Plain Jayne (3 page)

“With less-than-perfect results,” I point out, but I
appreciate the encouragement from someone who obviously knows what I’m dealing
with. “Thanks, Sally. And, uh, thanks for getting that file to Mr. Edwards. He
said he wanted it by 2:00.”

“Then he’ll get it at 2:00,” she replies with a wink. “No
need rushing it and making him feel like you’re going to jump every time he
snaps, right?”

I like this girl.

******

If one more person tells me how brilliant Lucas Edwards is,
I’m going to puke. They’re supposed to be telling me how wonderful
I
am.
When I slip and say that on the phone to Tullah, she laughs.

Recovering quickly, she says, “I think it goes without
saying that I think you
are.
And I think it’s even more obvious that Thornfield
thinks you are, since they assigned you to Luke. Trust me; he’s the best.”

“He’s an A1 dickhead,” I quickly point out. “He insulted me
about six hundred times in a fifteen-minute meeting that was more perfunctory
than a gynecological exam. He used the word ‘fluff’ to describe my book!”

It was almost a week ago, but the memory of it still upsets
me, and I haven’t been able to get in touch with Tullah to tell her about it
until now. Even my condensed retelling of what happened brings it all back like
it happened yesterday.

I can hear the indulgent smile in her voice when she says,
“Well, that wasn’t very nice. I’d be more than happy to talk to him about it,
but I’m afraid that’s not going to help your cause. Remember:  you don’t have
to be friends with the guy. But he’s a pro and knows what he’s doing. If you
cooperate with him, you may be surprised at how much you can learn from him.
Now, I have to go. I’m sitting in on a meeting between Thornfield and a studio
that wants to option your book.”

She says it so matter-of-factly that I almost say, “Fine.
Bye,” without blinking. But when my brain catches up to my ears, I stutter, “Fi—what?!”

“You heard me. Now be a good girl and do your job, which
right now is doing what the rest of us tell you to do.” Her tone is gentle, but
the message is clear:
“You’re the new kid and should probably do more observing
and less talking until you figure out the hierarchy in this process.”

I feel about six years old when I hang up, but with the
words “option your book” bouncing in my head like a ping-pong ball in a lottery
machine, I soon decide it’s petty to dwell on certain slights perpetuated by a
bit player in my professional life, which seems like it’s finally about to take
off after years of stagnating.

Yes, suddenly, it’s a lot easier to put Mr. Edwards in
perspective.

I mean, what did I expect? Did I think everything was going
to be perfect? Did I feel that once I procured an agent, who in turn found a
publisher for me, that everyone would bow down to me and kiss my feet? Is that
what I deserve? My grown-up, logical side tells me that’s ridiculous,
unrealistic, and egotistical. But the six-year-old in me says, “Yes! I’ve been
through a lot! I’m ready for some happiness! I’ve earned this success! And I
shouldn’t have to put up with insults at this stage of the game! It’s not
fair!”

Too many exclamation points. One of my weaknesses. In
addition to long, rambling sentences, apparently.

That thought makes my brain itch. I want so badly to find
the nearest bench, crack open my laptop, and find every instance like the one
Lucas Edwards circled in my manuscript. But… I’m under strict orders. First of
all, I’m not allowed to do any more tweaking until I get my marching orders
from the red pen of Mr. E. Second, I’m supposed to be cooperative and follow
all orders given by the publishing pros, including Mr. E. Even if I’d rather
willfully disobey him while sticking out my tongue and taunting, “Nah-nah nah-nah
boo-boo!”

I’m a professional writer now. Emphasis on “professional.”
I’ve almost attained a goal that I’ve been dreaming about since… since… well, I
can’t remember a time when it wasn’t a dream of mine. So, I’m willing to do
anything to see it through. What could Mr. Lucas Edwards possibly say or do to stop
me now?

Chapter Three

“Shut the front door!” Gus nearly shouts when I tell him
what Tullah said about her meeting this morning. Then he quickly and
dramatically covers his mouth with his palm as several heads turn our way.
Obviously, the other visitors to the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library
aren’t interested in Gus’s interjections.

“Sorry,” he muffles behind his hand. After removing it, he
continues at a much lower volume, “That’s… bajiggity. What a situation!”

I sigh, feeling twenty years old again, and not in a good
way. Being transported back in time several years by this conversation is
making me feel slightly queasy. Suddenly, I get a flash of the two of us in the
library at Indiana University, where we met while getting our undergraduate
degrees. He was always talking too loudly there, too. Or laughing. Or crying.
Or otherwise making a scene. We even got kicked out once. No, twice.

What’s giving me the biggest feeling of déjà vu at this
moment, however, isn’t the threat of being kicked out of the JFK Presidential
Library (although that would be an embarrassment on a whole other level). No,
it’s the fact that after all these years, Gus still talks—and acts—like he did
as a college student. He uses the same made-up words and a vernacular that’s
unique to him in an overly-dramatic way that’s a transparent ploy to grab as
much attention as possible. I’d forgotten how maddening it is. And I’d hoped—although
I know otherwise from keeping in touch with him since we went our separate ways
for our respective careers—that he’d outgrown it.

But even though he gets on my nerves after the smallest of doses,
he’s the closest thing to a brother—or any family—that I have. He’s like a case
of athlete’s foot:  persistent, recurrent, and impossible to ignore. And I have
to admit, he’s the only one who’s shown that he cares enough to stay in my
life, no matter how often I try to shake him. That’s meant a lot to me.

It’s not that I can’t make friends; it’s simply that I
generally don’t
want to
make friends or get close to anyone. That’s one
of the many charming byproducts of losing almost everyone near and dear to you
at the tender age of eighteen. I never want to go through anything like that
again. And life is too fickle and fragile to believe for an instant that it
won’t happen again. It will. That’s why when I find myself getting attached to
someone—platonically or romantically—I withdraw.  

I make it sound like I’ve had lots of opportunities. Ha! I’ve
viewed dating (and sex) very similarly to how I viewed drinking in college.
It’s something I felt I needed to try, to say that I’d done it. But when it wasn’t
as great as everyone made it out to be, I checked it off the list and moved on.
As for friends, there are very few people I can tolerate. Oddly enough, one of
the most challenging people I’ve ever met is the one whose friendship has
stuck.

So now, keeping my eyes pinned on the diorama of the
Nixon-Kennedy television debate, I inhale deeply through my nose and count to
five before responding to Gus’s melodramatic response to my announcement. After
all, a small part of me would have been either disappointed or worried if he’d replied
with something bland like, “Oh, that’s nice.” And this news
is
big. I’m
too new to the whole publishing experience to pretend otherwise.

“Yeah. I’m trying not to get my hopes up, but… it’s an
amazing prospect,” I say with a grin and a pleasant little shiver.

“Who do you want to play Rose?” he asks eagerly. Before
waiting for my answer, though, he rushes in with, “I’m seeing Scarlett
Johansson. She’s the perfect blend of vulnerable and spunky, don’t you think?
Plus, you kind of look like her…”

I resist the urge to insist that the protagonist isn’t me. Must
not protest too much. Besides, everyone thinks writers base their main
characters on themselves, so it would seem over-the-top for me to question
Gus’s assumption.
Play it cool, Jayne.

I wrinkle my nose at his choice. “I don’t see the
resemblance.”

“Stop being humble, girlfriend,” he mildly scolds. “Trust
me; I’ve given this a lot of thought. By the end of my first reading of your
manuscript, I had the Hollywood cast figured out. I knew it was going to be a
hit.”

His confidence is touching, and it’s a much-needed injection
to my self-esteem after the week I’ve had going back and forth on the phone
with Lucas Hard-Ass Edwards. To my dismay, I feel tears sting my eyes.

When I don’t say anything right away, he assumes I’m still
hesitant about his leading lady choice, so he continues, “I know… she’s getting
older, but I think she can still pull off a wide range of ages, including the
youngest parts of the story. I mean, if Tom Hanks could play a high-school kid
in
Forrest Gump
, then really…”

I laugh shakily and blink to eradicate the tears. “You know,
I think you might have something there. She was good in
Girl with a Pearl
Earring
. Like you said, the perfect blend of vulnerable, yet strong.” When
it’s clear he hasn’t detected my sentimental reaction, I relax and get into his
game a little more, focusing on the character in the book that most closely
resembles the “Gus” in my life. “And for Jack, I’m seeing…” I pause for
dramatic effect, pretending to think hard about it, but I know exactly what he
wants to hear. “…Nicholas Hoult. Boyish, sensitive, and bespectacled, of
course.”

“
A Single Man
Nicholas Hoult, not
X-Men
Nicholas
Hoult,” he clarifies.

“Exactly,” I agree firmly with mock-seriousness.

He nudges me with his shoulder. “I’m serious!”

“I know!” I nudge back. “Who else?”

By silent agreement, we walk toward the exit, both of us
having lost interest in the museum. Gus shifts his messenger bag for a more comfortable
position on his shoulder. I pull my lip balm from my jeans pocket and moisturize
my dry lips before passing the tube to Gus, whose upturned palm awaits.

He quickly applies a layer to his lips and presses them together
with a “THWOCK!” Returning the stick to me, he states as we push through the
exit doors and breathe in the salty late-spring air that holds the faint
promise of summer, “Mom and Dad will be Joan Allen and John Schneider,
respectively.”

At this point, Gus has no idea he’s “casting” real people,
because I’ve flat-out told him (okay,
lied
) that Rose’s family is a
complete figment of my imagination. So he pins his eye to the blazing skyline
and rabbits away, “And then the sisters. Hmm… That’s a tough one. I’d say
Dakota Fanning and Abigail Breslyn, but that’s probably because they’re the
only two actors of the right age whose names I know, which is probably a
depressing sign that I’m getting old and out-of-touch with the younger
generation. But even they’re probably too old. I pictured them as the young
versions of themselves when I read the book the first time.”

My silence draws his attention, and when he sees that I’m simply
nodding and trying not to cry out loud, he says in the southern-accented
Ebonics he often slips into, despite originally being from New York and being
one of the whitest people I know, “Oh, snap! Whatsamatter, Sugar? Are you
thinking about that mean Mr. Editor again? Don’t let him upset you! Do I need
to go down to that fancy office of his and bitch-slap him?”

He sounds a bit too hopeful that I’ll take him up on that
offer as he flops his arm around my shoulders and pulls me up against his side.
I shrug him off and add a couple of feet of space between our bodies.

I don’t correct his incorrect assumption for my sudden
emotional state. “It’s fine,” I insist, following up my claim with a brisk
clearing of my throat. “It’s been a long day, that’s all.” I leave it at that, unwilling
to admit to him—or anyone—the true reason for my tears, that thanks to tabloids
and entertainment magazines, I can picture those two actresses more clearly
than I can my sisters’ faces. All of our family photos were destroyed in the
fire, so all I have are my memories, which are fading more and more every year,
despite my desperate efforts to cling to them.

Thankfully, Gus’s allergy to silence and his innate narcissism
compel him to keep talking. “So what are the chances I’ll get to meet Nicholas
Hoult when he’s playing the literary version of me in the movie based on your
book?” he asks at his usual thousand-words-per-minute pace.

“Hard to say,” I reply vaguely. “The only things standing in
your way are the long odds of this movie ever being made, coupled with the fact
that I probably won’t have a say in casting, and even if I do, Mr. Hoult may
not be available or willing to
be
cast in our movie.”

“Well, as long as you keep such a positive attitude, I’d say
it’s a sure thing,” he jokes.

“I don’t want you to get your hopes up.”

He snorts. “Yeah. God forbid I have something to look
forward to in life!”

I link arms with him as we walk in the dappled shade of adolescent
trees lining the walk. “Oh, poor you. Your life is so rough.” When he mumbles
his insistence that his life
is
rough, I defend my cynicism. “My biggest
focus right now—as fun as it is to fantasize about Hollywood—is to get this
thing to print.
Then
I’ll worry about other things.”

“You’re no fun,” Gus gripes.

“If you met my esteemed editor, you’d realize that fun has
no place in this process from here on out.”

“Oh, yeah. I almost forgot about him.” His pensiveness lasts
about four seconds. “Well, Honey, you can hardly let him get you down. Not
after you’ve come this far. Anyway, I think what you need is a bowlful of
Gussy’s world-famous tiramisu.”

I have to admit, his suggestion sounds wonderful. And it may
not solve all the world’s problems, but it’s a good start.