Page 147 of One Touch

“It’s not scared of me,” I said.

“Right, because you’re a Disney princess. It wants to picnic with you.”

For a moment, as I looked at the strange, colorful bird, I truly felt as though it was trying to tell me something. Then, with a flutter of its wings, it hopped off the sill and flapped away from the office.

“Ever wish you could fly away from it all?” I asked dreamily.

“Where would you go?” Mary-Beth asked.

Bluehaven Beach.

Ethan’s garage.

His house.

His bed.

“Dunkin’ Donuts,” I said.

“Good news: you don’t actually need wings to get to Dunkin’ Donuts. We can just walk to the end of the block. Let’s go at lunch!”

“Lunch is literally hours away.”

I stared at the clock on the wall, willing the hands to move faster. I swear they slowed down just to spite me. My eyes drifted to the stack of manuscripts on my desk, their pages blurring together into an indecipherable mess. In fact, there had been a lot of indecipherable blurring lately. As an adult, I’d developed a lot of strategies to manage my dyslexia symptoms, but lately, with all the stress I’d been under, the symptoms were back with a vengeance.

Difficulty focusing. Word confusion. Visual stress. Losing my place in the text. Avoidance of reading altogether.

“You not enjoying work today?” asked Mary-Beth.

I sighed. “Do you think I did the right thing in taking this job, MB? Sometimes I feel like I shouldn’t be here. Like I’m taking up the desk space of someone who wants this way more than me. Like, a true horror fanatic.”

A horror fanatic who can read a sentence without it swirling all over the page.

“You know, I had imposter syndrome when I first joined the company, too.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Course I did. Everyone does. People put literary agents on a pedestal. We build them up to be these incredibly well-read, hyper-smart tastemakers.”

“Isn’t that what they are?”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, I guess. But I’m also a bozo who just wants to eat pretzels and read trashy romance books.”

“There’s no such thing as a trashy romance book.”

Mary-Beth glanced at her watch. There was a hint of something on her face, but before I had time to work out what she was feeling, it passed. “Say, I’m technically on a break now. Want me to grab you a donut?”

“Oh, you don’t have to!”

“I know, but I can see that you need one. Go on, let me. It’ll give you a chance to get settled, and read a few pages of something completely terrifying. Plus, it’s mainly an excuse for me to eat a donut.”

I could see that Mary-Beth wouldn’t take no for an answer, so I acquiesced.

After she left, I tried to read my manuscripts. I really did. I promise. But for one thing, my brain didn’t seem to want to play ball. And for another, what little I did read was utterly appalling.

The first manuscript on my pile had the following cover letter:

To whom it may concern,

---