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“You okay?” I venture to ask.
Without looking at me, she says, “Sure.”
Comically, she lets her arms and legs go all loose for just a second, like a marionette that's just been granted a momentary reprieve. She looks wounded. Slightly gawky, a little bit less composed.
That's the Hannah I remember from middle school, from softball games and debate club and fundraisers. The one who was constantly growing out of her clothes, shooting up like a beanpole, as her mother always said. Too long, too gawky. She grew out of her clothes so fast, they always seemed just a little obscene. Too tight around the places that grew fastest. Prone to bunching up and exposing her navel, that sort of thing.
But just look at her now, the CEO of Riordan Publishing. Badass boss lady overseeing three publishing imprints and a dozen online magazines, including TurnPost. She barely ever shows anyone that it takes even the smallest effort on her part. Who knew all of that would come from that awkward beanpole? Must have been some fairytale-quality magic beans.
“You want to talk about it?” I offer.
Normally she says no, that I wouldn't understand. First of all, she's probably right about that. Second of all, I have a feeling it's not terribly interesting anyway.
But to my surprise, she says: “Oh my God, I am so fucking screwed."
I giggle a little, knowing that this is the kind of language she uses only in front of me now. To everyone else, she's the frighteningly beautiful dragon lady who would never defile her own perfectly-lined and lipsticked mouth with a swear word of even the most innocent kind. She looks like Nicole Kidman twenty years ago, with a little dash of Lana Turner and Bette Davis thrown in for good measure. She barely even uses contractions, much less words like fucking or screwed. It's just for me.
Because I'm special. Because we’re friends.
“Oh, it can't be that bad, can it? I’m sure you’ll come out on top. What's going on?” I ask her.
She sits up in her chair, leaning forward and mashing her palms on the desk. For a few seconds, she seems to examine the back of her perfect hands, her perfect nails, her beautiful, long bones. I can feel her plotting, planning. Strategizing. After a little while, she lifts her head and squints at me.
“Bella, I'm going to need you to go on a date.”
My mouth pops open with a tiny, surprised noise. Pop.
“Wait, what?”
“And then write about it.”
My heart starts beating faster.
“But I tho
ught —”
She looks at me, pressing her lips together hard. “Yeah, I know. I'm sorry. Now's not the time.”
I take a deep breath. I can tell she's got a lot going on and is probably not one hundred percent focused on my needs or my life at this moment. That tells me I need to move very carefully through this conversation.
“You’re telling me now's not the time for me to get back to personal journalism? Essays? Pieces that... mean something?” Even that last is a bit too far. A little too accusatory.
She nods tensely. “It's not forever. I promise.”
I swallow over what feels like a sudden swelling in the back of my mouth. “But, Hannah, we talked about this, right? That mascara piece has almost a hundred and thirty thousand shares on it, right? I mean, did you see?”
“Oh, I saw it! And congratulations!” she says enthusiastically. I swell under her praise. It really is a good number, I know she knows that.
But her expression immediately changes. She holds her hand up, like she's balancing a fact in her empty palm. “See, that's why you are the perfect person for this. You have unmatched reach. People listen to you. When you do this piece, it'll really have an impact for us.”
I feel a grim smile forming on my lips. I really thought my popularity numbers were going to get me out of this fairly humiliating job, not bury me deeper in it. I feel so stupid.
“I don't know if I really want to do this anymore. I think that I would be so much better for you if I went back to writing, you know, the deeper stuff. I mean anybody could do —”
“No,” she interrupts me, almost coldly.
I feel like I’m not really the first thing on her mind. Not the real me — not the childhood friend. I’m just a soldier in her battle, a piece on her gameboard.
