Chapter 3
1665 Words
3
“You spelled the decedent’s name wrong.”
“I spelled it based on the email from his daughter.” I open the folder and extract the correspondence from the dead guy’s family. “See?”
“Shit.” Mr. Clark runs his newsprint-stained fingers down his sloppy tie. Part owner of the building, he interprets that to mean he can ignore the rule against indoor smoking. The open window is supported by a long-forgotten copy of Robinson Crusoe—“That book ruined my childhood,” Clark says—and the little purifier on his desk gave up the ghost long ago.
“Okay. Offer to run the obit for another week. Ask the daughter for a bigger picture of her father. Oh, and give them a coupon for a free garage sale or Missed Encounter ad. Send her one of our fancy pens,” Clark says. He’s talking about the kind with the nylon rope strung through the lid. As if any self-respecting person would be caught dead walking around with a Rose City Register pen hanging from his or her neck.
“Did you get a chance to read that article I left for you?” I ask.
“The one about the ducks?”
“Yes.” An article about the best places around the Portland metropolitan area to watch wood ducks, Mallards, American wigeons, and double-crested cormorants—check out Oaks Bottom, Crystal Springs Rhododendron Garden, and Sauvie Island—and how to tell the difference between a Canada goose and a cackling goose.
“Not really sure our readers would be interested in that.”
“Well, it’s part of the magic of living in Portland—maybe I could interview someone at the Oregon Zoo or the Audubon Society of Portland?” He’s shaking his head. Must talk faster. Throw out another salvageable idea. “Or maybe I can write book reviews?”
“Book reviews about ducks?”
I sigh. “No. Book reviews about books. Any books. You can pick.” He eyes the copy of Crusoe in the window.
“Let me think about it.” He lights up another cigarette, which means he’s done talking to me. “And the new food guy started today—make him feel at home. I think the other kids are afraid to talk to him.” Folks are afraid to get too close to the food writers—not only are they usually pompous overachievers only stopping here until a “real” publication finds them but they get the most threats of bodily harm. Standing too close to a food writer might cost you your kneecaps.
Hand on the door, Clark stops me again. “Dandy, I promise you’ll get out of obits before year’s end.”
Mr. Clark first said this three years ago. He hired me because his wife was my ninth grade English teacher and she loved me. The one person in my life who said, “You’re going to be a great writer some day.” Kids love hearing that. When a dream is validated by an external entity, it can be life changing.
So far, the Rose City Register hasn’t life-changed anything except how often I go into overdraft.
And Mr. Clark knows I want to be a staff writer, but he still relies on me to keep the chickens corralled. Reminds me at every annual review how important I am to keeping everything running smoothly—and I do handle much more than just obits and ads written by searching hearts who missed that pretty girl on the MAX. Seems our light-rail transit system boasts her share of empty hearts.
En route back to my desk, I freeze.
No, no, no.
Gretchen’s lithe body, slipped into an impossibly thin pencil skirt and boots my calves can only dream about, has a book in her hands.
Pride and Prejudice.
The look on her face tells me the words she’s reading don’t belong to Jane Austen. Gretchen is my roommate and best friend from forever, but some things I just don’t tell her.
For very good reasons.
“What the hell are you doing?” I yell. Heads turn like meerkats scanning for hyenas. I slap the book out of Gretchen’s manicured hands.
“Jaaaaaaayne, did you write this?”
“I hate you.” My stomach knots up. Dizzy. s**t. Sit down. Don’t freak out, Jayne. Five four three two—
“Jayne baby, that was effing hot,” Gretchen whispers at me.
“I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” She wheels her chair from her adjoining desk and grabs my clammy, clenched hands. “I’m sorry I read your book. It was sticking out of your bag and you’re always nagging me about not having read Austen, and I was waiting for you to get done with Clark—”
“That was private, Gretchen.”
“Jayne, open your eyes. Are you going to throw up?” She reaches under my desk for the rubber-duck-printed garbage can. The apple turnover dances in my throat. “Sweetie, I am so sorry. If I’d known …”
“You’re too nosy.”
“Please don’t tell me this is going to be a repeat of third grade.” My eighth birthday. Gretchen read my diary while I was in the bathroom with diarrhea from some dodgy hot dogs. She didn’t get diarrhea because she doesn’t eat meat. She still reminds me of this. I still remind her that she read my diary while I was peeing out my ass.
“Why did you read it?”
“I told you—I thought it was your Mr. Darcy. But then—whoa—that is definitely not Ms. Austen’s cup of chamomile.”
“Please be quiet …”
“Can I read more?”
I open my eyes and stare at her like she’s just asked me to donate my still-beating heart.
“I’m not kidding—that s**t is good.”
“How much did you read?”
“Up to the part where he has his—”
“Stop.” I flatten my sticky hand against her mouth. I feel her grin. “Oh God, I’m going to pass out.”
Gretchen scoots my chair back and shoves my head between my knees. God, these are the ugliest shoes. I really need new shoes.
I slap her arm away and sit upright.
“Better?”
“I still hate you.”
“You do not. And I’m taking you to Piewalker’s for lunch so I can hear all about this—this—whatever this is.”
“I was just there for breakfast. He’s going to think I’m a stalker.”
“He’s going to think you like pie. Besides, he said he’d make me those vegan brownies.”
A new face peeks over Gretchen’s shoulder. “Vegan brownies? Sounds like something I should try.”
I stand and straighten my pants, nudging the garbage can under the desk. Gretchen pops a hip out, as per Gretchen. As soon as her hips grew in, she learned how to pop them. They will likely require replacement before she hits forty.
Gretchen extends a limp wrist, as if waiting for Hipster Food Critic to kiss her hand. He shakes it and pushes his black frames up his nose.
“I’m Holden.”
“Do you perm?” she says.
I elbow Gretchen’s ribs. “And you are?” he deflects.
“Gretchen. This is Jayne.”
He offers his hand to me. I shake it for real. One of the few things Sheila Dandy managed to teach me amongst all the bizarre rules she installed in my developing brain: shake a person’s hand like you mean it.
His palm is clammy. Gross.
I try not to be obvious about wiping my hand on my pants.
Gretchen moves to block him out of our conversation.
“Gretchen, Mr. Clark says we have to be nice to Hipster Food Critic. Turn around,” I say.
“Is that what Mr. Clark said?” Gretchen asks.
“Yes. And he’s the boss.” We speak as if this third individual were invisible. The loose, floppy curls are actually sorta cute. In that I’m a food critic there could be bombs nearby way.
“Fine.” Gretchen swivels. “So, Food Critic, despite my personal disdain for people who perm their hair, I shall pretend to be a nice person. What brings you to our little paper?” Gretchen says.
“Name’s Holden, it’s a hundred percent natural curl, and uh, well, I needed a job. Student loans don’t pay themselves.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Gretchen says. She’s bluffing. Sort of. Her parents made her sweat under the weight of student loans for a few years “to learn fiscal responsibility” before her addiction to shoes and Prada bags made said loans unmanageable. They paid them off. “Jayne, tell Hipster Food Critic here what we do at the Rose City Register.”
“I write about dead people and dead people’s crap for sale. Gretchen writes about fashion and culture.”
“Impressive. Do dead people sell their stuff?” Holden asks.
“Yes. Portland is known for its zombie garage sales,” I say.
He chuckles. “Ever come across any good finds?”
“I just write the ads.”
“Afraid of zombies?”
“Afraid they’ll overeat,” I say.
“Oh, because your brain is …” He twirls a finger around the crown of his curly head.
“Yes. Jayne’s brain is huge,” Gretchen says, raising a hand for a silent high-five. Of course, this begs the question about why I work here if my brain is so huge. Another day, perhaps.
“One of my college buddies found an original Picasso at a guy’s yard sale in LA once.”
“Doubt it,” Gretchen says behind her hand. “Okay, great, well, don’t you have food to critique?”
“Mr. Clark warned me about you.” He wags a finger at Gretchen and leans his brown-corduroyed body against an adjacent desk. Jumps when a ruler invades his butt space.
“Mr. Clark knows many things. You should heed his warnings.” Gretchen pinches my cheek. “I’m off. Student show at the Art Institute. You—lunch—be ready at noon. Bring Mr. Darcy.”
Even my ears ignite.
“Pride and Prejudice fan?” Holden asks. I ignore him.
“So, um, are you settling in okay?”
“If by okay, you mean that everyone has been sort of rude and someone taped all the drawers shut to my desk, stole the cartridges for my pens, left me crayons instead of pencils, and no one told me about Surly Brian, then, yes. Absolutely fine.”
“Do you remember third grade, Food Critic?”
“It’s Holden. And yes. I remember third grade.”
“Act like you’re back there.”
“Noted.” He smiles. His middle two teeth are longer than their neighbors, though straight. Quite white. Not a smoker, then. Definitely looks like orthodontia was involved. “So, I guess I’m off to critique food.”
“Good luck with that. Oh, and sweep your desk. Every day. Maybe consider getting a dog that can smell explosives. I hear beagles are friendly.”
“Wait—what?”
I pick up my ringing phone and wink.
- Writer
