Page 3 of Dear Pink

Goth throws on her jeans and a shirt. “Yeah, I’m outta here. Call me later, Jack,” she says.

“Oh, no, Goth Girl.I’mleaving.” I throw my heavy pack onto my shoulders and turn toward Acne-Jack. “And you, Jack-Puss, don’t ever call me again. Nothing. Ever. We’re done.”

I stomp out the door, taking deep breaths and suppressing my tears. I won’t cry until I’m alone. No crying.

“Hannah.” Jack grabs my arm like Flirt did earlier. He’s wearing jeans now, but no shirt.

“I said leave me alone, Jack-Cock.” Twisting out of his grip, I jog down the hall and pass the Viking Flirt, who says something I don’t hear. I keep running to the stairs, bypassing the slow elevator, and burst through the front hall doors. I hide around the side of the building in case Jack-Rat follows me.

“Libby?” My voice cracks on the phone. Tears stream down my face.

“Hannah? Are you okay?”

“No. Please come get me.”

Chapter 1 - Hannah

Present Day . . .

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Nope, this is a terrible idea. Not going to read this email today, especially at work. Plus, Sandra expects these edits before the end of the day.Polo Bears Go to Britainby Harry Albright. Polo bears? Weird. Polo? As in the sport played on horses?

I stare at the cover. A muted watercolor picture of a castle and a family of white bears peer out. They aren’t playing polo. On the first page, the white bears sip tea with Queen Elizabeth in her garden. Two more pages in, and they’re at the Tower of London. Flipping fast through the slick pages, there’s no polo or any other sports activity in sight.

I click on my personal email tab and off again. I will not, under any circumstances, open her email. Go away, Libby.

The non-playing polo bears smirk at me from the manuscript, daring me to read the email. Damn bears. Fine, I’ll open it and be done. I hit the tab, biting my lip as Libby’s email loads. The subject line reads,“OPEN THIS, DAMN IT.”All caps. Great, I get a bossy ghost instead of sweet Casper.

I close the tab again. Not reading it. Must stop obsessing. Nothing good will come from opening the email in the dark and dank work basement. I tighten my cardigan and slip on my fingerless gloves. It’s as cold as a meat locker in here. The space heater under my desk turns on, and my toes commence their roasting cycle again.

I return to the taunting white bears. Page after page reveals nothing suggesting bears playing polo. In fact, there are no bears playing polo in the thirty-two pages of the manuscript.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Dang. Wait. Delete. What if “polo” is a play on words and not a typo? I remember Sandra’s “you’re an idiot” tone she gave me on my last picture book error.I Will Never Dessert You. Who could blame me for missing the pun? I couldn’t see past the blatant sexist undertone of the book. The whole story reeked of misogyny. The heroine was a lemon tart, and the hero was a cannoli for God’s sake. But polo bears? That doesn’t seem like a pun. If I email my boss and I’m wrong, I’ll never hear the end of it. I’ll be reduced to editing books on boring presidents. Maybe another peek at Libby’s email won’t hurt.

Dearest Hannah,

Girlll, I guess I’m dead if you’re reading this email.

Hell, no. Stop torturing yourself. Close the tab. Better yet, hit delete.

I open my browser window as a distraction. Maybe Google will tell me something polo bear-related? A search renders hundreds of hits. Ralph Lauren Polo bear logos populate my screen. Hmm. This seems promising, but none of the bears actually play polo. Maybe a video of this phenomenon exists?

I click on YouTube and type “polo bears.” Tons of videos of white polar bears playing with a variety of balls populate my screen. An adorable bear with a blue baseball cap smiles on top of an iceberg. Okay, I’ll bite. “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” blares at full blast the instant I click on the picture.

Ahhhhh. Where’s the volume on this computer? This is the second time I’ve inadvertently blasted music from my computer. Last week, Sir Mix-A-Lot’s “Baby Got Back” filled the quiet space for a full minute before I turned it off. My co-worker Maude was livid.

“Hannah?” Maude peers over the top of her cubicle, a black wool scarf wrapped around her neck like a noose. “Are we allowing the British spelling of ‘colour’ inRed Rabbits Run?” she yells over the blaring baseball music.

“What?” Is the music getting louder? I press the close button so many times, I freeze my screen. God, now it’s stuck in a music loop. I glance around, expecting to find Libby hiding in the corner laughing her ass off. She always found my life’s mini disasters hilarious.

“Hannah, did you hear me?” Maude’s shadow towers over me, her palms on the top of my chair. The scent of the cocoa butter lotion she applies to her hands twenty times a day smothers me. Her disapproving frown bores into my skull.

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