Page 10 of Bad Words

“Oh, really?” Her voice grew brittle. “I’m guessing you don’t subscribe to City.”

“Of course not.”

“So, you read the articles with a paywall remover.”

“Yes. I do.”

“In which case, maybe you shouldn’t be shocked that the magazine’s up against a wall, and the writers can’t do whatever we want.” Chan made a noise of cold disgust. “Authors. I don’t even know why I’m surprised. You pretend to care about the rest of the literary world, critics, bookstores, journals, everything—but at the end of the day, all that matters to you is flying to ten-thousand-dollar residencies and getting puff pieces in the media and padding your sales figures.”

“And you think that’s, what, frivolous? You think it’s shallow to care about being successful?”

“Yes. Shockingly, I’d hope that authors would care more about literature than moneymaking.”

I couldn’t help it. I laughed. “Oh, my God, are you serious? Could your ivory tower get any higher? Authors have to care about moneymaking! Before I got that book deal, I worked two jobs and trying to get a hundred words on paper was like pulling fucking teeth. So, yeah, excuse us all for caring about our futures. Excuse me for wanting to keep writing novels instead of going back to bagging groceries and living paycheck to paycheck.”

“You’re talking to me about paychecks?” Chan snapped. I’d finally struck a nerve. The mask slipped, her cheeks flooding with red. I felt an odd thrill, looking at the contorted shape of her mouth. “Is that a joke? The author with the seven-figure advance wants to make this conversation about finances?”

“Yeah, Selina, I do,” I said with a kind of savage pleasure. “You’re the one who brought up money like it’s so far beneath you, when—sorry, what do you think the point of a review is? The whole exercise is to tell people where to put their time and money.”

“Oh, please, tell me more about the point of criticism!”

“I’ll stop telling you about the point of criticism when you stop telling me how to write a book.”

“I’ll stop telling you how to write a book,” she said through her teeth, “when you write a good book!” She slammed her purse down on the table beside us. A lock of hair toppled across the side of her forehead. “How dare you stand there and act holier-than-thou about paychecks and profits when you, a millionaire, read the entire archive of my work by illegal download? Thanks to assholes like you, City has to answer to a bunch of venture vultures who haven’t read anything longer than an Instagram caption since high school. We’ve lost half our staff in the last two years. We can hardly buy the paper to print our magazine.”

“Good!” I spat. “The type of trash you’ve been publishing, I can’t wait until you go under!”

Chan’s sudden silence was unnerving. The redness receded from her cheeks as she considered me. The quiet hummed in my ears.

She smoothed the stray lock back from her forehead, then twisted her hair up into that shining bundle at the back of her head. The motions of her long pale fingers, the crimson shine of her nails, the gleam of the light on her hair seemed calculated and hypnotic. “You want to know my problem with your books, Parker?” she asked, soft and scathing. “Look at what just came out of your mouth. No, you don’t want City to go under. You’d have been thrilled if we gave you a rave. But you’ll say anything, do anything, to get a reaction.”

She took another step toward me in her dangerous-looking high heels. We were barely two feet apart now, eye to eye. I could see the thin, jet-black curve of her eyeliner. “That’s spineless,” she hissed. “Noncommittal. Just like your books. They have no guts, no loyalty to anything, there’s a void at the center. God, I can’t stand people who refuse to put anything on the line.”

Face burning, I scrambled for a rebuttal, but to my humiliation, she was right about City. I’d read the magazine since I was a teenager with pretensions, acting like I understood their poetry, imagining my work in their pages someday. I’d wanted so badly for them to like me.

I’d wanted everyone to like me.

In that moment, with a sickening plunge of my stomach, I wondered if that was the only thing I’d ever wanted while writing.

Selina Chan lifted one red-nailed finger and jabbed it into the center of my chest. A wave of heat issued out from the point of contact. “People like you,” she said, “pretend to want real critics. Serious readers. But it’s all for show. If anyone dares to dislike your precious novel, your darling little self-indulgent doorstopper, then surprise, surprise! We suddenly turn into unqualified gatekeepers. And you’ll blame us for your problems. And you’ll stand back and wave in a future where the only ‘reviewers’ in the world are people getting backdoor payments from publishers to recite pitches for books they haven’t read.” She leaned so close that I could feel her breath on my cheek. “If you want the critical equivalent of an upvote, Parker, go the fuck back to the internet and filter for five-star reactions. It’s not my job to like you.”

And with that, she stalked out of the library and slammed the door behind her.

Parker

8:20 PM

Hey man, so sorry to flake, but I’m heading home. The motion sickness didn’t get any better

Arthur

8:21 PM

That suuuucks. Get some sleep. I can pay for your Uber since you only came to this bc of me?

Parker

8:22 PM