Zelda
January 21st
“Holy shit, I’m nervous as hell,” I said smoothing down my skirt. It was longer than I usually wore, down to mid calf, and I’d paired it with an oversized maroon sweater and black boots. My hair was braided down one side and I took it easy on the makeup.
“How do I look?” I asked Beckett. “Professional? Or like an imposter?”
“You look beautiful,” Beckett said, and bent to kiss me. “What about me? I haven’t dressed up like this since my parole hearing.”
“You clean up good, Copeland,” I said.
In truth he looked devastatingly handsome in dress pants, dress shirt and tie under his regular winter jacket.
I tucked my portfolio under my arm and held it with my other hand as if it were a briefcase filled with money, handcuffed to a security guard. Our future was in that portfolio. Mother, May I? didn’t have an ending yet but Iris had said to bring what we had and we’d go from there.
We took the train into Manhattan and to the 12th floor in a high-rise on 7th Avenue. The elevator opened on posh offices that looked like they might belong to an accounting firm, except for the poster-size graphic novel covers on the walls.
I pointed at the one above the receptionist desk and leaned into Beckett. “Seventh Son. I must’ve read it a hundred times, under my bed covers with a flashlight.”
Beckett smiled down at me. “You’re the sexiest geek I’ve ever met.”
“Hush, you.” I approached the front desk. “Hi. Zelda Rossi and Beckett Copeland. We have a one o’clock meeting.”
“Yes, of course,” the receptionist said. “Your conference room is second door on the right. They’ll be joining you shortly.”
The door was already open on a smallish conference table, laden with pastries, water pitchers, and a pot of coffee.
Iris came in before we could even sit down, looking fiercely professional in a black pencil suit and white blouse. Her black hair was pulled from her face in a sleek, high ponytail, and black-frame glasses like mine perched on her nose above a mouth painted with red lipstick.
“Nice to see you again,” she said shaking my hand. She turned to Beckett. “You must be Beckett Copeland, letterer and partner? I’m Iris Hannover, assistant to the managing editors.”
“Good to meet you,” Beckett said.
Iris moved in close to us, speaking rapidly and in a low voice. “So here’s the deal. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Mother, May I? since our meeting back in November. I think I told you then I love the concept, the art is amazing but it needed more…” She gestured with her hands.
“Heart,” I said. “You said it needed more heart.”
It amazed me how wounded I’d been to first hear that all those months ago and how easily I said it now. She’d been right. As a professional, I had to take the criticism, but I hadn’t known what to do with it. But Beckett had.
I glanced up to my handsome boyfriend and partner. “Beckett added so much,” I said. “I think you’ll like the revisions.”
“I’m super excited,” Iris said. “I loved what you told me on the phone. Can I take a peek?”
I handed her the portfolio and she quickly flipped through it, muttering to herself. “Yes. Yes, exactly.” She snapped it shut. “I was worried I’d gone to bat for you too hard without seeing this. Now I feel vindicated. This story has legs.”
My heart crashed against my chest. “It isn’t finished,” I said. “It doesn’t have an ending.”
“We can worry about that later,” Iris said. “First let’s impress the shit out of my editors.”
Two men and one woman came into the room, all of them middle-aged, all of them dressed in business casual. The youngest was pushing forty, and when he shook hands, I saw tattoos creeping up his sleeve. “Mark Jamison,” he said. “Acquisitions.”
Rick Winslow, one of the editors, shook hands next. “Nice to see you again, Miss Rossi.” He was the hard ass, I remembered from our meeting back in November, with hair that swept dramatically away from his face.
Eleanor Marshall still looked far too prim and proper to be working at a graphic novel publishing house, but I ignored those thoughts. Stereotypes, I knew, never did anyone any good.
I calmed my nerves and greeted them all politely and professionally. Beckett and I sat across from the three of them with my portfolio in the middle. Iris sat to the left of us, like an intermediary.
“Well,” Rick said, folding his hands on the table. “What do you have for us today?”
I gave them a brief synopsis of the new plot, and slid my portfolio across the table. I chewed my thumb while they perused the work, until Beckett took my hand and gave it a squeeze. From the waist up he didn’t look nervous at all, but under the table, his leg was bouncing up and down.
The two editors and Mark from acquisitions pored over the story, asking occasional questions but mostly focusing on the art, discussing its flaws and merits. I felt I’d handed over my firstborn child to a bunch of critical strangers.
“I remember your work from our first meeting,” Rick said. “Lots of potential here. The revisions are a huge improvement.”
“But what do you envision happening at the end?” Eleanor asked. “What finally becomes of Mother after her decision to spare the lives of her targets? Jail them, as opposed to killing them?”
“I don’t know yet,” I said, taking a breath. “It’s something Beckett and I are working out. This story is personal to me, and what happens next for Mother needs to feel authentic and real. At the moment, she’s still sorting out her feelings.”
Eleanor and Mark smiled, while Rick made a face.
“If you’ll please wait outside a few moments,” he said. “I’d like to discuss some things with my colleagues…”
Iris gave me a small nod, and Beckett and I went outside in the hallway next to a half-dozen cubicles.
“He hates it,” I said. “That Rick guy. He hates it this time just like he hated it last time.”
Beckett shook his head. “Nobody hates it, babe. It’s just business. To you it’s your heart and soul, and blood and guts. To him it’s potential profit or not.”
“What about the artistry?” I asked. “What about the quality? Does that count for anything?”
“Of course it does.” Beckett said. “Breathe, baby, breathe.”
“I know, I’m sorry I’m freaking out. It’s just… What if I fail again? Even after all these changes you helped me to find in Mother—and me, what if they still don’t like it? I can’t fail Rosie again. I can’t.”
Beckett put his arms around me and held me in the middle of the office.
“If they don’t like it, Zel, try again. Somewhere else. You keep trying and don’t give up. If you’d given up and gone back to Vegas, we wouldn’t be standing here right now. You and I wouldn’t be here right now.” He held my face in his hands. “If they don’t like it, we’ll take it to someone else.”
The door to the conference room opened and Iris peeked her head out. Her eyes were lit up behind her glasses, and a smile spread over her sharp features.
“Would you mind rejoining us?” she said, and shot me a knowing, triumphant look that sent my heart into rapid fits.
Oh my God, is it happening…?
“Ms. Rossi, Mr. Copeland,” Rick said. “We’d like to offer you both staff contracts to bring Mother, May I? to publication. We’ll finish with this storyline and then continue in the sequel, following the life of Ryder. Possibly there could be a third volume featuring a spinoff character, depending on how the first two fare.”
My hand clutched Beckett’s so hard my knuckles ached.
“As employees, you’ll be required to work here with our staff of formatters and colorists, and you’ll be meeting regularly with Iris, to keep us apprised of progress and editorial suggestions. How does that sound so far?”
My head bobbed up and down. “Yes. Fine. Good.” I stared blankly at Beckett. “Sound good?”
Becket had sat back in his chair and covered his mouth with his hand unable to conceal the smile. “Yeah, that sounds pretty fucking good, Mr. Winslow.”
Rick smiled thinly. “Wonderful,” he said. “I’ll have Mark draw up a contract. Our standard advance is $3000 for each of you. Royalties are industry-standard and payable after the advances have been earned. And of course you’ll be compensated for any time you spend here in the process of putting the book together. Also good so far?”
My head nodded again. “Sounds good.”
“Excellent. If you’d fill out our standard information forms now, we can take them back and put together the contracts.” He rose and offered his hand stiffly. We shook hands with him, Eleanor and Mark. They left and we were alone with Iris.
“I knew it,” she said. “I fucking knew they would love it. Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” I said, feeling bewildered.
Rosie. For you, honey…
Iris pulled some forms from her own portfolio and handed them to us.
“The contracts will take some time to put together, but these will get us started. I’ll be back in a second to grab them. Help yourself to water or coffee. Champagne is in order but we’ll have to save that for when the contracts are signed.”
She left us and Beckett and I threw our arms around each other.
“I’m so fucking proud of you, baby,” Beckett said. “You fucking did it.”
“Oh my God I can’t believe it. It’s happening. It’s really happening for my mom for Rosie…”
“For you, Zelda,” Beckett said. “This is all for you.”
“And for you, Beckett,” I said. “This wouldn’t be happening if it weren’t for you and your brilliant writing. How you looked straight into the story and saw what it needed.” I gave him a last hard squeeze. “Come on. Let’s fill this out and get out of this building and go somewhere I can scream.”
We sat down to fill out the forms. Standard stuff: name, address, social security numbers, past employment. Beckett sat back in his chair, his jaw tight as he gazed at the paper.
“What is it?” I said.
“What do you think?”
I scanned the form and found it at the bottom:
Have you ever been convicted of a felony? If yes, please, explain:
“Oh.” My stomach tightened. “Well. So what? Fill it out. They won’t care. We’re drawing pictures, not working in customer service.”
He said nothing.
“They’re not going to care about it,” I said. “They can’t. What difference could it make to them?”
“It’s on their form so it makes a difference,” Beckett said. “It makes all the difference.” He hitched forward, slowly put the pen to paper and filled out the form.
Iris came to collect the paperwork a few minutes later. “Be back in ten,” she said and breezed back out.
“I’m sorry, Zelda,” Beckett said.
“Why? Nothing’s happened. Nothing has changed.”
He went quiet again, his arms crossed as if bracing himself.
Time began to stretch. Ten minutes came and went. More minutes added up and still no one came back. It was a full forty-five minutes later when Iris finally returned, and the expression on her face said everything. My heart cracked and then sank somewhere below my stomach.
She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, but Eleanor doesn’t feel comfortable with this situation,” she said. “It’s your felony conviction and how recent it is,” she said to Beckett. “She once had an incident with her stepson, a few years ago. I shouldn’t be telling you this, but she’s overly cautious when it comes to these sorts of things.”
“Overly cautious,” I said, feeling sick. “What does this mean, Iris?”
“It means that they love the graphic novel, and they don’t want to walk away,” she said to me. “They feel that since you’re the creator of the concept and its characters, they’re willing to keep you on, as per what we discussed.”
“What about Beckett?”
“They’re willing to buy out his stake in the book with the $3000 advance. He would effectively be giving up any copyright or ownership claims you two may have established during your collaboration.”
“No,” I said the exact same time Beckett said, “Fine.”
I whipped my head to stare at him. He looked back at me, shaking his head slowly.
I felt cold all over. My thoughts were racing in a hundred different directions at once.
“Do we have to give a final decision right now?” I asked. “Can I think about it for a few days?”
I didn’t need to think about anything. I didn’t want to do this without Beckett, but I had to get out of that office to talk with him, to get through this.
“Sure,” Iris said slowly, “but maybe best not to wait too long.” She slipped me her card. “Call me as soon as you come to a decision.” She looked to Beckett. “I’m so sorry.”
Beckett and I were silent as we left the conference room and walked stiffly through the office. We stayed silent in the elevator down to the street. No sooner had we stepped onto the sidewalk when Beckett said, “You have to take it. You have to sign that contract.”
“And what will you do?” It was no more than thirty degrees outside but I felt feverish with panic. Someone had just offered us everything we could possibly desire and snatched it away a second later. “This is your book too, Beckett.”
“It’s not mine,” he said, his voice turning stony. “It was never mine, Zelda. It’s yours. I was just helping you out. It’s not a big deal.”
“Not a big deal?” I jammed my finger in his chest. “I’m not stupid, you know. I know what you’re trying to do and it’s not going to work.”
“What am I trying to do?” Beckett said. “This is a no-brainer, Zelda. It’s everything you wanted. You get a contract and I get three grand. Fine by me. This is your thing anyway.”
“My thing.” My eyes widened and the cold wind stung them making them tear up. That was the only reason. “Maybe it was my thing once, but not anymore. I can’t do this without you. I don’t want to do this without you.” I hugged myself, no longer hot or cold. Just numb. “Don’t you want this?”
Beckett’s face softened, then fell into an anguished grimace. “I want this for you. More than anything. It’s what you’ve been dreaming of. You have to take it.”
I shook my head. “We’ll talk about this later. We’ll go home and eat some dinner and talk this out.”
Beckett shook his head. “There’s nothing to talk about, Zelda. I’ll take the money, you sign the contract. End of story.”
End of story.
Mother, May I? didn’t have an ending yet but this wasn’t it. This couldn’t be the end of the story.