“I mean, it’s fine.”
Her frown betrayed how fine she was.
Shay crossed her arms, wading through the ruse. “Oh, really? You don’t seem fine. You seem kinda sad. In fact, you seem like you’re throwing away your chance to dunk onthose schmucks. Temu-Hunter-S.-Thompson-looking-asses. And, wouldn’t it be nice to legitimately help Jamie? He’s shown nothing but trustworthiness.”
She rolled her eyes and held up a preemptive hand. “Well, except for the lying about his entire career thing, but you know what I mean.”
This was true. Jamie had made good on his promise and emailed contacts for the people she’d spoken to at the party whose interviews were lost in the lake. Brinton had already arranged new phone interviews with everyone that afternoon.
“So, what are you going to do?”
Brinton sighed. Jamie’s mea culpa had gotten him off her shit list, but what he wanted from her demanded too heavy a toll. She could lose everything she had ever worked for.
“I gotta jump for a call.”
“Let me know how it goes.” Shay’s frown lifted. “I also want a play-by-play if, along with that recorder, Jamie lets you put some miles on his?—”
“Shay,” Brinton hissed through a defiant smile.
Once they exchanged good-byes, Brinton lumbered to the long wooden dining table. She slumped into a chair with exactly enough time to fluff her braids and pick egg-and-spinach frittata from her teeth in her laptop’s camera.
Landmarkwas an institution of excellence with an illustrious fifty-six-year history. It was also a hypercompetitive shitshow that madeFight Clublook likeSesame Street. The staff writers who sold their ideas—and themselves—best in the daily editorial meeting were published in the prestigious monthly print issue. This left everyone else to jockey for daily bylines, considered secondary, on the website.
Brinton clicked into the video call, her smile stretched to The Joker–esque proportions. It matched her disillusion.
“Hey, everyone, happy Tuesday.”
The whole team, about twelve reporters in all, stared back at her blankly from the long conference table. Waiting for her to stop taking up space.
Their constant jokes about her Grammys fiasco made going to work an infinite loop of abuse and alienation. She felt unmoored, forever questioning if it was her fault that she seemed at once so easy to pass over and ridicule when she made a mistake.
Before every editorial meeting, each of Brinton’s muscles seized and stayed that way until she leftLandmark’s offices.
She felt the same pang now, even a thousand miles away.
“Brinton, I decided to take reviewing Megan Thee Stallion’s new album off your hands this week, since you’re already on assignment,” Agatha said, casually smoothing her platinum bob. She offered a doll-like smile.
“But since Megan is, you know…a Black woman—is that still the PC term?” She paused, then rolled her bottom lip between her teeth. “I don’t want to be—well, I know how sensitive you are about these…things.”
Brinton winced as Agatha pursed her lips. She had resorted to these subtle digs ever since Brinton had complained to Rich about her dumping her grunt work and calling it “collaboration.” At the time, Rich reasoned that Brinton should pat herself on the back. A senior staffer had requested her input, because Brinton was so “dialed into the culture.”
“Yeah, I think Megan Thee Stallion would prefer to be called a Black woman,” Brinton said slowly. She was trying to discern if this conversation was real or a Tennessee humidity–induced fever dream.
“Great! I’d also love to leverage yourexpertiseas a sensitivity reader.”
What Agatha meant was that Brinton, without byline credit, would do all the nuanced “cultural reporting”forher.
Because, once again, Brinton was the Black-spert.
Agatha had already started clacking on her laptop. “So, can you review by EOD?”
“I think that’s a great idea,” Rich beamed. “Brinton, you’re the best at finding problems no one else notices.”
Brinton picked at her cuticles, the fresh sting ringing as loudly as her incredulity. She felt backed into a corner when she needed to project confidence. She just wanted to move on to her pitch and get the hell off this conference call.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Brinton said.
Triumphant, Agatha’s smile returned. “You’re the best.”
