Page 24 of Bad Words

“Nothing to add,” said Mike with an easy roll of his cardiganed shoulders. “But, well…”

Joyce swapped another look with him. “The conflict has been a little disruptive. That’s all.”

This seemed to delight Hayden. “Disruption is what Nextward is all about! Being change agents. Injecting life into whatever industry needs shaking up. And readers are reacting to this! Page views are up, subscriptions are up—”

“But this can’t go on forever, can it?” said Joyce. “Selina’s said what she needed to say. When are we going to go back to … well, to business as usual? Writing great pieces that connect with people?”

“Joyce, keep up. Business as usual hasn’t worked for y’all for fifteen years.”

The lines in Joyce’s forehead deepened. She glanced down at her notepad, her reading glasses performing their familiar downward slip.

I felt the urge to stand, yank the door open, and demand that Hayden get out. From the hard expressions around the table, I knew the rest of staff was having similar thoughts. Saying something cutting to Joyce was like aiming a kick at a rescue dog.

Scott was considering Hayden, stone-faced. “What do you mean by ‘building momentum,’ Hayden?”

“Well, Selina’s always been a bit of a controversial figure,” said Hayden, “but now that’s a real part of her brand, which is great.”

“Is it?” I muttered.

“We should keep her as exposed as we can, keep people coming back. Ooh—maybe we should do this with all the writers! Rebrand City as the place where the biggest, boldest personalities go.”

“Wait, wait,” I said. “I haven’t been talking about ‘rebranding’ in any of these interviews. I’ve been defending City’s mission. The importance of what we already do.”

“And … you think that’s what’s driving people to the site?” said Hayden. “A friendly reminder that City is still here, doing the same old thing it’s done for a century, publishing articles it takes half an hour and a dictionary to read?”

“Yes! I think people want a place online that’ll—that’ll respect them. Their intelligence. Their attention span, which everything else on the internet is trying to degrade.” The skeptical tilt to her mouth made my fists curl on my thighs. “Okay, what’s your theory, then?”

“My theory is that they’re engaging because they think you’re an interesting person.”

“But none of this is about me.”

“Of course it is. Are you kidding? It’s a feud, Selina. It’s all about you.”

For once, I found myself speechless. She was wrong. She had to be.

Scott lifted his hands. “We’re getting away from the point here. Hayden, what you’re saying about a writer’s name brand isn’t so far removed from our existing coverage. We’ve always had our staff participate in readings and festivals and so on.”

“Like what?”

“Well, let’s take a look,” said Kellie, making a little lasso-twirling gesture with her pen. She swiped left on her laptop’s screen, scanning her calendar. “n+1 has a sold-out event tomorrow night—I’m interviewing one of the readers there. And the Wiseman Fest is in a couple of weeks…”

“What is that?” said Hayden.

“The Wiseman Foundation Literary Festival. They book out a convention center for panel programming, bookseller booths, signings—”

“Okay, yes,” said Hayden, rising and snapping her fingers. “I want to hear more about that. Kellie, send me the details, and Selina, keep your game face on.”

I left the office in a state of dejection. Ever since I was a teenager, I’d loved the invisibility of the writing process, the feeling that, in this small way, I was allowed to step out of my skin and leave myself behind. I wanted to communicate with readers about art, about ideas, about something with real worth—not about myself.

It was a relief to walk into the weight room at my gym and lose myself in my routine. For fifteen minutes I was a machine among machines. A two-second inhalation through the nose and a two-second release through the mouth. Flicker of muscle in my thigh, prickle of sweat down my cheek. Thoughtless.

Then, during a recovery minute, came the intrusion, a fact I’d forgotten. Parker on some NPR show. Hayden had sent me the link that morning.

Reclined on the bench, I crooked the weights over my head and pushed, trying to focus on the quiver in my triceps.

Useless. The peaceful emptiness had gone. What was the show called? Jacket Copy, something like that. What had Parker been spouting about me on nationally syndicated radio?

Before I could stop myself, I sat up, swept my phone from the floor, and found the podcast release of the show. I climbed onto a treadmill, hit Play, and began to run.