“That’s not what Adele Sparks-Sato is claiming,” says Jessica. She pronounces Adele’s last name like she’s reading some exotic soup ingredient from a grocery list. Sparks Sa-touuu. “It appears that she’s gone public with some rather conclusive proof—”
“Adele’s full of shit,” I burst out. “Sorry. No—I mean, I get where she’s coming from; I can see why she’s protective of Athena’s work. And, like, yes, I was inspired by a line that Athena wrote once. I saw—um, she showed me, in her notebook. But the story is completely original—it’s based on my own relationship with my mother, in fact, I mean, like, you can call her, even—”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” says Daniella. “What about The Last Front, then? Is that completely original?”
“Guys.” My voice hitches. “Come on. You know me.”
“You can tell us,” says Daniella. “We’re on your team. If there was any sort of . . . collaboration, or anything that means you are not the sole author, we need to know. We can still make this work. We could set up a split royalties arrangement with Athena’s estate, perhaps, and then out a press release about the shared authorship where you explain that you felt like you needed to do justice to your friend’s work, and that you did not intend to deceive anyone. Then perhaps we can set up a foundation in Athena’s name—”
She’s talking like she’s certain I’m guilty.
“Hold on,” I cut in. “No, look, I swear to God—it’s mine, the project is mine, I wrote out every single word myself.” And that’s true. Completely true. I made The Last Front. Athena’s version was utterly unpublishable. That book exists because of me.
“Do you possibly have proof of that?” Todd asks. “Early drafts, perhaps—emails with time stamps that we could verify?”
“Well, no, because I’m not in the habit of emailing things to myself.”
“Is there any proof that it is plagiarized?” Brett cuts in. “I mean, what, are we assuming Junie is guilty until proven innocent? This is ridiculous. Didn’t you guys just put out a book about criminal justice reform?”
“We’re not persecuting Junie,” says Daniella. “We’re just trying to protect her, for the sake of her reputation and Eden’s—”
“So are we being sued?” Brett presses. “Has Athena’s estate issued a cease and desist? Or is all this precautionary?”
“It’s precautionary,” Todd admits. “As it stands, the copyright issue is quite easily contained. Athena’s next of kin—that would be her mother, Patricia Liu—has expressed no desire to sue for damages, and as long as we take out or rewrite the opening paragraph of Mother Witch, there’s no problem with the bulk of the work . . .”
I feel a glimmer of hope. Mrs. Liu’s decision not to sue is news to me—here I thought I’d be on the hook for thousands of dollars in payments. “So we’re all right, then?”
“Well.” Daniella clears her throat. “There remains a problem of perception. We need to be clear on what our story is. That’s what we’re trying to do here: get all the facts straight, so we’re all on the same page. So if June could repeat, for clarity, precisely her account of how she wrote The Last Front and Mother Witch . . .”
“The Last Front is entirely my original work, inspired by my conversations with Athena.” My voice keeps steady. I’m still terrified, but I feel like I’m on more solid footing, now that I know I’m not getting dropped by my publisher. They’re trying to help me. I just have to give them the right spin, and we can make this work. “And Mother Witch takes the first paragraph from one of Athena’s unpublished drafts, but otherwise it is entirely original to me as well. I write my own stuff, you guys. I promise.”
A brief pause. Daniella glances at Todd, her left eyebrow arched high.
“All right, then,” Todd says. “We’ll want this in writing, of course, but if that’s all you did, then . . . this is fairly containable.”
“So can we make this go away?” Brett asks.
Todd hesitates. “That’s really a question for publicity . . .”
“Maybe I could put out a statement,” I say. “Or do, like, an interview. Clear everything up. Most of this is all misunderstandings—maybe if I just . . .”
“I think what’s best for you right now is to focus on your next work,” Daniella says crisply. “Eden will put out a statement on your behalf. We’ll send it over for your approval this afternoon.”
Emily chips in. “We all feel that in the meantime, it’s best that you, personally, stay off social media. But if you wanted to announce a new project, something you’re currently working on . . .” She trails off.
I get the idea. Shut up, stay out of the spotlight, and prove you’re capable of writing your own books. Preferably something that has nothing to do with Athena fucking Liu.
“What are you working on now?” Daniella prods. “Brett, I know it’s not under contract with us, but we do have the first look, so if there’s anything you can share with us . . .”
“I’m working on it,” I say hoarsely. “Obviously this whole thing has been very distressing, so I’ve been distracted . . .”
“But she’ll have something new soon,” Brett jumps in. “I’ll be in touch when she does. Does that sound good, everyone? Junie will fix that first paragraph ASAP, and I’ll circle back next week when we’ve got something shaped like a pitch?”
Todd shrugs; his part in this is over. Daniella nods. We all exchange some niceties about how it’s good we could get on the line and clear all this up in person, and then Daniella kills the Zoom room.
Brett rings me right after for a follow-up.
“Do they hate me?” I ask miserably. “Is Daniella done with me?”
“No, no.” He pauses. “Actually, it’s not as bad as it seems. Controversy of any sort is pretty good for free marketing. We’re expecting your royalties to go up in the next payment period.”
“What, seriously?”
“Well—so here’s the thing. We didn’t want to tell you over Zoom, but it seems like this whole fiasco got picked up by a lot of, um, well, right-wing commentators. Probably not people you really want to associate with. I mean, let’s be clear about that. But they’re turning this into a culture war issue, and that always drives attention, so sales are . . . up. And it’s always nice when sales are up.”
I can’t believe it. This is the first piece of good news I’ve gotten all week. “By how much?”
“Enough that you’re going to get a bonus.”
It seems like a weird time to celebrate, and perhaps this is wildly inappropriate, but in the back of my mind, I make a mental note to finally get that IKEA couch I’ve been eyeing. It’ll look nice next to my bookshelves.
“It just seemed like Daniella wanted to kill me.” A hysterical giggle escapes my throat. “I mean, she looked so mad—”
“Oh, Daniella doesn’t really care,” says Brett. “She has to do her job, you understand. But at the end of the day all that really matters is cash flow. Eden’s going to stand with you. You’re pulling in too much money for them to back out now. Feel better?”
“So much better.” I exhale. “Wow. All right.”
“So you’re going to work on something new?”
“I guess I’d fucking better, huh?”
“That would be nice.” Brett laughs. “Write up some pitches for me to show Daniella next week. You don’t have to outline a whole project—just throw out some ideas so that she knows you’ve still got it. Just maybe something that isn’t about a Chinese girl, okay?”
“Ha ha,” I say, and hang up.
MY PHONE RINGS ONCE MORE THAT NIGHT, JUST AS I’VE ORDERED some pizza for dinner. I hit the green ANSWER button, assuming it’s my DoorDash guy. “Hello?”
“June?” A pause. “It’s Patricia Liu. Athena’s mom.”
Oh, Jesus Christ. I have the fleeting urge to hang up and hurl my phone across the room. But that will only make things worse—then she’ll know I’m too afraid to talk to her, and she’ll make assumptions why, and I’ll be up all night panicking over what she would have said to me. Better to have it out now and get this over with. If she’s changed her mind about suing for damages, Brett and the Eden team need to know.