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I didn’t ask.
Me
I’m having trouble with the first sentence. Can I call you for a second? That’s within “boundaries,” correct?
He glances at the screen and shakes his head before slipping the phone into his pocket.
I return to my desk and face my broken words.
Seconds later, my phone rings with a call.
Him.
“Hello?” I answer.
“You’ve got three minutes of my time,” he says, his voice deep. “Read me the lines.”
I rattle them off quickly.
“Hmmm. The second is better, but you should try to find a way to get rid of ‘nothing more’ and focus on painting her without you being a part of the subject,” he says. “This isn’t a hit piece.”
“So, something along the lines of Gay Talese’s ‘Frank Sinatra Has a Cold” essay?”
“Yes, exactly.” There’s a smile in his voice. “Since you’re so far ahead, you should try to meet up with your mom in person for an interview.”
I shudder at the thought ofwillingly spending time with my mother outside of formal events.
“I’ll consider it,” I say. “Thank you, Mr. Donovan.”
“You’re welcome.” He ends the call, but then I call him right back.
“Yes, Miss Edwards?”
“Um, hi…”
He says nothing.
“Are you busy right now?”
“I thought I was.”
“Well, I just wanted to say one more thing.”
“I’m listening.”
“There aren’t too many people on this campus who actuallywantto talk about themes in essays outside of class.”
“I only wanted to talk about them for three minutes with you.”
“Do you think if Talese had written that essay like a true biography that it would’ve earned as much praise?”
“Hell no.” He lets out a low laugh, and my stomach flutters. “I think many writers today take his ‘focus on the small things’ approach too literally.”
“Tell me about it.” I lean back in my chair. “I just read a profile about this coffee chain CEO and the writer wasted the first paragraph describing his clothes.”
“TheFortunearticle?”
“Yeah.”
