Page 33 of Not on the Same Page

I find a quieter corner and settle into an empty table and pull out my laptop, determined to send a few emails and manage the rest of my queries. This conference hasn’t been a total loss, though I hate to admit it. I have notes on a few authors I’d like to request a full manuscript from, and I was able to meet a few who had sent queries I previously thought I’d reject but who are now at the top of my list after meeting them and hearing more about their work.

It doesn’t take long to send those messages, and I immediately close out of my email after doing so. Writers are an excitable bunch, especially those in the query trenches. More often than not, I’ve found that they’re waiting by their email holding their breaths. When I send requests for full manuscripts, they usually send them within an hour, if not mere moments after I hit Send myself. If I see one come in, I’ll start reading immediately and then I won’t get anything else done.

I want to be sure I take a look at Imani’s query before getting back to Chicago. Something about the way she was glaring at me before I started my first pitch session the other day is bothering me. Rejection is hard, but I can’t shake the feeling that she was upset about more than just being told “no.” Suzanna would tell me not to sweat it, that we can only be swayed by an excellent manuscript, not by the feelings of the author who wrote it. She’s probably right on some level, but the interaction still left a bad taste in my mouth, and I have plenty of time now to skim over her query and send her some feedback.

It shouldn’t surprise me that Imani’s query and the first few chapters of her manuscript are as polished and put-together as she is. Frankly, they’re riveting. As I told her, I’m not much of one for young adult, and especially not fantasy, but she has a brilliant way with words. Her storytelling is impassioned and clearly the result of someone who has spent a lot of time working on their craft. I’m almost sad I can’t represent her. She has a lot of talent.

I write up a message telling her as much and then fire off a few emails to others at the agency who represent young adult, including Isabella.

Sure enough, two of the authors I requested manuscripts from have already sent them to me. After emailing the other agents, I download those to give myself something to read on the plane tomorrow.

Just as I’m about to close my computer and pack up, a text lights up my phone.

Isabella: Why can’t you pitch this manuscript yourself?

Me: Weird of you to be looking at work emails on the weekend.

Isabella: I don’t count your emails as work. Don’t avoid the question.

Me: I’m touched. And, as I said in my email, I don’t do YA.

The three dots bounce at the bottom of the screen as an announcement comes over the library’s PA system to let everyone know the building will be closing in fifteen minutes. I slide my laptop back into my bag and am walking back toward the stairs when Isabella’s next text comes in.

Isabella: You could start doing YA. You used to pitch to Casey Endersen all the time.

My heart jumps up into my throat at even a casual mention of Casey’s name. What does he have to do with this?

Instead of texting her back, I quickly use an app to order a rideshare back to the hotel, then I call her as I make my way outside. She answers on the first ring.

“Oh, a phone call. I feel special.”

“Why would Casey be interested in YA?” I try to sound as cool and casual as I can, but I’m out of breath from walking as fast as I could to get outside.

Isabella lets out a low laugh that almost sounds evil. “You haven’t heard, then?”

“Haven’t heard what?”

“That he’s heading up JMP’s new young adult imprint, Starlight.”

“Starlight?” I mentally sort through the files in the back of my brain. The name sort of rings a bell. “You mean the publisher that was two seconds from going under like…a year ago?”

“Not anymore, apparently.” Isabella chuckles again. “JMP bought it. Asked Anastasios to help get it back off the ground. Their offices are merging, even. Girl, with as much work as you do with them, I am shocked you haven’t heard this.”

“I’ve been busy,” I say simply, biting at a piece of skin on my lip. More like I haven’t done anything with them since Scarlett has been on a break. And then I avoided them. And now I’m distracted, traveling, and doing certain things with certain editors I apparently should have absolutely not done. “So Casey is…” I wait for her to fill in the blank.

“You really should read your email. Suzanna sent something out about it the other day. Well, it was buried in an update. Probably the fifteenth bullet point down.”

That makes sense why I didn’t see it. I never do more than skim her updates, especially if they’re about something that doesn’t apply to me. Like young adult publishers.

“He’s been promoted,” she finally says. “It looks like a good deal for him, too. He’s the new editorial director at Starlight, and they’re open to submissions as we speak.”

There are a lot of things that zip through my head when she tells me, but the loudest is, Why the fuck didn’t he tell me?

And then, When was he going to do that? In between watching you touch yourself and slapping your ass?

Fuck me. Despite all this, the memory alone has me wanting him to do it again.

“Are you there?” Isabella snaps me out of my thoughts. “Did you get cut off?”