A lot, actually. Like her sanity.
“We’ll have to go to shows, premiers, gala events! Who else is going to pay you to be entertained? Starbucks? I don’t think so. Maybe we’ll need to do a few teeny-tiny phone meetings during the day, but that’s easily manageable. It won’t be disruptive at all!”
Scarlett felt a familiar thrumming in her head. Working for Mrs. Amberson in the summer was one thing, but during school was an entirely different matter. There would be no time for a job like this, a job which was clearly the path of doom, destruction, woe, failed classes, possible imprisonment…
“I’ll pay you a commission,” Mrs. Amberson said, giving Scarlett a sly look. “If this business is a success, which it will be, you could end up making your entire college tuition. And what will you be working for? Success for your brother! Happiness for your family! Think about that, O’Hara. In the meantime, I know wonderful people in the design department at the Manhattan Theater Club. We can get a whole new set built. This starts now.”
“What, now, now?”
“There is only one now, O’Hara,” she said, springing from her perch. “Oh, that was good! Quote me on that. Where is your notebook? We are so behind on work on my book, you realize that don’t you? Anyway, I’ll be down the hall.”
She grabbed her purse and flew out the door.
Scarlett took a long look at herself in the moon mirror. Puffy curls. Check. Chipped nail polish. Check. Improbable new job. Check. And somewhere out there, a guy who may or may not have been her boyfriend.
“The elevator is here, O’Hara!” Mrs. Amberson screamed from the end of the hall. “I’m holding the door! Do you think William Morris spent all his time sitting around in hotel rooms? Are you coming?”
“Do you hear that?” Scarlett asked her reflection. “That’s the sound of your future. Is that really what you want?”
The reflection just grinned in reply. Apparently, that is what it wanted.
“Coming!” she called.
Now was now, and there was a show to do.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Write a book, and you end up with a lot of people to thank. I wish I could list them all, but I don’t want this to get so long that you end up thinking this is the first chapter. Just know that there were other people who deserved thanks. Shafted, angry people.
Thanks to my agent, Kate Schafer, my editor, Abigail McAden. I am pretty sure that without these two, I would be in a ditch somewhere, mumbling incomprehensible things about cheese and the Swedish economy. Because of them, this book is in your hands. (Or your hand, singular, if you are one of those read-while-you-eat people. Or stashed in your bag, if you are stealing this book. Or in your robotic claw, if I am addressing Our New Robot Overlords.) Anyway, thank them. And if you don’t like this book, please blame them and pretend that I had nothing to do with it.
Thank you to everyone at Scholastic who made me feel welcome and let me play with the Pensieve in the lobby. Special thanks to Morgan Matson, who ran all around New York to fetch the manuscript from many unlikely locations. Also to David Levithan, who is as fine a dancer as he is a writer/editor/teacher/social coordinator/astronaut(?).
John Green, E. Lockhart, and I spent many, many cold New York winter mornings together while the first draft of this book was being written. We shared many hot drinks and a cold or two. Scott “I killed Zane” Westerfeld and Justine Larbalestier fed me many excellent meals and while giving me the most useful notes in the world. Libba Bray made guacamole. Cassandra Clare and I spent an unforgettable night of squalor together that changed us both. Holly and Theo Black bought me a weapon. Collectively, the N.B.s, (you know who you are) provided better advice than the Brain Trust.
Special thanks to the people at the Dreampower Pet Rescue Ranch who found Dizzy and Jake on a bitter Denver night. And to Oscar Gingersnort, who fed and watered me. Oh, and he helped put me out when I accidentally set myself on fire during the final draft, but that is a different story, and not the one you have just read…
About the Author
MAUREEN JOHNSON lives in New York City. She wonders if you have read any of her previous books: The Key to the Golden Firebird, The Bermudez Triangle, 13 Little Blue Envelopes, Devilish, or Girl at Sea. It’s okay if you haven’t; she is sure to like you any way. Unlike Scarlett, Maureen does not live in a hotel, but she wishes she did.