"Hell, it was only fifty bucks." Another loud draw from her cigarette. "You got that fancy scholarship. You don't need no money."
"Any money. Basic grammar. It's any money." I groan, frustrated by the reminder of what shit I came from. "I can't help you. I'm sorry."
I hang up the phone and toss it into my backpack. Within a minute it's ringing again, so I turn it off.
Honestly, I don't know why I sent her the fifty dollars I did. She's a drunk. A drug addict. She was barely able to take care of me growing up. I've lived in cars, bathed in gas station sinks. When I was twelve, we moved into some run-down project housing on the outskirts of town, and I thought we were rich. The older I grew, the more I realized the only reason we lived the way we did was because my mother was a loser and couldn't hold down a job. But if you were to ask her, she'd blame me for her lot in life. She had me when she was fifteen, ran away from home. She "did the best she could." I roll my eyes as I hear her saying those exact words.
But the worst thing wasn't the fact that I lived off stale drive-thru food or went to ten different schools from first to fourth grade. No. The worst thing about growing up in poverty was the ridicule. I wore the same clothes damn near every day. I couldn't take regular showers or afford deodorant. And how do you think that worked out for an awkward, redheaded preteen? Well, how it worked out is one of the reasons I generally don't like people.
What people say to you, even if you hate them, it fucks with your head. Ugly. Smelly. Dumb. So I didn't have friends. I didn't talk to anyone. I read, and eventually, I started writing. It was an escape. Fiction was the only way I stayed sane. But I didn't read romances or fairy tales. Nope. I looked for the gritty, the perverse. The dark. Because those kinds of stories gave me hope that there were far worse things in life than what I was dealing with. And that's why Mercer's writings are my favorites. Compared to the things his characters go through, my life resembles a Disney film, complete with singing, enchanted animals.
I always find hope. And as long as Mr. Mercer hasn't chosen a student yet, I still have hope.
“Don’t Fear the Reaper”—Denmark + Winter
Sifting through the thousands of emails and short stories my assistant "handpicked" for me out of the tens of thousands we received leads me to two conclusions. One, this new generation of writers is a fucking joke… and two, I need a new fucking assistant.
Janine, my aforementioned assistant, has been entrenched in her position for years now, so her being replaced is a pipe dream. I only meet with her a few times a month, and even that’s too much for me. I'd rather keep people at a distance, and that includes those who work for me.
A Princeton grad, Janine’s not all dumb. Perhaps she really did choose the best submissions this country's top writing programs have to offer and my plans of finding a co-writer are just futile. I can't imagine working with a single one of these so-called writers recycling other people's stories into their own ten-page drivel. I've read some version of Psycho at least a hundred times already. Stephen King clones? Don't even get me started.
I pull up a blank email and angrily jab at the keys.
Janine,
I find it incredibly hard to believe that this is the best of the best. Am I losing my fucking mind here, or are you losing your touch?
- Your Unhappy Boss
And sent.
I couldn’t give two fucks about her feelings. I refuse to read another word of this shit.
Almost immediately, Janine responds. She knows well enough, from her years working for me, that I do not wait around for a response. Phone alerts will always remain on and loud enough to wake the dead.
EA,
So sorry for the last few batches. Unfortunately, this seems to be the best of what's come in. I do have some good news though. I just read a fantastic story. Edwin, just read the name…
-Janine
I open the document and scroll down the title page, stopping immediately. I let the cursor flash over the name. Are my eyes deceiving me? Miranda Cross… Miranda, Miranda, Miranda. Oh, how the name sends a surge of adrenaline throughout my body, like the electric tingling you get beneath the skin when the dealer hands you a full house, when life calls out loud and clear, Today, is your day!
Miranda, to most, means nothing. It means nothing to those who don't value the art of the written word. Who don't appreciate the classics. Who can't appreciate quiet legends operating right beneath their noses.
Miranda, to me, is a way of life.