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The chief kept delegating the new positions, earning some wide smiles alongside the disappointed scowls.
“Marc, you’re news editor.” Jill turned a dark shade of crimson. News editor was a tough but rewarding job, and the chief made a good decision giving the job to Jill. Pain in the ass though he was, he definitely had potential that needed nurturing.
And what nurturing do I need?
“Liam Davis,” Chief Benedict read from the sheet.
My pen cut into my palms. This was it. After countless nights working to deadlines, writing, re-writing, editing, I’d finally be Scribe’s features editor.
“You won’t be working in an editorial capacity this semester.”
The pen fell from my grip, clattering on my notebook. “Wh—what? But I—I’m the best.”
“And you don’t lack modesty.”
I blinked, struggling to focus on his next words through the ringing of his last words.
“ . . . an exceptional editor, I’d like to see you expand your skill set. And this goes for all of you. I’m trying to challenge you to approach topics that are out of your comfort zone. . . .”
Won’t be working in an editorial capacity.
“. . . commit yourselves to this, and you’ll be better prepared for the real world of publishing once you’re through here at the Scribe.”
Won’t be working . . .
“ . . . Liam, I’m challenging you with the party page.”
The what?
Was this a joke?
Jill shot to his feet, knocking over his chair. His nose flared again, and sweet, shy Hannah flinched as spittle flew out of Jill’s mouth.
“You’re giving the most popular page of the magazine to him? Liam effing Davis? How can you give someone who doesn’t have a single friend outside Scribe the party page? That’s a recipe for a stuck-up, frigid disaster. Someone who has no life will not be able to give this column life!”
“That’s quite enough, Mr. Jillson. Contrary to popular thought, your opinions are not always welcome.”
I placed my pen in the center of my notebook and stared at the chief. He’d known what I’d really wanted. He’d even talked me through what the position meant and how to be the best. Why did he give me this? Had I offended him somehow? The chief wasn’t the passive-aggressive type; he’d have told me if I rubbed him the wrong way.
Jill threw his hands up. His mouth opened but his raging voice was the last sound I wanted in my ear. Calm and easy did it. We could discuss the issue and politely make it clear the chief had made a mistake. “Jill—”
“Marc, to you.”
I shifted in my seat. “Jill, you don’t like me, that’s clear, and believe me when I say the feeling is quite reciprocated. But you’re also protective of the party page, and I can appreciate that.” The chief raised both brows close to his hairline. “Unfortunately, sir, he has a point. I don’t have enough jackass in me to run the party page as well as Jill can.”
“I seem to sense the potential.” Chief Benedict laced his fingers together and leaned forward, his elbows resting on either side of his binder. “But it’s quite simple, Liam. Do you want to be on the Scribe staff this semester?”
What kind of question was that? “Of course—”
“Then we’re settled here.” He brushed his beard again. “Now, before we discuss the particulars of this year’s first issue, I want to remind you all that this year’s Best College Article deadline is at the end of next week.
“Pick only what you believe are your top three pieces from last year. Two external judges from prominent newspaper agencies will be reading and ranking your articles. One from our own Post-Gazette and another from out of state. So please, consider wisely which pieces you’ll submit . . .”
Drenched again, this time in afternoon rain, I let myself into apartment twenty-three, and lowered my bag next to my forgotten umbrella at the door. If I’d taken it this morning like I’d meant to, would the day have turned out differently?
Maybe I wouldn’t have fallen over, gotten soaked, and arrived late to my meeting. Maybe that would’ve put the chief in a better mood. Maybe he would’ve changed his mind about me doing the party page?
I stripped out of my wet clothes and padded to the laundry room to start a load.
But it was what it was. I had fallen over, arrived late and wet—and tonight I’d have to do research for my first column.
They’re only parties. I can handle it.
I just have to be professional and choose an angle that will work for me. The politics of student parties, perhaps?
Back at my bag, I pulled out my notebook and, bypassing the dining table by the large arched windows, moved to the couch. I took out the flyers I’d grabbed from bulletin boards on campus.
The folded bunch rested heavy in my hand. One by one, I leafed through them. Bling Bash. Derelict Dance. Nightmare on Shady Avenue. Booze Banger.
