Professor Feelgood

  Personally, I go for more of a pre-loved, vintage chic, and end up eating off my crimson lipstick within five minutes of applying it. I’ve learned to never wear white, because whenever I do, I spill things on myself with the regularity of an uncoordinated toddler.

  After reading through my list, Serena carefully places the sheet of paper on her desk. “These are hardly exciting prospects.”

  Tell me something I don’t know.

  “I’ll keep looking. But honestly, Serena, this challenge is ridiculous, right? It’s like saying that someone who’s lucky enough to buy a winning lotto ticket should become a financial advisor. It’s not a logical way to choose a new editor.”

  She nods and takes off her glasses. “I know you were counting on this promotion, Asha, but my hands are tied.”

  When she hands the list back to me, I scrunch it into a ball. “I know you can’t do anything, but … I’m the only junior you’ve trusted with some of your biggest authors. Devin took three weeks to edit the new fire drill manual. He’d need constant supervision.”

  “I know.” She scans the office through the glass wall behind me before leaning forward and lowering her voice. “Asha, you’re streets ahead of the other assistants, but Robert always has to do things his way. Unless you find something that blows him away, I’ll have no leg to stand on. So, you have to deliver, okay?”

  I nod, even though I’m not feeling optimistic. “Don’t suppose you have any hints on where I’m supposed to find an elusive bestseller.”

  She gives me a sympathetic look. “If I had something with any sort of potential, I’d absolutely give it to you. Unfortunately, nothing exciting has crossed my desk in weeks. But even with the bestseller landscape seeming barren right now, I have faith in you. You’re clever and have good instincts.”

  “To be fair, the same could be said of Devin. Plus, he’s part of the Shields/Whip cartel of publishing heavyweights, so he’ll have eyes and ears on every slush pile in the city.”

  “Devin doesn’t have your ingenuity. That’s where you can beat him. Bring us something left of center. Something we haven’t seen before.”

  Like that’s an easy task.

  “Okay, thanks, Serena. I’ll do my best.”

  She smiles. “You always do. That’s why you’re my favorite.”

  Unfortunately, being her favorite means jack squat in this situation.

  As I return to my desk, I run my hands though my hair. I regularly mine the depths of the company slush pile, but finding anything with gold-star potential in the mountain of unsolicited manuscripts is like diving headfirst into landfill and emerging with a pristine Chanel handbag.

  I could trawl through the plethora of free fiction online and see if I can find any talent there, I suppose. More than a few bestselling authors have been discovered that way, but it doesn’t show much in the way of originality.

  I’m still deep in thought when my friend Joanna appears beside me. By the look on her face, she’s already heard the news. Then again, Joanna has a way of finding out things no one else can. If these were war times, she would have made an awesome spy. She seems to have networks of informants everywhere.

  “Devin already emailed Sandra Larson about submitting a new book,” Joanna whispers as she sinks into the chair beside my desk. I open my mouth to say that’s a ridiculous idea, but Joanna’s already shaking her head. “I know she hasn’t published for five years and everyone thinks she’s retired, but Devin’s brother at Random House knows her, and he swears she’s writing again. She’s almost done with the first draft of a new book set in the Rageheart universe.”

  The tension in my stomach ramps up a notch. Rageheart was a massive fantasy trilogy that was not only an international bestseller, but also spawned a blockbuster movie franchise. How the hell am I supposed to compete with a series for which there’s a whole set of action figures, for God’s sake?

  “Surely she’d have to offer it to her current publisher first,” I say. “Why would she move to us? We’re so much smaller.”

  “Word is she’s been unhappy there for a while and is looking for a change. Devin might just be the boy to sweet talk her into going with us. You know that silver tongue of his is the only reason he gets laid.”

  My mind reels. “If he pulls it off, he’ll get that promotion in a heartbeat.”

  Joanna nods. “Yep. So, we have to find you something better.”

  I take off my glasses and rub my eyes. “Better than a spin-off of a wildly popular fantasy series? Like what?”

  Joanna shrugs. “I don’t know, but you can totally do this. I can feel it in my boobs.”

  That makes me smile. One thing I love about Joanna is her positivity. She seems to have a never-ending well of optimism and is content to share it around.

  “Well, as long as your boobs believe in me …”

  Joanna takes my hands and pulls me around to face her. “Listen, I don’t tell many people this, because it scares them to know how powerful I am, but I often get strong feelings about events and people, and I know that if you grab this opportunity with both hands, it’s going to have a major impact on your life. Trust me on this. My boobs are never wrong.” She gives my hands a squeeze then stands. “Now, get to work. I’ll go and grab you some coffee. You’re going to need it.”

  As she leaves, I lean back in my chair and close my eyes. A surefire bestseller. Two weeks. No problem.

  I take a quick look beneath my armpits. Sadly, no leprechauns appear.

  Looks like I’m on my own.

  THREE

  ____________________

  Bestseller Hunting

  AFTER SITTING ON MY BED for hours with my laptop resting on my thighs, I roll my neck and wince as it cracks. Over the past couple of weeks, Serena has forwarded seventeen manuscripts to me in an effort to help with my bestseller quest, but nothing has set my creative loins on fire. Now it’s two days before our presentations are due, and I’m desperately skimming through the last few books on my list in the vain hope I’ll find a rough diamond.

  I have a spreadsheet open in which I’ve made notes on everything I’ve read and have color-coded their potential. Red means “use for lining litter trays or starting fires”. Yellow is “read while drinking or high, it’ll hurt less” and green stands for, “My God! I don’t hate this! I think I just came a little!” Of course, I don’t have anything marked in green. I have one that is a greeny-yellow, but I’ve classified it as my fire alarm manuscript: Use only in case of emergency.

  I’ve read so much in the past fourteen days, I’m practically cross-eyed. Dozens of books and millions of words have filtered through my brain, but to no avail, and now I’m out of time.

  Goddammit.

  I open a new document and rage-type my feelings about my search for the Next Great American Bestseller. I start out intending it to be some kind of epic poem, but as my fingers fly over the keys, it comes out sounding more like Dr. Seuss.

  I searched through towering piles of slush,

  I searched through libraries full of shush,

  I plundered high-brow magazines,

  and witnessed word crimes quite obscene.

  I waded through fanfic and genres galore

  I tried to go on through boredom and snore

  but alas, nowhere was the grail I sought

  Nothing cried out to be lauded and bought

  And so I’m now tired, distraught and despairing

  I’m out-of-time running and pulling-out-hairing

  For the book I need is mythically rare

  and resides safe and sound in the land of Nowhere.

  I shove my laptop away and lean back against my headboard. I can’t believe this is happening. After years of bending over backward to prove myself, this promotion is going to come down to a stupid challenge I have no chance of winning. The rumors about Devin and Sandra Larson are true. All week he’s been crowing about it, like the giant cock he is.

  Beside me, my phone buzzes on the night
stand. It’s a text from Joanna.

 

  Great. She’s coming to help me fine-tune my presentation, and right now I have a big fat pile of nothing.

  I’m about to go back to finishing off a sci-fi novel that’s basically a badly written version of Pride and Prejudice in space, when Miley Cyrus’s Wrecking Ball blares from my phone. At the same time, a picture of my grandmother appears on the screen. Her gray-streaked red hair is in two Leia-style buns on either side of her head, and she’s grinning and curving her hands into a love heart.

  That picture sums up Nannabeth’s personality perfectly. In other words, a thirteen-year-old girl living in a seventy-five-year-old woman’s body. I sometimes wonder if there’s a poor high school girl out there somewhere who body swapped with her during a full moon and now complains about how ‘the kids these days know nothing’, and gauges when it’s going to rain by the pain in her trick knee.

  The thought makes me smile.

  Despite her youthful demeanor, I wouldn’t trade my Nan for anything. She’s unique, and one of the two people in this world I’d trust with my life.

  I jab the answer button and put the phone on speaker. “Hey, Nan. What’s up?”

  “Asha,” she says in a familiar panicked tone. “It’s Moby. I think he’s dying.”

  “Again? That’s the third time this week.”

  Nannabeth is completely devoted to her pet duck, Moby. (Yes, Moby Duck. An epic name for an epic bird.) Next to me and Eden, Moby’s the most important relationship in Nannabeth’s life, and let me tell you, there isn’t a more spoiled fowl on the planet. Nan always fusses over him like she’s a mother hen.

  “Asha, I’m being serious here.”

  “I know, Nan, but I doubt he’s dying. He’s probably just acting for attention.”

  “He’s making a strange noise when he sleeps.”

  “He snores. You know that.”

  “Well, yes, but this sounds different. Usually, it’s like this.” She makes a sound like a gerbil with a head cold. “And today, he sounds like this.” She makes exactly the same noise.

  I sigh. After our father walked out on us when I was a toddler, and Mom died while Eden and I were still in grade school, Nannabeth stepped up and became both Mom and Dad to us. She’s our everything, and I love her more than life itself, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t drive me crazy sometimes. In my experience, it’s the people we love the most who are the best at pushing our buttons.

  “Nan, I have no doubt Moby’s fine, but if you’re concerned, then call Dr. Solley. He’d be only too happy to make a house call.” Dr. Solley has been Moby’s vet since Nan got him, and I’m certain he’s renovated his entire Park Avenue pad on Nannabeth’s vet fees alone.

  “You’re probably right,” Nan says, sounding a little calmer. “I just hate thinking that something could happen to him.”

  “I understand. But he’s a tough bird. He’d never go out to something as lame as sleep apnea.”

  Nan may be neurotic about her beloved duck, but I get it. She’s lost a lot of people close to her, including her daughter, so her fear is a natural reaction. One I understand only too well.

  I hear some rustling and can picture Nan snuggling up in her bed next to Moby, one arm draped protectively around him.

  “So what are you up to tonight, sweetheart?” she asks, quietly. “You going to Facetime with your French man, perhaps? Or do some … what’s that word? Sexting?”

  “Nan!”

  “What? That’s what you kids do, isn’t it? There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Your grandad and I used to do our fair share of sexting when he was alive, but of course, back then it was called writing letters.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut. “Nan, please. You know how uncomfortable I am when you talk about sex with grandad.”

  “Oh, honey, don’t you think old folks deserve a decent orgasm every now and then, too? Even we oldies have needs.”

  God, my brain. Send bleach. STAT.

  “So, anyway, Nan, to answer your question about my plans tonight, I won’t be talking with my boyfriend. I’m working. And I have a major deadline on Monday, so I’ll have to keep this short.” I shove my phone into my cleavage, so I can keep typing as we talk. Eden always gives me crap when she sees me doing this, but that’s only because her boobs are too small to make it work. Her slim, straight body may look better in clothes than mine, but her boobtastic hands-free kit is pathetically lacking.

  “Oh, darling,” Nan says. “Having to work on a Saturday night is tragic. Is this still for that promotion challenge?”

  “Yep.”

  “Ahh. So, how’s your search going for the next great American novel?”

  “Not great.” I type the name of the manuscript I’m reading into the yellow column of my spreadsheet. “My pile of rejects just overtook the Freedom tower as the tallest structure in NYC.”

  She laughs. “Well, I should let you get back to it, then.”

  “Sadly, yes.” I pull the phone out of my boobs and hold it close to my mouth. “Give Moby a hug for me, okay? And I’ll see you next week for dinner.”

  “Absolutely, honey. Talk soon.”

  “Love you, Nannabeth.”

  “Love you, too.”

  I hang up and rub my eyes. I’ve been going for five hours without a break, and my eyeballs feel like they’re made of sandpaper. Without even thinking about it, I tap on my Instagram app and bring up the Professor’s page.

  “Just a quick hit before I get back to work,” I say to myself. “No big deal. I can quit any time I like.”

  While browsing his posts, I immediately feel more relaxed. And more than a little horny. “Come to momma, Professor Brawny Word Porn. Let me bask in your brilliance.”

  I don’t have a huge presence on social media, and the accounts I do have are mostly for the purposes of lurking. But the platform where I’m most visible is Instagram, and I use it to highlight my favorite vintage designer fashion from flea markets and secondhand stores. No selfies, just shots of clothes, bags, and shoes, and even though I’m not great at posting regularly, VintageBrooklynGrl has nearly two-hundred followers. I guess there are some folks out there who dig my thrift shop finds as much as I do.

  Something I never do on Instagram, however, is leave comments. Yes, I’ll drop likes all over the place, but I always feel awkward writing messages to my favorite posters. Like, why should they care what a nobody like me has to say? My opinion means nothing, and honestly, some of the other commentators are so rude, I’d rather not add to the noise.

  But right now, I’m seriously contemplating leaving a note on one of the professor’s new posts. It’s a picture of him from the back, shirtless. His head is down, dark hair wet, and his hands are wrapped in boxing tape as he cradles his head. As usual, it’s impossible to see his face, but the picture has power. It speaks of someone tormented but trying not to be.

  Underneath is the caption:

  I tell myself to let go, to stop pinning my hopes on the impossible.

  I try.

  I meditate myself into a stupor and then finish the job with liquor.

  I punish a punching bag until my knuckles bruise, then bleed words onto an empty page.

  I rearrange my whole world, so I can barely see the places where you once were.

  And yet, every time I turn around, there you are.

  Haunting the corners of my memory.

  I don’t know why I have an urge to say something to make him feel better, but I do.

  I take in a breath and try to come up with the perfect comment, which is stupid considering I’m writing to someone who probably won’t read it.

  “Amazing post. Thank you for sharing. You make me want to be brave.”

  I quickly jab enter before I have the chance to chicken out, and then I screw up my face as my message appears at the bottom of the thousands of other comments.

  Oh, only thirty-six thousand others posted before me? Good, then.


  I blow out a breath and prepare to shut the app, when I get a notification.

  No way.

  Not only did the Professor like my comment, but he replied.

  I stop breathing as I read his words.

  “@VintageBrooklynGrl Do it. Be brave. Go after what you want with all the passion you possess. Nothing hollows out a heart more thoroughly than regret.”

  Whoa.

  All of a sudden, my heart rate has doubled. There’s something so very wrong with me that a few words from a complete stranger can affect me so deeply. I know this is just a silly crush on a web celebrity, but it’s more powerful than anything I’ve felt before, and to be honest, it’s kind of concerning.

  Still feeling high, I like his comment and try to think of something profound to say in reply. When I still have nothing after five minutes, I type a rushed, “Thank you for the encouragement. I’ll try my best.”

  Within seconds, he’s liked that, too, but doesn’t offer any more pearls of wisdom. Scanning through the comments others have left, I can’t find any that he’s liked or replied to. Even though it may mean absolutely nothing, it makes what just happened feel special. I have no idea why he singled me out, but I’m grateful.

  That’s when I realize I’m smiling lovingly at my phone like a total doofus.

  Why couldn’t I find something like this? A book version of his passion and honesty. That I could have sold. Hell, it would have sold itself.

  As I take one last pass over his words and pictures, I feel something ignite inside me; the ember of an idea so crazy, it might just be a glimmer of genius with bad hair.

  Why have I been blind in not considering this before?

  As the idea coalesces, I look at the professor’s posts through the eyes of an editor rather than a besotted fan. Each one pushes away my mental fog and makes me feel like I’ve been punched repeatedly in the chest.

  My God … this could really be something. This could be my leprechaun!

  I keep scrolling and reading, and I soon become aware that I’m chewing on the inside of my cheek as excited tension fills my muscles.