Page 89 of Dear Pink

Wiping my eyes, I grab my sketchbook from my bag and flip open to my latest series of drawings. It’s a new idea. The charcoaled teenagers resemble me and Libby. In the story, the teens travel in time to change pivotal moments in history.

I focus on my sketch of a doe-eyed girl looming over Hitler, a dagger hiding behind her back, when footsteps stop behind my chair. Startled, I drop my pad, and a man quickly bends to pick it up.

“Wow, this is—damn—this is incredible,” he says.

I turn my neck, my eyes trailing upward. Oh. My. God. It’s Paul Baker, the Baker in Burton & Baker. Why is Paul Baker lurking on the roof? Oh, geez, am I going to get fired for wasting work hours? I’m supposed to be in the basement. Copy edits onRed Robinare due today.

My mouth doesn’t work. I stare at him.

He flips through the pages. “So, the pictures tell the story?” He shuts the book and examines me. “There are no words? The drawings narrate the plot?”

“Umm . . .”

Say something. Libby screams at me.

“Uh, yes. The illustrations tell the story, but it’s more than a picture book. The characters are fully developed, and the storyline is complex. It’s a graphic novel for teens.”

“I like it.” He opens the book again, perusing the pages. “The concept interests me. Have we published an artistic narrative similar to this at Burton & Baker?” He continues to inspect every page, his forehead wrinkling.

I celebrate inside because I actually know the answer. June is the lead copy editor for the B&B Teen department, and she recently described their conservative publishing choices.

“No, they haven’t,” I say confidently. “B&B Teen doesn’t normally publish content with a controversial or edgy bent.”

“Hmm.” He hands me the sketchbook. “What’s your name?”

Oh, no. I’m fired.

“Hannah,” I squeak. I clutch the pad to my chest and sink deeper into the chair, the wires digging between my shoulder blades.

“You’re young.” He steps back, assessing my face maybe?

Is this a question? “Umm . . .” Do I agree and say, “Yes, I’m young?” I squirm in my seat.

He glances at my pink streak. “And you’re edgy.”

I am? I bite my bottom lip. Geez, I hope he doesn’t glance at my shoes.

“Your design concept is phenomenal.” He looks around at the skyline. “I was an artist too, once upon a time.”

He walks to the elevator, presses a button, and steps inside. I watch him turn to me, holding the door open. “You coming?” he asks.

I don’t know what he means. Come where? He ushers me in with a wave. I grab my bag and shuffle inside to join him, still gripping my sketchbook.

“What do you call your graphic novel?”

Crap. “I don’t know.”

“Hmm. I bet we can do better.” He grins at me. He’s making a joke, and it calms my nerves.

The bell dings, and the doors open on the executive floor. Mr. Baker steps into the hall and uses his foot to keep the door from closing. “Hannah, are you coming?”

I check around as if a different Hannah’s in the elevator. I open my mouth to say, “I belong in the basement,” but his expression stops me. He seems—dare I say—hopeful. I step forward and stand straighter, rolling my shoulders back.

Mr. Baker hurries down the hall. “We’re late for the pitch meeting,” he calls over his shoulder.

We? A pitch meeting? I quicken my hobble to keep pace with him.

“There you are.” Caroline Burton, the second “B” in Burton & Baker, stands in front of the conference room, impeccably dressed in red poplin wide-legged pants and a white asymmetrical collared tunic. Her salt and pepper hair lies perfectly in place.

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