Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 42889 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 214(@200wpm)___ 172(@250wpm)___ 143(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 42889 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 214(@200wpm)___ 172(@250wpm)___ 143(@300wpm)
Someone whose father is basically a cheating asshole.
If ever there was an audience who will understand, it’s got to be fellow college students. We’re all under our parents’ thumb in some way— me included. We’re all trying to escape it. Of course, few of us have parents quite so (potentially) villainous as Carson does, but still— we’re our own people, making our own way, and we can’t be cast into our parents’ rolls just because they make for splashy headlines.
The following morning I re-read what I’ve put together, print it out, and head over to the newspaper offices. I keep my head high, my pace tight and clipped, and for once, I’m not having to fake either. Fuck Devin, and fuck his sexism, and fuck him for using me— but I’m the one with the alibi info straight from the horse’s mouth, which means I’m the one with the power right now.
I push through the newspaper’s doors and hurry up the old stone steps, into the comparatively modern and sleek newsroom. The heads of fellow reporters pop up from behind cubicles as I enter and walk to Devin’s windowed office. He’s standing behind his desk, as per usual, looking like he’s running NASA rather than a college paper.
“Devin,” I say curtly, pushing the door open without knocking. His gaze flicks to me.
“Astrid! You made it in,” he says with so much oozing artificial warmth that it makes my stomach churn.
“I have your article.”
“Oh,” Devin says, eyebrows lifting. He’s not actually surprised any more than he was actually pleased to see me. He folds his arms across his chest. “I didn’t hear from you, and you left my place in such a huff that I figured you weren’t interested in writing it.”
“I texted you and said I was working on it,” I say sternly.
“But you didn’t text me back and tell me when it would be ready. I had to move ahead without you and write something up myself using your draft. It’s in copyedits now,” he says coolly.
My throat closes, but I don’t back down; I narrow my eyes at him. “My draft?”
“I assume a draft of what you’re holding there,” he says, pointing to the print out in my hand. “You wrote it on the paper’s laptop, so it went into our cloud. I pulled it this morning, edited it, and sent it on up. Don’t worry, though— I put your name first in the byline,” Devin says.
“You put my name on something without my approving it?” I say, my blood suddenly going cold.
I feel like ice water has been dumped on my head.
“It’s your draft, with my editorial work and a few additional details from the alibi investigation we did. Calm down,” Devin says, shaking his head at me and returning to his desk.
“I want approval before it goes to press,” I snap. People outside can hear me; I know from experience that when someone fights with Devin, everyone goes silent and only pretends to work. Given how quiet it is behind me, I’m wagering that’s happening right now.
Devin blinks at me. “You could have written the entire article on your own, Astrid, and then you wouldn’t need it. As is, you barely did an inch of the legwork on this thing, and I’m being kind enough to give your name priority in the byline. Now you want “approval” for the work I did? Are you hearing yourself right now?”
“If my name is on it, I want to know—“
“Astrid, get out of my office,” Devin says, voice steady and cool and cruel.
I take a breath and press my tongue against my teeth to keep from screaming. “Let me see the article.”
“It’s up in copyedits. You can see it there,” Devin says, and then looks back to his computer, ending the conversation.
I try to stay calm— he used my draft, so there’s a very good chance it’s fine— that it’s the article I wanted to publish, with a few details from Devin’s “investigation” added in. That’s what it ought to be, in fact. Plus, my article was great, I’m sure of it, so there’s no reason for Devin to have totally rewritten it.
I walk to the copyediting room, a silo-shaped space in the back of the building where the copyeditors are holed up with a coffeepot, pouring over documents in a way that’s always struck me as a little goblin-like.
“Hey, Astrid!” one of the copyeditors says, looking up from her corner desk. “Here to pick up the Slate piece? It’s fantastic.”
A smile breaks across my face, and I almost manage to relax. “I wouldn’t know. Devin pulled it from the cloud and edited it without letting me proof it. But it’s decent?”
The copyeditor scowls, “That guy is such a tool. You know when you started, he was telling all the guys here how he wanted to hook up with you? He had this weird fantasy of you two being some kind of newspaper power couple. It’s gross.”