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“No, but…are you okay?” Tyson crossed his arms over his chest as his gaze softened.
It felt like there was lead in my stomach. Whenever he looked like that, he had a goal in mind. If Tyson was anything, he was a master at achieving his desired outcome.
“I’m fine. Pissed at everyone thinking I can’t handle Leisah on my own, even though I’ve pitched a three-arc series that will provide enough content to last us the next five years. Pissed that, despite the countless months I’ve put into planning, I’m going to have to compete in real-time with an artist I’ve been compared to for the last few years of my career. Other than that, I’m perfect.” I exaggerated a closed-lip smile.
“You’re not competing with her, Sage.”
“She’s going to have her own ideas, right? Changes.”
“Yes, of course, she’s going to have her own ideas. We didn’t hire her to sit and follow your orders.” He huffed out a sigh. The frustration he felt was the same frustration I’d been living with ever since my sequential art professor said, “Noah Blue is the most impressive artist I’ve seen from her generation.”
I wanted that title. It was petty and perhaps childish, but I wanted it, and for all intents and purposes, I had claimed it. Nowadays, I was focused on defending it. No matter where I went, Noah was there online, at workshops, or breathing down my neck on the Inkmic charts. The woman wouldn’t give me a damn break.
“Whatever is going on with you, figure it out,” Tyson said firmly. “You two are working together. We are all working together to make sure that Silver asshole isn’t number one for another year at this godforsaken company.”
I laughed, feeling lighter for the first time this morning. “Uh oh, you sounded a bit touchy there.”
I made a show of looking outside the glass walls at the floor of artists. “You wouldn’t want anyone to hear how you truly feel about the beloved Harpy icon.”
Tyson sniffed and readjusted his collar, as if the smallest expression of disapproval left him ruffled. “No one heard that.”
“Sure,” I teased. “Thin office glass is notoriously soundproof. Almost like you’re notoriously a Silver stan.”
“Shut up.” He laughed a little. “Figure your shit out. I want a happy team, and that means you have to try with them. You’re a head artist, so act like it.”
“Co-head,” I corrected.
“Oh, right. Excuse me,” he said sarcastically. “Co-head.”
I pressed my lips together—hearing him say it made it so much more real and so much more annoying.
"Ty," I said, voice lower. "This co-head thing—does it affect my pay going forward? Or my ability to pitch a solo comic in the future?"
His brow wrinkled. "What? No. The contract you signed prevents any income changes until you sign again, and you'll get the pitch session. I'm doing everything I can to make sure you do. "
I'd assumed as much but had to be sure.
"One more time, Sage, are you good?" He looked worried.
"I told you, Ty. I'm perfect."
I was the youngest artist on staff when I got hired at Harpy, fresh out of college with nothing but a few indie-published graphic novels to prove I was good enough for a seat at the table.
I was bright-eyed back then, obsessed with making Harpy the best. Back then, they weren’t the biggest or brightest when it came to the comic industry.
Harpy was notorious for big launches and even bigger falloffs. They had two top-selling comics: Silver and the Six. After that, no one anticipated anything they published.
I was part of what the Internet had dubbed “New Blood” hires, an initiative that lasted all of a few years, when they realized they couldn’t keep top talent for long.
Everyone I’d been hired with had either quit to move on to comic companies that were household names or to publish their own work full-time. The turnover rate was high for artists who knew what they were doing, but I didn’t used to be an artist who knew what she was doing.
Having stars in one’s eyes can be beautiful but also blinding. I’d convinced myself if I was the last woman standing, they’d have no other choice but to give me something big. After seven years, one breakdown, and a ton of filler work, I got what I wanted. It didn’t necessarily feel satisfying, but at least I had it. At least it was all mine. Until today, that was.
Noah was setting up her tablet when I got back to the cubicle. The space already felt three times smaller, even though all she had was her bag and an extra cardigan that hung over the back of her chair.
She cursed under her breath when the stand for her tablet came slipping down. I watched in silence as she tucked her tongue into the side of her mouth and tried to get the device to stay up without locking its stand in place.
Noah talked through everything back in college. She was the type of student who’d asked long-winded questions five minutes before class was supposed to end. She’d mumbled to herself while trying to finish a piece. I remember how easily she started conversations with people, and how casually she ignored me whenever we found ourselves in the same space. She was always a chatterbox until it came to me—unless she had a critique to throw my way. Then, she’d talk my ear off.
