Page 13 of A Duet of Darkness and Dreams

“No idea.”

From a quick look around the room and the way the other men quietly chat amongst themselves, it appears like no one else has any idea what this is about either.

After several painful minutes of waiting, Randall finally materializes out of his office. It’s not unusual for him to go on a long tirade about sloppy editing or bad story assembly, but those freak-outs usually happen on Fridays at four thirty. Not on a Thursday.

“Thank you everyone for taking a moment before we close up for the day to come to this meeting. I’ll try to keep this short.”

A cold sweat sweeps over me as I see Randall hold up several pieces of paper with a photograph paperclipped to the top. My article. “Oh, shit.”

“It appears we have a serious issue,” Randall continues, holding my submission between his hands. “You see,” he says, thumbing through the typed pages, “this article was submitted today and, I’ll be honest . . .” He trails off, rubs at his chin thoughtfully. Oh god, he’s going to say it’s the worst thing he’s ever read in his life. He’s going to humiliate me in front of the entire program. Simon will be intolerable. I’ll never be able to show my face again.Wait, they don’t know I wrote it.I can just pretend I— “This is the best written article we’ve received allyear. And the kicker? The writer isn’t even enrolled in the journalism program.”

Wait, what? He liked it?

Something like a squeak fights its way through my lips, and Henry gives me a look. I try with all my strength to keep my smile at bay as the men all turn, murmuring to each other.

“What do you mean?” Simon speaks up. “Someone submitted an article, but they’re not in the program?”

Randall looks up. “Apparently they don’t even attend Stoneman.”

“That’s ridiculous!” a redheaded man with freckles and glasses cuts in. “You can’t write for the college newspaper unless you’re enrolled.”

Randall narrows his eyes. “Well, considering this is work above and beyond what you manage to turn in, Peter, there’s no way I’m going to toss it in the trash.”

“Well, who wrote it?” Simon calls out from the crowd.

My heart is beating so hard I worry I might have a heart attack and die before I’m able to explain it’s mine. “Someone by the name of”—Randall looks at the article again—“Santiago Morales.”

Oh god, oh god,oh god.

The whispered discussions continue around me, and I’m suddenly losing my nerve. I was so sure I would be able to say that it was me who wrote it, but in none of those scenarios had I imagined an audience—or at least, not one of this size. This may have been a terrible idea.

“Does anyone know a Santiago Morales?” Randall asks.

Everyone looks around, perhaps waiting for someone to miraculously appear with a nametag.

Randall sighs. “Listen, I want to run the article, but I can’t unless I can confirm they’re a student. Did anyone see a man they didn’t recognize loitering around the submissions box?”

Again, everyone looks confused, and I’m so nervous my legs are quaking. Finally, Randall shakes his head. “It’s a shame. Whoever wrote this is talented. This is by far the best—”

“It was me.”

As if in slow motion, every head turns my way. Every mullet and pair of large framed glasses looks toward me, slack-jawed and eyes bulging. The crowd parts, and it’s as if someone has turned on a spotlight over my head.

“You?” Randall asks, dumbfounded.

I swallow, hard. “Yes, sir.”

He narrows his eyes, his astonished face folding into a menacing frown. “My office, now.”

Oh no.

He turns and disappears through the door, and I walk with heavy steps through the crowd, hearing the murmured whispers ofThere’s no way. She couldn’t have written thatandMakeup girl? I thought she just wrote the crosswordand, most unoriginal:Bullshit, she’s stealing credit for someone else’s work.

Thankfully, when I shut the door behind me, the whispers are drowned out, but a far more terrifying beast stands across from me behind a desk. Slamming the article down between us, he slumps down in his chair.

“It appears you have some explaining to do. Sit.”

Face boiling, I shuffle forward to sit in the green leather chair across from Randall, who looks like he’s one embarrassing typo away from exploding. He sits and picks up the article again.

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