes meet.
I smile.
Flip the page.
And raise my champagne glass her way.