The School Story Page 6

  Glancing around Hannah’s workspace, she snatched up the new envelope and said, “What’s this?”

  Hannah said, “That? It’s just a manuscript. Must be a new agency—Sherry something.”

  Letha read the label. “Sherry Clutch . . . oh, yes, I believe I’ve heard of her. She’s supposed to be very bright. Listen—buzz me the second you’re sure all those revisions check out, okay? And I want you to give this a look over the weekend.” Letha dropped the envelope on Hannah’s lap and swept out of the office.

  Hannah shook her head and gave Natalie a wry smile. “So much for the weekend, eh? Listen, I’ve got to get back to work. Tim is probably gone by now, so you can hang out over there, okay?”

  Natalie said, “Sure, Mom.”

  As she walked over to Tim’s cubicle, Natalie tried not to smile. The editorial director of Shipley Junior Books had just pretended that she knew all about the Sherry Clutch Literary Agency. And then she had ordered her best editor to read a novel written by a twelve-year-old.

  Alone in Tim’s office, Natalie grinned. For the first time ever she was glad that her mom’s boss was a fire-breathing, stuck-up know-it-all.

  CHAPTER 14

  Judgment Day

  After Letha told her mom to read the manuscript, Cassandra Day couldn’t wait to tell her agent about this unexpected development.

  Natalie actually picked up the phone in Tim’s office and dialed half of Zoe’s number. Then she stopped and said to herself, Do I really want Zoe calling me every five minutes all weekend long asking me, “Has she read it? Has she read it yet?” Natalie hung up the phone.

  Then she picked it up and dialed the number again. Zoe deserved some kind of a progress report. But she doesn’t need to know everything—bad enough that one of us has to worry the whole weekend.

  “Zoe Reisman’s room at the Reisman residence, Zoe Reisman speaking.”

  Natalie kept her voice low because her mom’s office was only about ten feet away. “Zoe? It’s me. The manuscript is here. It’s in my mom’s office.”

  Zoe was excited. “Great! Is she going to read it? Did she listen to my message? Do you think she suspects anything?”

  “I know she got your message, and she doesn’t suspect a thing. And I’m pretty sure she’s going to read it. So we’ll just have to see what happens next.”

  “You know,” said Zoe slowly, “you could maybe help things along. You know, like pick up the envelope and say, ‘I wonder if this one’s any good’—something like that.”

  Natalie smiled, but she talked in a serious voice. She wanted Zoe to calm down. “No, I think we better just let things move ahead on their own. If there’s no action in a week or so, then maybe you can call her again.”

  Zoe did not like that idea. “A week? Are you crazy? A week is forever! If I don’t hear from her in three days, then I’m going to turn the heat up—way up!”

  “Look, Zee Zee, relax. I’ve got to get off the phone now, but I’ll let you know if anything else happens, okay?”

  Zoe said, “Hey! Maybe you could offer to read it for her—you know, help out around the office?”

  “Zoe?” said Natalie. “No. No, no, no. Just be patient.”

  “Yeah,” said Zoe, “easy for you to say.”

  “No, it isn’t easy for me to say, Zoe. I want to know what she thinks about it as much as you do. But we’re just going to have to let it move along one step at a time, okay?”

  There was a pause, and then Zoe said, “Okay. You’re right . . . I guess.”

  “I’ll call you if there’s any news, I promise.”

  “Okay,” said Zoe. “Bye.”

  • • • • •

  When they finally left the office at seven-fifteen on Friday night, Natalie could see the envelope from the Sherry Clutch Literary Agency sticking up from the outside pocket of her mom’s briefcase.

  Natalie tried to think. She tried to decide what she was feeling. She couldn’t figure out if she was happy or scared or numb or what. Because what Zoe had said at the very beginning was true now. All of a sudden her mom wasn’t just her mom. She was her editor. Hannah Nelson would be the first person to read “The Cheater” in a professional way. Her own mom would be comparing Natalie’s story to all the other manuscripts she had read during the past five years at Shipley Junior Books—manuscripts written by successful, established, professional authors. Part of Natalie wanted to snatch that envelope out of her mom’s briefcase and toss it into a trash barrel. But it was too late for that. The day of judgment had arrived.

  But that day wasn’t Friday. Friday night when they got home, Natalie and her mom went right out again and ate at a Chinese restaurant and then caught a late movie at the local theater—one of those British movies where half the actors wear fancy clothes and the other half look like beggars. It was a lively story with plenty of action and a little bit of romance, but Natalie couldn’t stay focused on it. Her mind kept wandering back to that envelope, still in the briefcase, sitting on a chair in the entryway of their loft.

  And Saturday wasn’t judgment day either. In the morning they went grocery shopping, and then there was the laundry, and then they both spent two hours cleaning the loft from one end to the other. And then it was dinnertime.

  Natalie went to her room to read after dinner, hoping that if she left her mom alone, she’d remember the manuscript. At about nine o’clock Natalie opened her bedroom door and walked softly toward the living-room area. Peeking from behind the big, leafy plants that framed the living room, she saw her mom. She was asleep on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table, open magazine on her lap, bathed in flickering light from the muted TV.

  Lying in bed later, Natalie tossed and turned. She thought about the heap of envelopes stacked up in Ella’s darkened office. For every envelope there was a person somewhere, and Natalie knew how each of them felt. Those people were out there tonight, sleeping in hundreds of different beds in hundreds of different towns in dozens of different states. Every day each person woke up and thought, “Maybe the editor will read my story today,” or “Maybe the editor will call me today.” Every day each writer wondered if the mail would bring a letter, maybe good news from New York City.

  And Natalie felt guilty. Her envelope wasn’t in a heap somewhere in a dark office. Her story was in the editor’s briefcase. The editor’s boss had assigned her story as homework.

  Natalie sat up in bed and looked at the clock. It was almost midnight. She groped for the phone on her bed stand and punched the glowing buttons.

  Zoe answered on the third ring, groggy and grumpy. “Hello?”

  “It’s me, Zoe. I’ve got to tell you what happened.”

  It took Natalie about two minutes to tell Zoe how her story found its way home with the editor for the weekend.

  Zoe was wide awake now. “So she read it? Did she like it? What did she say when she finished it? C’mon, tell me, tell me!”

  “Well . . . she hasn’t read it . . . not yet.”

  “She hasn’t read it? So why did you call me in the middle of the night?”

  Natalie hesitated. “Because . . . because I feel bad. I feel like the girl in my book. I feel like I’m a cheater too. All those other stories at my mom’s office, stories that she’ll never even look at? And here’s my story, and it’s all the way up at the head of the line. It just doesn’t feel fair. That’s all.”

  “Not fair? Who said things are fair? It’s never fair, Natalie. You’re a great writer, and someone like me isn’t—is that fair? Is it?

  “Well . . . no. I guess not,” said Natalie. “But you’re great at things I stink at.”

  “Exactly,” said Zoe. “It all evens out. It seems unfair, but it’s not. Your mom is a good editor at a good publishing company, and someone else’s mom isn’t. Is that fair?”

  “No . . . not really.”

  “Of course it’s not fair. It’s just the way it is. Didn’t you have to work hard to write your book—just as hard as those other
writers did?”

  Natalie nodded as she answered. “Yeah, I did. I worked hard.”

  “So do you know why your book is going to get looked at and some of those other ones aren’t? It’s because you are who you are, and your mom is who she is, and you worked hard to write a great book.”

  Zoe paused to let that sink in. Then she said, “And there’s another reason your book will get published and most of those others won’t.”

  Natalie asked, “Why’s that?”

  In her best agent voice Zoe said, “Because you have a great agent, and those other schnooks don’t! Now listen, Cassandra. I’m giving you good advice, you hear me? You hang up now and get a good night’s sleep. And just stop thinking so much. You artists are all alike—thinking, thinking, thinking! Not to worry, darling. Zee Zee is going to take good care of you.”

  After hanging up, Natalie felt better, but it still took her another hour to get to sleep.

  And even after her lecture to Cassandra, Zee Zee lay awake doing some thinking of her own.

  • • • • •

  Then on Sunday it happened. It was late in the afternoon, and after finishing her math and English, Natalie settled into her beanbag chair to read about ancient Egypt in her social studies book. The chair was so comfortable, and she had stayed up too late the night before. The next thing Natalie knew, her mom was shaking her awake.

  “Natalie, you won’t believe this! You know this manuscript Letha made me bring home? Well, I opened it up, you know, just so I could tell her I looked at it? And I started reading it, and it’s just . . . well, I couldn’t stop reading! It’s one of the best things I’ve read in a long time—and besides that, it’s even a school story! Isn’t that great?”

  Natalie wanted to throw her arms around her mom’s neck and burst into tears. She wanted to say, “It’s mine, Mom! I wrote that! I wrote it for you, and I wrote it for Dad, and I’m so happy that you like it!”

  But she couldn’t, so she didn’t. Instead Natalie gulped, and she smiled and said, “That’s great, Mom. So, it’s really good?”

  Her mom nodded excitedly. “It’s got such a wonderful feeling all through it . . . I mean, it needs some work here and there, but this Cassandra Day—that’s the author—it’s her first novel, and for a first novel it’s terrific. I can’t wait for you to read it.”

  And Natalie nodded and said, “I’d love to.”

  But as she walked back to her workroom Hannah wished she hadn’t said anything to Natalie about the book. Because the strongest section of the book was the part about this girl and her dad.

  Hannah worried about Natalie. Ever since she lost her dad, Natalie had kept much more to herself. She seemed happy enough, and she didn’t seem to need to talk about not having a dad, but maybe that was a problem. Hannah was glad that Fred made the effort to be part of the family, and she knew that Natalie loved him. But having an uncle who loved you wasn’t the same. Nothing could ever be the same.

  Hannah shook off the fear. After all, she thought, isn’t that why I love my work? That’s the whole idea of a good book, right? It’s supposed to hit you where you live. That’s the point.

  Which was easy for her to see as an editor.

  But seeing it as a mom was a different story.

  CHAPTER 15

  A New Island

  Natalie and Zoe burst into Ms. Clayton’s room right before first bell on Monday morning. Breathless, Zoe said, “Guess what? Natalie’s mom got the manuscript, and her boss made her read it over the weekend, and her mom read it, and—she loves it! Isn’t that terrific? We did it!”

  Natalie nodded. “It’s true, just like Zoe said! My mom raved about it last night, and she even mentioned it again this morning—I think she really wants to publish it!”

  Ms. Clayton smiled and reached out to take both girls’ hands, swept up in the excitement. “This is wonderful! And she doesn’t have any idea that her own daughter wrote it—this is just too cool!” Then Ms. Clayton caught herself, and in her teacher voice she said, “Well, I think you both should be very proud. Neither one of you could have done it without the other.”

  “Or without you,” said Natalie.

  Ms. Clayton blushed and said, “Well, anyway, things are jumping now, aren’t they? Keep me posted, and let me know if I can help, okay?” Robins started chirping, so Zoe and Natalie rushed out of the Linden Room to go to their lockers and get ready for morning meeting.

  Alone, Ms. Clayton shook her head and smiled, half amused, half worried. She wished she could be twelve again. Back then all she would have seen was the fun of a moment like this. But she was twenty-six, and she was supposed to be the mature, grown-up teacher. And there were probably dangers ahead. There were still plenty of things that could go wrong with this little publishing adventure. If things started to turn sour, Ms. Clayton the Bold could easily be renamed. And her new name just might be Ms. Clayton the Idiot.

  • • • • •

  In science class Zoe was trying to pour exactly thirty cubic centimeters of distilled water into a graduated cylinder. Natalie was watching her, and all of a sudden Zoe started spilling water all over the lab table. It splashed onto Natalie’s notebook, and she said, “Hey! Watch out!”

  Behind her safety goggles Zoe’s eyes were as big as golf balls. She slammed the water bottle down on the table and grabbed at the belt of her skirt. She pushed something into Natalie’s hand, and it lay there jiggling. Zoe hissed, “It’s the beeper! It’s ringing! That’s the silent ring—when it vibrates!”

  Natalie turned the beeper and looked at the display. “Look!” she whispered, pointing it at Zoe. “Look! It’s my mom’s number! My editor is calling my agent!”

  When lunchtime finally arrived, Zoe and Natalie ate in about six minutes and then hurried to the library. Mr. Levy was at lunch, and two eighth graders, a boy and a girl, were in charge. They were flirting with each other at the front desk, and they didn’t even look up as two sixth-grade girls hurried to the back of the room and went into the foreign language booth and shut the door. Natalie sat down at one of the stations and put on a set of headphones. She opened her Spanish book, but she didn’t start a tape. Zoe sat down at the workstation opposite Natalie, away from the glass wall and completely hidden by a study carrel. She quickly dug her cell phone out of her backpack. She had already entered the voice-mail number at Offices Unlimited into her speed dialer, so in ten seconds she was listening to the message.

  Natalie said, “What’d she say?”

  “Shhh!” hissed Zoe. “I’m still listening!”

  The fifteen seconds that followed seemed like years to Natalie.

  Then Zoe passed her the phone over the top of the carrel. “Here—push the star button quick, and the message will replay!”

  Natalie glanced over her shoulder to be sure the eighth graders weren’t looking, then pushed the star button and slipped the slim cell phone under the headphone cup covering her right ear. It was her mom’s voice.

  “Zee Zee? This is Hannah Nelson at Shipley Junior Books. I read the manuscript you sent me this weekend, and I think we may be interested in it. I can’t say for sure just yet, but I’d appreciate it if you’d let me respond before you start sending it to any other publishers. It’s certainly not perfect, but I think the flaws are manageable, and it might just fit in with our program. So, if you’d give me a call at 555-9091, we can talk about it. Again, that’s 555-9091. Good-bye.”

  Zoe took the phone back and turned it off. Her eyes sparkled, and she said, “Great, eh? She wants to talk.”

  Natalie frowned and pulled off the headphones. “But it sounds like she doesn’t like it as much anymore. Do you think she’s changing her mind about it?”

  Zoe made a face. “Of course not, silly. It’s just business. She’s not going to tell me that she loves it, because then I’d make her pay more money for it. She’s just playing it cool. And she’s afraid I’m going to show it to other publishers, because then she’d have some competition f
or it.”

  Natalie said, “But we don’t want some other publisher.”

  Zoe smiled. “I know that, and you know that, but she doesn’t know that—and that’s good. That way, we’ll get a better deal.”

  Natalie narrowed her eyes and said, “Zoe, I don’t want you messing this up, trying to make some big deal. Let’s just get the book published.”

  Zoe waved her hand and said, “Relax. I’ve got it all under control. Put your headphones back on and listen to your agent go to work.”

  Natalie pulled on the headphones, and Zoe sat down, turned on her phone, and dialed Hannah Nelson’s number. She answered right away, and Natalie thought, Poor woman, she’s working through her lunchtime again.

  Natalie could hear only Zoe’s half of the conversation.

  “Hannah? This is Zee Zee Reisman from the Sherry Clutch Agency, and I’m returning your call. I am so glad you like Cassandra’s book. I think you’re very smart to pick up on it right away. . . . Yes, yes, I can understand that . . . but still, if you’re asking me to stop sending the book to other publishers, then you must have a very strong interest. . . . Uh-huh, yes—of course. . . . I understand. So, Hannah, what is the next step here? . . . Yes, that sounds good. . . . Sure, but Wednesday would be better. I don’t want to let this cool off. . . . Fine. . . . Yes, I understand. . . . This is good, and I’ll talk to you on Wednesday. . . . And thank you. Good-bye, now.”

  Natalie yanked off the headphones and stood up to look over the top of the partition. “Well?” she said. “Does she want to publish it?”

  Zoe nodded. “I can tell she does, but she says she has to talk to the rest of the editorial committee. She’s trying to sound like she’s not excited about it, but when I asked her to call me Wednesday instead of Thursday, she said yes right away. I think she really wants this book!”