“Sort of,” he says. He examines his nails for a moment then looks up at me and sighs, looking completely apologetic. “There’s been a change to the article.”
I stand up straighter. “What change?”
“It’s still being printed, don’t worry,” he says quickly. “It’s just that, uh, well sweet cheeks, Joe won’t run it with your name. He’s putting down my name as the byline.”
“What?!” I exclaim, loud enough for people to stare.
“Sorry!” he says, whispering harshly. “I didn’t want it that way, but Joe says no one knows who you are. But the good news is that he’s running it. Yay.” He gives a tiny, desperate jump for joy. “Right?”
I can’t even speak to him. I push him away, whirl around, and march toward Joe’s office. I hear Neil yell behind me, “Don’t do it, it’s not worth it!” but fuck that noise. This is my article. My chance. It’s worth it.
Joe’s door is closed so I quickly rap on it, trying to take a deep breath, to control my rage which is totally out of control.
“What is it?” he asks brusquely from the other side.
I open the door and step in, shutting the door loudly behind me. He looks up in surprise then cocks his head and shakes it.
“Yeah, it’s me,” I say bitterly. “You know why I’m here.”
He looks back down at his papers. Always looking at fucking papers. Use a damn computer like the rest of us.
“I know you should talk to the damn editor with a little more respect,” he says gruffly. I’ve dealt with enough gruff from Lachlan this last week so it doesn’t intimidate me in the slightest.
“You’re not running my name with the article!” I tell him, hands waving all over the place. “I wrote it. That’s not fair. That’s like…that’s like…”
“It’s business,” he says with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “The article is good, and you should be proud. And it might even get some attention, which is what you wanted for this goddamn charity nonsense. But it won’t help if it’s from someone who works in advertising. All the credibility is gone.”
“Then…then, let me work here. You said I can write. You said it’s good. So then make me a staff writer.”
He shakes his head. “Kayla, you’re just fine at what you do. The weekly can’t run without ads. Let the writers handle their work. They’ve been at it for years. You’ve written one,” he jabs his finger in the air, “thing.”
“Then let me keep my name to the article and let me write more things,” I plead. “Let me try again. I can prove myself, I know I can. I can do more than just book fucking ads!”
His oversized, hairy nostrils flare at that. He carefully folds his hands in front of him. “Look. Originally you weren’t going to write it anyway. Just appreciate the experience and be proud that it was good enough to get printed, though I’m sure Neil did more than his fair share of cleaning it up. If you look at it that way, I’m sure he deserves to have his name on it just as much as you.” He clears his throat and starts rummaging through the mess of paper cups and sticky notes on his desk. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go back to pretending you didn’t barge in here with this terrible self-entitled attitude, and you can go back to doing what you normally do. Got it?”
I press my lips together until they hurt. I so want to yell, scream, hurl things at him. But that won’t get me anywhere. I hate, hate, hate admitting defeat, but that’s what this is—utter defeat.
I leave his office, refusing to look at anyone who might have heard my outburst, and head straight into the bathroom. I’m relieved to find it empty, and I rush over to the toilet stall, put the lid down, and sit. With my head in my hands, I breathe, breathe, breathe, and try to hold it all together.