The Young Adult Writer
MILLIE MITCHELL IS GOING TO DIE.
At least, that’s how it feels. Her heart is a cloud of bees in her chest, so loud she almost can’t hear the voice coming from the stairs.
“Welcome, everyone. I do hope you’ve been making yourselves comfortable.”
The voice comes rolling down the steps, where they’ve all gathered, staring up at the two figures on the landing.
Jaxon elbows her in the side, but she doesn’t look at him, because she can’t tear her gaze from the woman in the spiked red heels.
The moment Millie saw her, her whole world slammed to a stop.
Because it’s Eleanor Vandenberg.
Not just an agent, but the agent.
The most successful literary agent in the world, according to an article in Forbes last month, though Millie has obviously been following her career for ages, back when she was getting ready to query her first novel.
It’s standard practice, researching agents before you send them your book, and then after, when you’re waiting for them to reply—a little light stalking on social media, everybody does it—but Eleanor would never deign to have an Instagram, so Millie had to do her homework—which, incidentally, is something she’s always been good at.
That’s how she knows Eleanor was the head of her class at Brown, and chief editor of the school’s Daily Herald.
That’s how she knows that at twenty-five, Eleanor worked for the oldest and most esteemed literary agency in the States.
By thirty, her authors made up half the bestsellers list, and by thirty-five, she’d opened her own agency, taking every single client with her.
Okay, so in case it’s not totally obvious, Millie has always had an agent crush on Eleanor. She queried her back in the beginning, along with everyone else trying to break in, and even though Eleanor passed, she took the time to add a handwritten note to the form rejection letter.
This shows promise. Keep trying.
Which may not seem like much, but it meant a lot to Millie back then.
Still does. Even though it all worked out, and she ended up signing with Dan, who’s a totally decent agent (well, technically he was still an agent’s assistant back then, but he was starting to build his own list).
She actually submitted a literary novel, a bittersweet portrait of sisters in the vein of Ann Patchett, but he told her she should consider switching to young adult.
Not that her writing wasn’t good—whew—but given her age (and her appearance), there was a risk she wouldn’t be taken seriously in the literary world.
But YA, he explained, was different. Success relied on the whole package—the story, sure, but also the person selling it.
It meant shelving that first book and starting over, but Millie was willing to do the work.
And she’s done fine, aside from the bullying and the constant competition, and the fact that last year there was an actual internet award for Most Popular YA Author (which might as well have been called Hottest Author), and she wasn’t even on the longlist. Afterward, Dan sent her a text with a sad-face emoji and told her to hang in there.
But she can’t help but think that those things wouldn’t happen to one of Eleanor Vandenberg’s authors.
Dan is a nice guy, but Millie’s got plenty of nice on her own. What she wants—what she needs, if she’s going to truly break out—is a shark.
“Welcome,” Eleanor says again, her gaze sliding over them. “For those of you who don’t know, my name is Eleanor Vandenberg.”
Millie scoffs. How can anyone not know who she is? But judging by the ripple of surprise running through the room, maybe the others didn’t recognize her. Now that they do, the air gets a little tighter.
“It’s so nice to put faces to names.” Eleanor looks around, making brief but pointed eye contact with each of them. “I’ve been Arthur Fletch’s agent for more than thirty years.”
She runs a hand over her hair, an updo of glossy silver that, paired with her smooth skin, makes her look elegant and ageless (even though Millie knows, thanks to her research, that Eleanor is fifty-seven).
“Arthur was one of my very first clients,” she says. “And Miss Newhouse here is one of my most recent. Hello, dear.”
Millie glances at Cate, who’s looking equal parts flattered and embarrassed. She manages an awkward wave, and Millie remembers what she said.
I just signed with my agent.
Jealousy sparks in Millie’s chest, but she tamps it down before it can catch fire.
Just because Cate is so young—younger even than she was when she was starting out.
And just because she somehow managed to sign with Vandenberg, that doesn’t mean they can’t get along as colleagues, equals.
Well, not equals; after all, Millie is several steps ahead but she could be a mentor, a publishing big sister.
The kind she always wanted, and never had.
Let’s be honest, this isn’t a business for the faint of heart, not when you have to market yourself as much as your work, and judging by the fact that she’s barely said ten words since they arrived, and the way she’s making eye contact with the marble floor, publishing will probably eat Cate whole.
And not even bother to spit out the bones.
Besides, it would be good to have a writer friend.
Not the fake kind who is nice to your face at festivals and says you should hang out sometime but never invites you to their retreat, or the kind who insists on taking selfies and then spreads rumors about you having deformed toes just because you don’t like to wear sandals.
Millie doesn’t realize she’s been staring at Cate until the girl looks back, eyebrows quirking up in question, and Millie forces her attention back to the landing.
“Whether or not we’ve had the pleasure of meeting,” Eleanor continues, “I do believe you’ve all queried me at some point, and if you’re here, it’s because I’ve continued to follow your careers with interest.”
Millie’s heart flutters in her chest. As the agent’s gaze drifts toward her again, she tries to shape her face into eager professionalism, or at least normal human being.
She thinks she’s doing a decent job until she feels a pair of eyes on her and glances back to find Priscilla staring, a look of bemusement on her face.
Millie blushes and bristles at the same time.
She has nothing against romance authors—god knows there’s a whole Venn diagram overlap between romance and YA, and they’re supposed to support each other against the general snobbishness of the other genres—but something about Priscilla rubs her the wrong way.
Millie can’t explain why, not yet, but she’s gotten very good at reading people, and—
Jaxon nudges her playfully, waggling his eyebrows behind his chunky black hipster glasses, and she wonders if he’s as cool as he seems. The heroines in her books always take one look at a boy and know whether or not he can be trusted.
Whether he’s a bad guy or a good one. Whether he’s an enemy or The One. But in real life, it isn’t that simple.
She forces her attention back to the landing, hoping she hasn’t missed anything important. Which is when the second person on the landing clears his throat.
Eleanor glances toward him, as if suddenly reminded of his existence. “Oh yes,” she says with a flick of her fingers. “This is Rufus Beaumont, Arthur’s editor.”
Rufus does an odd little salute, tapping one finger against the frame of his glasses, which are thinner than Jaxon’s, and purple, and match the pocket square poking out of his vest.
He’s kind of hot—not like Jaxon, who clearly puts a lot of time and energy into his physique, but in a nerdy way, dark curls tumbling into his face. And now that she’s noticed him, Millie can’t believe she didn’t sooner.
He’s definitely giving off main character energy.
“I thought Fletch’s editor was a woman,” says Malcolm. “They made a whole fuss about it . . .” he adds, and she’s not sure who they are, but she does remember seeing an interview—or at least, a headline—that mentioned it.
Eleanor’s about to answer, but Rufus gets there first.
“Indeed!” he says in a crisp English accent that instantly makes him ten percent hotter. “You’re thinking of Ava Paulson. She was very talented, of course, but—”
“Due to unforeseen circumstances—” Eleanor cuts in with a warning look, but Rufus carries on, undeterred.
“Yes, nasty business, that,” he says, polishing his glasses with his pocket square before carefully folding it and returning it to his vest. “I won’t go into details—can’t, really, for legal reasons—but let’s just say I’ll be handling Arthur’s work from here on out.
In fact, we’ve been working together for almost six months, and in that time, we’ve become very close. Like father and—”
Paper crinkles loudly, and Millie glances over to see Priscilla clutching the NDAs they all signed. She must have grabbed them on the way out of the drawing room.
“Ah yes,” Eleanor cuts in, upstaging the editor. “Priscilla, isn’t it? Be a dear and pass them up?”
Rufus jogs down the steps to take them from her, and Millie swears she sees something pass between them—or at least, from Rufus to Priscilla.
The way his eyes flick toward her, the way they linger, a fraction of a second too long.
It’s the kind of moment Millie would totally write between two characters who have a history—or are going to end up together.
Which could be juicy. But Priscilla doesn’t strike her as the type to kiss and tell. Rufus turns through each page to make sure they’re all there, and signed.
Cate shifts nervously and whispers, to no one in particular, “Where’s Fletch?”
Which is a good point. Millie should have been thinking the same thing. His editor and agent are here, so where’s the man himself? Rufus returns to Eleanor’s side and nods. She takes a deep breath, sighs, and says, “I’m afraid I’m the bearer of terribly unfortunate news.”
“Terribly unfortunate,” echoes Rufus.