Page 90 of Dear Pink

I tuck my shirt quickly, hoping she doesn’t notice. I can’t fix the buttons, so I hold my sketchbook over the missed holes. I follow her gaze to my shoes and stifle a panicked scream. Lifting my chin, I smile as though I deserve to be here. Fake it till you make it, as Libby always said.

Mrs. Burton points her finger at me. “Who’s this?” She speaks to Mr. Baker instead of me.

Previous me would have taken this gesture and tone as a dismissal and bolted, but Libby’s right, there are times you must fake your strength until it becomes real. I hold myself erect and dust off the badass part of me I’ve forgotten. I used to be fearless.

“I’m Hannah.” I walk past her, and the whip of her hair as she turns around is palpable. Every eye focuses my way, so I stand even taller. Power flows through my veins. I’ve got this. When June squints at my shoes, though, the slow trickle of defeat rumbles to life. I sit in the first empty chair to squash it.

June mouths silently to me, “What are you doing here?”

I nod my head to show her I’m invited, even though I’m uncertain it’s the truth. She locks eyes with me and motions with her pinkie finger. I grin bigger because I need her to stop pinkie-pointing at me.

I catch a reflection in the window of a figure behind me. It’s Caroline Burton. I glance at June, and she does the pinkie move again. I swivel my head and realize the other chairs are smaller. Two large leather chairs flank the table, and I’m in one of them, a Burton & Baker chair. I scream inside my head. I’m seated in Mrs. Burton’s chair.

Oh, shit. Should I stand and jump out the window?

“You can have my chair, Caroline,” Mr. Baker says, taking a small one beside me. He winks at me, and I notice he’s much younger than I thought, probably in his early fifties.

Mrs. Burton finally sits, and the rest of the staff exhales.

“Creative, what new pitches do you have for B&B Teen?” she demands.

She hasn’t even heard the pitches yet, but already her tone is full of reproach. What happens if she doesn’t approve of an idea? Does she smite you with her pointy finger? No wonder Mr. Baker hides on the roof before these meetings.

Before anyone can answer, Mr. Baker grabs my shoulder. “Hannah brought us a pitch.”

I did what? Me, Hannah? Then I remember, I’m Neil Gaiman good.

Everyone faces me, and I recount my traumatic art school interview. I must trust my talent and let the art speak for itself. I glance around the conference room and suck in a breath when I recognize Giovanna, Gabe’s sister, a few seats to the right. I forgot she works in marketing. Our eyes meet, and she gives me a tiny smile. I take a deep breath.

I open my work and lay the pages in front of me. “It’s a graphic novel,” I say.

Mr. Baker takes the book and passes it around the table. My work eventually reaches Mrs. Burton. My pad sits before her like a sacrificial offering. She narrows her eyes while she flips through the pages.

“No words?” she asks no one in particular.

“Even though the pictures tell most of the story, graphic novels contain complete narratives,” June interrupts. I swivel her way and she beams at me. “Hannah’s use of negative space and vivid contrasts are unique and clever.”

“I bet she can design killer covers too.”

I peek around for the source of the voice and recognize the face. It’s Wade, the art guy from lunch. He nods, and I nod back. He remembers me.

“Interesting,” Mrs. Burton says.

I resist squirming in my seat. Sweat pools behind my kneecaps and my shirt sticks to my back. I’m going to leave a wet trail of nerves here.

“Didn’t you mention at the last meeting B&B Teen needs young and edgy content?” Mr. Baker asks, smiling at me.

Mrs. Burton crooks her head in my direction as if sizing me up. She already saw my shoes, but when she glances at my mismatched buttons, I assume she’ll ditch me without any further discussion.

“She’ll require a stylist if she’s representing us on book tours,” she eventually says.

Book tours? A stylist? Somebody pinch me.

“Are you prepared for this?” She narrows her eyes and taps her bottom lip. “We have high expectations.”

“I’m ready,” I say.

Damn straight.Libby agrees.

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