The Young Adult Writer #3
“Hate to point this out,” says Malcolm, though if anything, he looks positively smug, “but Sisi and I—and Cate, I suppose—are the only ones who even write in Fletch’s genre.”
“That is by design. Arthur always knew how to think outside the box, to find the unexpected angle. We—that is, Rufus and I—thought the variety could be stimulating. You may all write different things, but you have something in common. You’re firmly in the midlist.”
Midlist.
Industry-speak for books—and authors—that sell well enough to stay in print, maybe even eke out a living, but not well enough to end up on any bestsellers lists or see big royalty checks.
The midlist is publishing purgatory, full of writers who can’t seem to break out, only break even.
But it’s a constant struggle, and every time a debut author lands a fancy seven-figure deal, or a publisher cherry-picks its shiny new champion, it gets a little harder to stay afloat.
“Called it,” says Kenzo amiably.
“Hey now,” says Jaxon, hackles rising. “I’m not midlist. Not even close!
There have been loads of inquiries about my series being optioned.
I’m expecting news any day. Especially since Timothée Chalamet was spotted reading The Galactic Trials in a Chipotle in Middleton, Wisconsin, a few months ago. You’ve probably seen the photo.”
It’s a rope, and Millie clings to it. “Oh, I love Timothée Chalamet!” she says. “I wonder what he was doing in Wisconsin?”
“Perhaps paying a visit to the National Mustard Museum,” says Malcolm. “Fascinating place. Sienna and I spent a wonderful afternoon there a few years back. Didn’t we, Sisi?”
Sienna doesn’t look so sure about that.
“What was Chalamet eating?” Kenzo asks, barely managing to keep a straight face. “He strikes me as a burrito bowl guy. Chicken, I bet.”
“Who cares what he was eating?!” Jaxon’s smile is strained. “That’s not the point, dude. I’m just saying that not all of us are stuck in the—”
GOOOOOONG!
Millie jumps. Up on the landing, Eleanor is brandishing the gong mallet.
“As I was saying,” she drawls with all the warmth of an iceberg. “None of your books have been given the big marketing budgets or publicity opportunities.”
Millie frowns. They promised her those things when she debuted. But then she learned: Promises don’t cost them anything.
“None of you have toured internationally or been reviewed in the Times—Sunday or New York—or been a bestseller or a media darling or had adaptations actually made.”
Jaxon opens his mouth again, but she raises a hand.
“It’s hardly your fault. After all, publishing has never been and never will be a meritocracy.
So, on the rare occasion when chance holds out a hand like this, you should take it.
What we’re offering today is as close to a guarantee as you’ll get in this business.
A way out of the midlist. Which brings us, of course, to the size of the deal. ”
A different kind of stillness settles over them then.
A held-breath, coiled quiet, a feeling Millie recognizes because she knows it all too well. Desperation. She needs this.
And she clearly isn’t the only one.
For the first time, even cool-guy Kenzo stands up straight.
Jaxon’s eyes are saucer wide behind his thick-framed glasses.
Sienna is shifting her weight from foot to foot, and Priscilla’s fists are clenched, her whole body taut as the editor, Rufus, breaks into a grin.
“The team at Merriweather Press is prepared to offer one million dollars for completing the book . . .”
A small gasp goes around the room. Millie does some mental math. That’s roughly a hundred dollars a word. Which is crazy enough, but then Rufus continues.
“And another million for the new deal.”
It’s like he’s gone and rung the gong again, the way the room goes still. Everyone sucks in air to speak, but it’s Malcolm who gets there first, all his bravado and his British accent slipping as he says, “Holy fucking shit.”
And he might as well have taken the words right out of her mouth.
Millie stops fighting the smile, and lets it bloom across her face.
It’s tragic, obviously, what happened to Arthur Fletch. But it’s not the end of the world, not for Millie Mitchell. It’s a chance at a new life, a brand-new chapter.
And she’ll do whatever it takes to win.
* * *
“YOU WANT ME TO DO WHAT?”
Millie clutches her cell like it’s an oxygen mask as she eyes the waiting safe.
A few minutes before, they’d migrated from the base of the stairs to Fletch’s office, where the writers proceeded to stand around, staring in wonder at the polished mahogany desk, so spotless it looks like it’s never been used, at the stained-glass windows behind it—four of them, each panel featuring the hero of a different series: Ashbolt, Creststone, Bellamy, and Petrarch—and at the shelves around the office, filled with trinkets, totems, and a row of trophies featuring the head of a weird, sad French-looking guy.
Turns out the weird, sad French head trophies weren’t French after all—they’re meant to be Edgar Allan Poe.
“So many Edgar Awards,” murmured Malcolm as he lifted one, almost lovingly, from the shelf.
He was clearly in heaven, pointing out the bone-white ship in a glass bottle, one of the clues that helped Ashbolt break his first case.
“That backlit map of London, there,” he said, “shows the underground network Creststone ferreted out. And that—that’s the dagger that finally felled Bellamy, and forced his protégé, Petrarch, to carry on his work.
” His knowledge of Fletch lore is overwhelming—and intimidating. It’s got to be a major advantage.
“Wow,” Cate said, eyes wide. “It’s like something out of a movie.”
“I think I read somewhere that he didn’t actually write in here,” mused Kenzo, running a fingertip along the desk as if to check for dust. “He preferred to work in bed. But that doesn’t convey the same gravitas.”
Millie was thinking about the content she could film in here, the videos she could log sitting at this famous desk, the way it might help shift her stagnant follower count, when Eleanor cleared her throat and ushered them to a tall safe in the corner and instructed them to surrender their devices.
The safe is the size of a small wardrobe, glossy black metal with copper hinges that look vintage, a style marred by the clearly high-tech lock.
Millie’s read about this safe, how Arthur Fletch would lock his phone away for hours while he wrote, setting the timer so even he couldn’t break in early, and horror washes over her.
They can’t possibly expect her to actually give up her lifeline to the outside world.
But that’s exactly what Eleanor’s just told her to do.
“A matter of discretion,” she says, “since news of Arthur’s death hasn’t been made public.”
“Besides,” adds Rufus, “it will give you all a chance to focus on the task at hand.”
Millie shrinks back. “But my followers,” she pleads, hating the panic in her voice. “It’s just, I maintain a pretty strict regimen of content creation because the algorithm favors regularity, and . . .” She trails off when it becomes clear that this isn’t negotiable.
Beside her, Cate looks similarly ill at the prospect of surrendering her phone.
“I can’t,” she murmurs, cradling it against her chest. “I really need . . .” She hesitates. “. . . my music! All my music is on here. I can’t write without it.” Millie can’t help but feel betrayed. Why can’t the girl just admit that she’s addicted to socials too? So much for sisterhood.
“What an excellent opportunity to overcome that dependence,” says Eleanor, glancing around. “Laptops, tablets, and smartwatches, too,” she adds, and the room fills with fresh protests.
“What?”
“No way.”
“Any form of digital technology,” she explains, “must be sealed in the safe for the duration of your stay.”
“How are we supposed to write? By hand?” asks Cate.
Millie groans. “My handwriting is practically illegible.”
Which, okay, isn’t strictly true, she just hates writing by hand. Her pen can never keep up with her brain, and she ends up losing half her ideas before she can write them down.
Malcolm scoffs. “Can’t be worse than Sienna’s.” His wife rolls her eyes.
“I always write by hand,” announces Jaxon as he tugs a battered Moleskine from his back pocket. “It’s the only way to really get real with the work. It’s like going commando for your brain.”
Kenzo snorts. But he looks a little nervous as he loads his things into the yawning safe.
Even Sienna, who probably only uses Facebook, seems stressed by the prospect of giving up her phone. “We have a dog,” she says, clutching the cell. “He’s really old. I have to be available, in case something happens.”
“Don’t worry,” says Jaxon, “if something terrible happens to Sparky, you’d never get back home in time.”
Millie elbows him in the side as Kenzo says, “You don’t have to be a dick about it.”
Jaxon shrugs. “Not a dick if it’s true.”
“According to who?”
“I’m just pointing out basic geograph—”
Eleanor snaps her fingers and points to the waiting safe, and Sienna says, “Fine, fine, just let me tell the pet sitter . . .” She types something out, deletes, types again, then hits SEND, shoves the phone onto the shelf, and backs away.
Millie looks down at her screen.
She wonders, briefly, if she should text Freya. But it’s been so long that that would probably be weird.
Priscilla’s the only one who doesn’t seem bothered; she just deposits a cell and pink laptop sleeve on the shelf. “Might finally break my late-night shopping habit,” she muses.
And then it’s down to Millie and Cate.
After a pained moment, Cate surrenders her phone to the safe. Along with a laptop, and a tablet. And then it’s just Millie, and everyone is waiting, and her chest is tightening under the weight of their attention.
“Okay, okay,” she says, coaxing herself.
As she sets her laptop and cell onto the shelf, she remembers the spare phone—it comes in handy for filming content—in the bottom of her bag.
No one would expect her to have two phones; she could probably get away with keeping it.
But then Eleanor looks right at her—maybe even through her—and the expression on her face says Do not disappoint me, Millie Mitchell.
And before she knows it, she’s digging the secret cell out of her purse and setting it down with the rest.
And then the safe swings shut with a horrible thunk, and Millie feels wrong, too light, like she might float away.
“Arthur’s entire backlist is in the library,” Eleanor is saying. “And you’ll find everything you need to write the ending in your rooms.”
Millie registers the words, can hear the others moving about, heading for the door, but she can’t tear her eyes from the front of the safe as Fletch’s editor spins the lock on the front and the time on the screen blurs, red numbers rushing upward from minutes, to hours, to days.
When he stops, the screen reads 72:00:00.
Seventy-two hours.
It’s ages, and a blink. A long weekend. A marathon and a sprint.
Seventy-two hours, in this house, on this island, with no way to access the outside world.
No way to check email, or socials, google a synonym or doomscroll between sessions.
Seventy-two hours to finish a book.
Not just a book, but the book, the most anticipated one in modern history.
Seventy-two hours to earn two million dollars.
And turn her life around.