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Friday, May 5, 9 a.m., the loft
I don’t believe it.
Mom just poked her head in here and went, “Mia. Wake up.”
And I was like, “MOM. I’m not going to school. It’s Senior Skip Day. I don’t care if it’s not an officially sanctioned school holiday. I’m a senior. I’m skipping. Which means I don’t HAVE TO GET UP.”
And she went, “It’s not that. There’s someone on the house line, asking for Daphne Delacroix.”
I thought she was joking. I really did.
But she swore she was serious.
So I crawled out of bed and took the phone she was holding and put it to my ear and was like, “Hello?”
“Is this Daphne?” asked a way too cheerful woman’s voice.
“Um,” I said. “Sort of.” I really hadn’t woken up enough to be able to deal with the situation.
“Your real name isn’t Daphne Delacroix, is it?” asked the voice, laughing a little.
“Not exactly,” I said, stealing a glance at the caller ID on the handset. It said Avon Books.
Avon Books was the name on the spines of half of the historical romances I’d read while doing research for my own. It’s a huge publisher of romance novels.
“Well, this is Claire French,” the cheerful voice said. “And I’ve just finished reading your book, Ransom My Heart, and I’m calling to offer you a publishing contract.”
I swear I did not think I could have heard her right. It sounded like she said she was calling to offer me a publishing contract.
But that could not possibly be what she had said. Because people don’t call and offer me book deals. Especially first thing in the morning. Ever.
“What?” I said intelligently.
“I’m calling to offer you a publishing contract,” she said. “We’d like to offer you a book deal. But we’ll need to know your real name. What is your real name, if you don’t mind telling me?”
“Um,” I said. “Mia Thermopolis.”
“Oh,” she said. “Well, hi, Mia.” She then went on to say some things about money, and contracts, and due dates, and some other things I didn’t understand because I was in too much of a daze.
“Um,” I finally said. “Can I have your number? I think I’m going to have to call you back.”
“Sure!” she said. And gave me her extension. “I look forward to hearing fro
m you.”
“Okay,” I said. “Thanks a lot.”
Then I hung up.
I lay back in my bed and looked at Fat Louie, who was staring at me, happily purring from my pillows.
Then I screamed as loud as I could, freaking out Mom, Rocky, and, of course, Fat Louie, who darted off the bed (all the pigeons on my fire escape took off, too).
I cannot believe it:
I got an offer on my book.
And okay…it’s not for a ton of money. If I were an actual person who had to make a living doing this, I would not be able to survive—at least in New York City—for more than a couple of months on what they offered. If you really want to be a writer, clearly, you have to write and do some other job, too, in order to pay your rent, etc. At least when you’re first starting out.
