“Well…I…”
“Listen, it’s not charity. I know this is your second job, and you’ll be doing it at odd hours. And I know from experience how easy it is to let time get away from you when immersed in a project. This was just an employer making allowances for his employee’s diligence.”
“Wow, that sounds so…corporate.”
He laughed. “Hardly. My guess is you’re camped out on the floor with my crap piled all around you. Not real executive of a setting.”
“Do you have a camera in here?” I said, kind of teasing, but dang his description was spot on.
“Like a nanny cam?” He chuckled, and I envisioned the corner of his mouth lifting slightly as it had when I’d seen him earlier today. “What would we even call that? A literary assistant cam?”
“Is that what I am? A literary assistant?”
I could almost see him shrug. Strange that I’d so quickly become attuned to his body language after so short of a time. Though, I had been watching him—closely—three times a week for the past four months.
“I thought it had a more prestigious ring than box unpacker. It might look good on a résumé, depending on what types of jobs you’ll be looking for in three and a half years.”
“God, Isodon’t want to think about that yet.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment, and when he did respond, it was with a quiet, low voice. “But youdothink about it, don’t you, Syd? You think about your future all the time. Just so you don’t have to think about where you come from.”
I slowly eased my body out of my stretch, the phone moving slightly on my thigh. Reaching out to hold it in place, I felt another prickle on my neck. Not Chip this time, but something much deeper. Much darker.
“Yes,” I answered, not wanting to admit the truth.
“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to get all heavy on you.”
“That’s okay,” I replied, even though his insight was a bit unnerving.
There was a pause, and then he switched tone and topic with, “Have you ever thought about being a writer? Your stuff is so…honest. I know they were just papers for a freshman class, but, still.”
I’d never in my life thought about becoming a writer, even though I loved to read. But when he said that…yeah, the prickles again. Prickle city.
It felt like that kids’ game, where you put the squares and circles in the right hole. And I’d been trying to get the green triangle in the red square hole. And then, when he said “be a writer” I suddenly saw the triangle opening just a few inches away.
My imaginary hand hovered over the correct hole, and then I pulled it back, setting it down.
“Are you kidding?” I said to Montrose. “No way.”
“Why not? It’s a noble profession.”
“Yeah, if you’re the National Book Award winner,” I said.
He, of course,wasthe National Book Award winner five years ago forFolly.
And hadn’t published since.
“Oh, come on, that’s not fair,” he said. He was right, it wasn’t.
A thought occurred to me. “Wait. This job. My papers. This isn’t some kind of whole Pygmalion thing, is it?”
“Christ, I’m only twenty-eight. I’m still learning myself. Do you really think I’m Henry Higgins material?”
I had a flash of thatSeinfeldepisode where Elaine mispronounces Svengali, just as he added, “Or a Svengali.” He mispronounced it just like Elaine had in the episode, with a soft G.
“Okay, Elaine,” I said, and he laughed—loudly and naturally.
“I figured you’d be too young to get that one,” he said.
