The Muse (9 page)

She narrowed her lips to the point they disappeared into her mouth. Her eyes zeroed in on me. “Why would you show it to him?”

“Because I really liked it.” I stirred my creamy coffee and brought the cup up to my lips for a sip. The warmth steamed my glasses. I pushed past her to get a napkin.

She cradled her coffee mug and laughed. “You’re so naïve, which is good for you. Reality can hurt.” She turned and walked away, tapping her heels into the ground as if hammering roofing nails with them.

I hated that her headlines outshined mine.

Two days later, Sanjeev called a meeting. He blew me away when he announced to the division that my work on a recent public service announcement won national attention and the segment would be showcased on the CBS news sometime later in the month. I focused the advertorial on sports and bullying and how teachers in elementary schools could better serve the needs of less popular kids by stepping up and protecting them from ridicule. The advertorial outlined some easy to implement actions. Katie had designed the ad, wrote the headline, of course, and changed the entire piece to suit her style. Apparently, when she read my words, she couldn’t follow my pattern of thinking, so she changed ‘a few things’ around. Admittedly, the finished advertorial shined brighter when Katie added the glimmer and the meat to it.

“Jane worked tirelessly on this assignment, researching and conducting interviews with school officials, teachers and even students.” I had lied to him about that. I actually researched all of it online, and Katie pointed out this weakness and conducted her own interviewing. “Join me in giving Jane a big round of applause.”

The entire office applauded and I blushed. All eyes turned to me. Sanjeev’s voice rose above the applause. “Jane, please come up here. We have a little something to give you for all of your generous work and talent.”

Doreen nudged me forward and I trudged past the hundred or so employees. The room tunneled before me. A fog buried me. My heart raced. Even the tips of my ears burned.

Sanjeev greeted me with a soft handshake and then pulled me into an awkward hug. He smelled like he’d taken a bath in aftershave.

He handed me the shiny, black, etched glass plaque that read ‘Outstanding Community Hero Award, presented to Jane Knoll in recognition of her dedication to anti-bullying, safety and wellness of children.’

I stared at it. Most people in this position might feel the threat of tears or the inclination to bow or say some words of wisdom. Not me. No, I broke out into hysterical giggles. My nerves shot through me and nothing I could do could stop the percolating of laughter that brewed deep within. Even with all eyes pointed at me, I couldn’t stop. I laughed harder, trying to stifle the edge of hysterics.

I bolted, cradling my undeserved plaque like a baby.

I ran so fast I twisted my ankle halfway through the crowd. It throbbed, but I didn’t cave into the pain until I passed the aisles of cubicles, ran past the bathrooms where I first met Eva, dashed through the back doors to the outdoor trails, and fell to the ground. I winced, watching as my ankle swelled to the size of a Gala apple.

Katie stormed through the double glass doors and sprinted towards me, her face glowering, her lips pursed tightly, her stride long and purposeful like a track star in a dead heat. She landed at my feet with her hands fisted at her hips. “You are such a selfish person. How dare you take all the credit for that? How could you?”

The sting of her words hurt more than the pain of my throbbing ankle. “I’m sorry. I was embarrassed. Did you see how red my face turned? I couldn’t think straight. Everyone blurred. You saw me. I lost it up there.”

“You’re selfish. We sling crap at each other, but not at times like this. I worked hard on this project. It was important to me. This could’ve set me up for more assignments just like it.” Her chin quivered. Her eyes watered. Her cheeks sunk low.

I felt sorry for her.

Her contempt brought me right back to the last time I saw Rhonda, sitting on the steps to the middle school, staring at me with pained eyes from the lashings I’d dealt her.

“I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to claim it all for myself. I’ll be happy to go in and say something.”

“Don’t you dare,” she said with a chill to her voice that sent shivers through me. “You’ll just wreak havoc on my career if you do that. Sanjeev would never believe you. You’ve got him under some kind of spell. You can do no wrong in his eyes. He’ll think I put you up to it to stake claim on something that isn’t mine.” She walked away, shaking her head, sighing. Then, she turned back around. “Next time when you email something like this to him, just as a courtesy, please add my name to the byline of it, too.”

“Of course,” I said, too numb to rise. I sat back and watched her walk away from me, a loser claiming another person’s work as her own.

I was nothing but a dreamer. Katie was the doer.

# #

When I arrived home later that afternoon I went straight to my office. I read through my wall of rejection letters. The last one, dated over a year ago, stood out to me. It had stopped me from attempting to write another short story. The editor wrote, “This is your fifth submission, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t respond accordingly. I just can’t connect to the characters in this short story. I’m sorry to burst the bubble, but you’re just not very good at writing short stories. Your writing is grammatically fine. What it lacks is emotion. I don’t want to spend an hour with these people you created. They bore me. Sorry to be frank. Writing is just not your strong suit, I’m afraid. I’d rather you not waste any more of my or my staff’s time.”

I locked myself inside my condo for eight days after reading that letter. I ate nothing but rice and beans and rose up out of my bed only to go to the bathroom, to heat up said rice and beans and to drink water. Larry pulled me out of that funk by calling me to his rescue to remove a cicada from his front door. His frantic yelping and the bright sunshine brought me back to life. When I returned to my condo, I took a shower, pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt and buried my fictional writing dreams.

I wrote my first short story in high school when my teacher assigned it to us. I wrote a story about a turtle named Newton who ran away from home and got lost in the woods. My inspiration came from a disturbing situation that happened to my cousin years ago. His pet turtle ran away from home. A man found him later that day cracked and on the side of the road. The story scored big brownie points for me. My teacher sat me down after class one day and urged me to keep writing. She told me my writing was worthy of being published and that I should submit stories to magazines that published them.

She tickled a part of my soul that day. After that, I had spent all of my free time writing stories, trying to reclaim the magic of that one short story that stirred my teacher’s soul enough for her to tell me I was worthy of something other than being ridiculed. Every editor since had failed to see the same magic as she.

Larry read my old stories and would ‘ooh’ and ‘ah’ over them until nausea set in. That’s what friends did. They told each other things to build up instead of break down. For instance, I would never tell Larry that he had a better chance of having his skinny ass drafted by the National Football League than he did in being known for his singing. He loved to sing. He sang endlessly and really believed he sounded that good. How could a friend burst that bubble of joy? What would be the point? Singing brought joy to his heart, just as writing had at one point done that for me. Now if he ever told me he planned to audition for
American Idol
or something else that could be a potential disaster to his ego, then, I might have to sit him down and have a serious chat with him. Because, that’s what friends did for each other.

I’d sat him down on many occasions crying about a rejection letter, begging him to tell me the truth about what he really thought of my writing and Larry, being the good friend, would hug me and tell me it was brilliant.

I would believe this when someone other than my gay, happy friend said this.

I stood staring at the letters, squinting to read some that were scribbled by hand, telling me to keep trying, keep submitting, and keep the words flowing. While some letters were just plain hurtful and cold, others offered hope that one day, when the timing was right, and all the elements aligned properly, I would start writing again.

I stared at the framed sign Larry had given to me two Christmases ago. Its words had comforted me each time I had tacked up a new rejection letter nearby it.
Your finest days are still out in front of you.

“Maybe,” I said. After all, Eva Handel was following me on Twitter now. I made her blush. Best of all, I intrigued her.

If I could accomplish that, surely I could write a decent story and have it published.

Like Katie, I could be a doer, too.

Chapter Six

As a girl who never kissed anyone, I had spent many moments in front of a mirror acting out possible scenarios where I stood before a beautiful girl and flirted. I’d acted out the better part of my life. I pretended to be a great orator, a fun entertainer, a witty friend, a sexy date, oh and of course, an accomplished writer hired to spread my knowledge to the masses.

That morning as I got ready for my quarterly meeting, the one where I supposedly volunteered to speak on the marketing team’s behalf, I broke into one such scenario. The entire company would be present for this meeting. Eva would be watching me give the marketing updates via video conference.

My heart rolled.

I dressed my best. I wore a tight pair of dark blue jeans, high heels, and a fitted red button down shirt, clothes I bought at Larry’s insistence a year prior after he begged me to go with him to a charity event. He had planned to introduce me to a spectacular girl who worked with him. I caved at the last minute, blaming my absence on a migraine. The outfit came in handy now. I felt sexy, as Larry insisted I would.

I painted my lips with plum lip gloss and applied a double coating of mascara. I pulled my hair back into a low ponytail and decided to allow some fringe around my face. I talked to my reflection, smiling, nodding at just the right inflection points, moving in closer when I imagined her flirting back with me.

I brushed some wisps of hair away from my face with a quick flip of my wrist. Repositioned, I stood tall, hands on my wide hips, and nodded. I imagined a sexy hotel lobby setting, leather back chairs accompanied with a low round table with two glasses of red wine ready for our thirsty lips. She’d be sitting, one leg crossed delicately over the other, her sandals dangling from her pretty toes, her hair swept over one shoulder like a stole, smooth and silky. Our eyes would meet as I crossed the threshold of no turning back. I’d walk right up to her, introduce myself as CarefreeJanie. She’d slide out of her seat and meet my height, gaze into my eyes, and offer me a warm, tender smile, the kind that set her eyes sparkling and her lips curling upwards in a delightful curve.

We’d sit in adjacent chairs, our feet mere inches from each other, flirting ever so subtly as they swayed to the light soft rock music filtering through the otherwise silent bar. The echo of the golden accent light would play with the caramel highlights in her hair, bringing out the golden flecks in her dark eyes. We’d spend the night bantering, moving in closer, eventually tickling the softness on each other’s bare forearms with our occasional touch to drive a point even deeper. At one point, I’d take her by the hand and twirl her around, dancing my way around her heart with the sweep of Sinatra, the grace of Ginger Rogers, and the allure of Marilyn Monroe.

I loved to dream.

On a creative roll, I imagined a scene where we’d sneak off down a quiet hotel hallway. I’d trace a lone finger down her cheek while staring into her hungry eyes and land on a soft, dewy kiss, complete with lots of petting, caressing, and moaning. I’d be safe in her arms. She’d look at me with admiration and gratitude. A twinkle of guile would sneak from her eyes and hold me in sweet hostage.

She’d bring out the inner glow in me and I’d shine my light all over her pretty olive skin, bathing her in warmth. She’d smell just like a spring meadow after rain, and feel as soft as satin in my arms. She’d hold my hand up to her heart and I’d lose my breath in her tantric beats.