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I kind of miss that guy right now, because there was something going on just now in that office and I still don’t know what. Adrianne, the managing editor, was perfectly nice, professional, and lovely.
Edmund, the Editor-in-Chief, interrupted her every thirty seconds to disagree with something she said, or to tell her that he didn’t think my clips were all that impressive, or to ask something utterly unrelated to the interview at all.
At one point, he just told Adrianne, “She’ll have a lot of catching up to do, sophistication-wise.”
None of it was directed toward me, though he kept glancing over at me, chewing on the end of his pen.
I’m starting to wonder if I should go to the bathroom, just so I’m not standing here awkwardly any longer, when the office door opens again, and Adrianne is standing there, still smiling like a normal person.
“Thanks for waiting,” she says. “Come on back in.”
I come in. I sit.
“Job is yours,” Edmund says before Adrianne is even seated. “Forty-one a year, full benefits after three months, even get a parking spot with your name on it.”
“We’d like to officially offer you the position,” Adrianne says, ignoring Edmund. “We think you’d be a great fit for the Metro Editor position here, and we’d be delighted to have you on board.”
“If you say yes now and start tomorrow,” Edmund says.
Adrianne frowns and opens her mouth, but he holds up one hand.
“Thanks,” he tells her dismissively, then finally looks at me. “You say yes now and you start tomorrow or we’re done here,” he says.
“Edmund,” Adrianne says. “Give her—”
“Not really interested,” he says. “What do you say, June?”
I’m well aware of what a red flag looks like. I’m aware of what a thousand red flags look like, for that matter.
But I’ve applied for well over a hundred jobs, and I’m tired. I’m tired of disappointment and I’m tired of feeling like I’ve got nothing to offer, and to be honest, I’m tired of applying to jobs. I want to be in a newsroom again, writing something that matters.
Two years, I tell myself. Two years and move onto the Tribune, the Times, the Post…
I don’t let myself think of Levi, not even for a second.
“I’ll need to go home next week to pack my things,” I say. “And I’d like for the paper to subsidize some of the cost of staying in a motel until I’ve found a place to live, since I’m having to come here on such short notice.”
“We can work something out,” Adrianne says, but Edmund’s already standing.
“Make it happen,” he tells her, and without another word, he’s through the door.
I look at Adrianne, feeling left in the dust.
“We’ll figure out the timing,” she says, smiling. “Welcome to the Herald-Trumpet.”Chapter Thirty-SevenJune“Yeah, they went ahead and introduced me around the office,” I say to the window in my motel room. “The people seem really great, you know, midwestern nice is a thing.”
“It’s amazing that they wanted you to start so soon,” my dad says.
“You must have really impressed them,” my mom adds.
They’re on different lines in their house, something which has already caused some confusion during this call. Between the two of them, not with me.
“I hope so,” I say, still gazing out at the Motel 6 parking lot.
“I know you did,” my mom says.
We keep talking, and I pace the room as we do. I’m already out of my suit and into my jeans, walking back and forth in front of two double beds, sticking my head into the bathroom, turning on the light, turning it back off, walking the same path back to the window.
I’m antsy. I’m restless. I’m anything but sure that this job is a good idea, not least because of the knot that took up residence in my stomach the moment I said yes.
But it sure seems like the only idea. I haven’t got a better one, and what’s the worst that could happen? I get fired and have to live with my parents?
Finally, after another fifteen minutes of this, my parents say more nice things about me and then get off the phone. I sigh, flop onto one scratchy comforter, then immediately get off and yank it from the bed, because I’ve seen those shows where they blacklight motel rooms.
Then I flop again, turn on the TV, grab my phone, and try to figure out how to get Chinese food delivered because I really think I deserve General Tso’s chicken right now.
I’m still trying to figure it out and starting to realize that Bluff City might not have a single Chinese restaurant, when my phone sings again. Silas.
“June Flynn, employed person,” I answer.
“Congrats, I just heard from Mom and Dad,” he says. “You excited?”
“Yeah,” I say. “The job is a big step up from where I was before, and it pays way better than I was expecting and the whole paper seems great. Like, really great.”
