Page 74 of Blacklist

That’s not how it is at Bluebird Press. It occupies the ground floor of a small brick building, and one tiny sign hangs above the entrance. There’s no receptionist to greet me at the door. Inside, desks clutter the space, stacked high with manuscripts next to abandoned coffee mugs. A haphazard bookshelf lines the far wall of the room. This is the only attempt at decor. Someone has lovingly lined up the books, facing some out to display them properly. It’s obvious even from here this is a place where people prefer to live in the pages of their books. The rest doesn’t matter. It’s not the frantic, glamorous workplace I’d envisioned; it’s better.

It’s so close to noon there’s only a few people at their desks. No one bothers to look up from their laptops or manuscripts, leaving me free to wander freely. I pause at a desk in the back corner to nosily investigate a manuscript that’s lying out.

“Can I help you?”

I spin around, feeling like a thief in the night. “Sorry,” I say quickly, “I was looking for the… boss.”

“You mean editor-in-chief?” she asks me.

“Yes.” I’m off to a great start. I know a publishing house doesn’t have a boss. It has a publisher. It has an editor-in-chief. All the happiness I felt moments ago oozes slowly out of me. I don’t belong here any more than I belong anywhere else in my life.

“That’s me,” she says, brushing past me to her desk. She leans over and hits a few keys on her computer, frowning as an email pops up. I stand there trying to think of something to say. She finally looks up at me. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“A job,” I blurt out. I’d wanted to blend in today and not look like Adair MacLaine come to survey her new holdings. I didn’t plan this. That’s pretty obvious given that I’m in jeans and a t-shirt that says Read an effing book. At least, it’s on theme. I don’t have a resume or a writing sample. I don’t even know what job I want.

“A job?” she repeats. She studies me for a second. Sinking into her chair, she waves to the seat across from me. “Sit. I’m Trish.”

“Thanks,” I say, grateful for the invitation and that we’re foregoing last names. I’m not putting my best foot forward, so the fact that she’s willing to even talk to me means she’s a lot nicer than I am. “Adair.”

“What kind of job are you looking for? We’re not really hiring,” she tacks on in warning.

“I don’t know.” Isn’t that the truth? “I came in on a whim.”

Now she’s looking at me like I might be crazy. “So, you were just walking by and thought hey, I should get into publishing?”

“Honestly, I’ve always wanted to work with books. I majored in British Literature at Valmont.”

“What have you done since then?” she asks.

She might not be hiring, but it feels like I found myself at an impromptu job interview anyway.

“My dad was sick,” I explain. “I haven’t really done anything with my degree yet. I only graduated last year.”

“The job market for English majors is a pretty slim one.” She sounds sympathetic. “What were your areas of interest?”

“I did my thesis on Jane Austen.”

The look on her face says who hasn’t, but she’s nice enough to keep the thought to herself. “What was the topic?”

I’m losing her. I’m just another hapless English major with your standard thesis on Jane Austen.

“I said all of her books were about how much she hated marriage.”

Her lips tug into a smile. “But she wrote love stories.”

“That’s debatable.” I’m used to having this argument. Only one professor in my department thought it was a good topic. The rest said I was misreading the text. “Take Pride and Prejudice. Do you really think Elizabeth is happy with Darcy?”

“I think that’s the whole point of the book.”

“Darcy is a total jerk,” I disagree. It had taken me years to understand this. “Lizzie gave into him because he did something nice for her sister. It doesn’t change all the terrible things he said.”

Trish doesn’t look like she’s buying it, but she’s definitely interested. “It’s an original take. I’ll give you that. So you don’t know what job you’re looking for. What would you like to do with books?”

“Read them. Champion them.” I quickly add, “Fix the spelling, I guess.”

“Here,” she says, passing me a thick manila envelope. “This is from a creative writing grad student at Valmont. I saw him give a reading recently and requested he send me his book. Read it. Take some notes. We’ll see what you’ve got.”

“I can do it tonight!” I can’t help feeling like she just handed me a golden ticket.