Page 97 of Not That Impossible

By the time three forty-five ticked around, Ralph called.

“Where is it?” he said tightly.

“It’s here. It’s right here. I’m looking at it.”

“CanIlook at it, please?”

“Ah…no? Not yet?”

“Listen. Strickland’s piece is up on the website. I kept it short. She offered me a long piece. I said no. Ask me why, Jasper.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Because I put my trust in you. Did you know, we sold more copies with your article than in the previous three months? Combined?”

“No. I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah. We did. Strickland’s good. She’s better than good. She could be writing forThe New York-fucking-Timesif she wanted, but she doesn’t want. Their loss. You still shifted way more copies than anything she’s ever given me. Gimme more.”

“I just…Ralph, I’m thinking that maybe this was a mista—”

“Nope. No. It wasn’t. Send it.”

I stared in absolute horror at my outline. It had started to do that thing where the wordsthrobbedat me.

“I have some great photos,” I said.

“Send them, too.”

“Or instead. I send theminstead, and you let Mrs Strickland do a long follow-up piece, and we call it a collaboration. She can have the byline. I don’t mind.”

“No,” he said. “Send it.”

“What about the spell—”

“Send it!” He hung up.

I wrote like I was possessed, used up the final five minutes on spellcheck, attached all of the photos, and sent it.

Ralph called instantly. He must have been watching his inbox like I was watching the clock. “Headline!” he barked, and hung up.

Fuck. I wrote a blank email with the headline in the subject line, sent it, and collapsed.

Ireallydidn’t think this response was normal.

When my heart had stopped pounding quite so hard, I pushed myself up to sitting with a groan. I’d had no idea how physical this journalist gig was.

It must be just non-fiction, because I could happily write away at my stories for hours, and come out of it feeling refreshed.

Not like I’d just been through boot camp.

I stood up, creaking like an old man, and shuffled to the kitchen. I ate two bananas, drank a pint of water, then caved and went for my Snickers bar stash.

Feeling more like myself, I decided that a quick home workout to get the blood pumping and the joints lubricated was a good antidote to the nerves and the vague, nagging feeling of unease that had settled over me.

It wasn’t the same unease that I’d had after sending the first article. That had been more about not wanting to fail, about not doing a good enough job.

This unease was shaded toward a guilty feeling that I might, possibly, have been led somewhat astray by my jealousy of Ray the spectacular kisser,and there was a chance that I may have been more critical of him than was wise.

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