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“Be that as it may,” responds Brenda, “readers of this piece who do live there will find it inspiring.”
“Oh, no doubt,” Jay agrees lightly. “Mayville is known for many things. Drugs. Fornication in the open streets. Strippers and prostitutes.” Jay turns his needle eyes on me. “It leads one to wonder why an aspiring Wales Weekly intern would write such a piece with affinity and suspicious attention to detail. If I was a reader, I might even wonder if the author of such a piece condones such reputation-crippling conduct.” He narrows his eyes. “Or partakes.”
The two senior editors at the table glance at one another.
“Is that really the kind of content manager this place employs?” Jay quietly asks, like he’s suddenly cut me out of the discussion, consulting with the senior editors privately as if they’re his colleagues. “I’d expect more from such a reputation-conscious publication as Wales Weekly.”
“Thank you, Connor,” says Brenda, whose flat expression never reveals whose side she’s on.
After one brief glimpse at Bree, who is staring at her hands expressionlessly and offering nothing on her face, I gather up my presentation and return to my seat.
Jay presents dead last. His piece is about a few select celebrities who have influenced the city over the past ten years, aided in environmentally helpful events, and donated significantly to charities.
“Not a bad idea,” comments Brenda dryly. She shrugs at the senior editors. “A positive piece on local celebrities, kissing their asses? Sure does make Wales Weekly look good.”
The senior editors chuckle, nodding with their silent praise.
My eyes, of course, are only on one thing: the projection of his layout behind him. “I agree. It can do a lot of good, an article spun from that angle.”
The whole room seems to turn at the sound of my polite comment.
Even Jay looks unsettled. I doubt the last thing he was expecting from me was a compliment. “Of course it can do good,” says Jay snappily. “That’s all I intend to do for this publication: good.”
I smile and nod. “Of course.” My eyes flick to the projection once more. “But I’d suggest an edit.”
“An edit? Are you suggesting there’s an error?” He lets out a tiny snort of amusement. “Connor, this piece has had the eyes of no less than three keen editors that work directly under Mr. Wales.”
“Oh.” I give an innocent look at everyone else at the table. “Sorry, guys. I don’t mean to step on anyone’s toes. I really don’t.”
Brenda sighs. “What do you see, Connor? Just come out with it, already.”
“Sorry. It’s just that …” I point at the screen. “Deidra Matheson. Broadway’s newest star-on-the-rise.” I give a happy smile toward Dave, who sits next to me. “I saw her perform in Wicked. I swear, I had never wanted to be whisked away to Oz more than I did that magical night, which is hilarious for a boy from Kansas to say, I do realize. Deidra’s voice … is nothing short of dessert for the ears …”
“Your point?” Brenda cuts me off impatiently.
I fold my arms on the table. “The first time our upcoming goddess of Broadway is mentioned in Jay’s article, third paragraph from the top, her name is missing the second D. Instead of Deidra Matheson, it reads Deira Matheson.”
Every eye in the room zeroes in on the article projected against the wall.
Jay’s overwrought eyes included.
Something like a silent gasp in reverse passes through the room as the error becomes not only known, but blaring and obvious.
“I …” Jay isn’t sure how to react. “It was just a little bit of a …” He huffs, stares down at his notes, desperately seeking something to save him. “Deira. Okay, I see it. Fine. A typo, which could have been made by … by …” He licks his teeth and lifts his eyebrows. “Clearly, I just—”
“It’s just a small error,” I point out, cutting him off—much to his visible chagrin. “The article is … really rather flawless otherwise.”
“Fine. It’s just one D,” clips Jay.
“Yes. And sometimes,” I respond back politely, “that’s all the difference there is between a star on the rise … and a nameless nobody.” I give him a look. “One big ol’ D.”
Jay breathes fire through his eyes.
Brenda wraps up our presentations just then, leaving with the senior editors to have a discussion. And after a very furious Jay stuffs away his papers and laptop in silence, our day comes to a fast end. I’m soon in the elevator once again heading down with no one but a strangely smug Bree at my side.
Halfway down, she says, “Hey, Connor?”
I glance at her. “Yeah?”
She lifts her hand for a high-five.
I grin with victory, then give her firm palm one hearty, cheery smack of my own.
14
Tonight, I can’t even be bothered by the lack of clothes my “uniform” at Aubergines requires. In just a pair of tight two-sizes-too-small shiny purple bootie shorts that come barely halfway down my thighs, plus a sparkly purple bowtie and shirtless otherwise, I pass out tray after tray of shots from the bar to tables of horny men. It’s a busy night. Despite my scanty attire, I’m pleasantly surprised by how respectful the clientele are. I don’t get so much as one uninvited smack on my ass or groping of any kind. Hell, I’m even granted a moment around ten o’clock to shoot Alan a selfie, seeking his approval, toward which he demands I wear my uniform for him next time I’m by his place.
