Zoe’s excitement was like a river. All day Friday it swept Natalie along. But after school, alone, riding the bus to her mom’s office, Natalie started to face facts.
First of all, her book wasn’t finished. And even when it was, would it be something a real editor would want to look at? Just because Zoe liked it, that didn’t mean her mom would. And what if other people thought the book was really bad?
By the time Natalie arrived at Shipley Junior Books, she had talked herself out of the whole crazy idea. Standing in the opening of Ella’s cubicle, Natalie sipped on a strawberry-kiwi drink and looked at the mounds of mail from writers all over the country. Brown envelopes, white envelopes, red-and-gold envelopes with fancy lettering. Manuscripts from writers in California and Illinois and Texas and Florida. Hundreds of them. Some of them had been mailed more than six months ago. Some of the envelopes hadn’t even been opened. It was like a morgue for dead books.
Natalie finished her drink and slumped down into Ella’s chair. She picked up the phone, punched “9,” then dialed Zoe’s number, the one for her private line in her bedroom. Zoe actually had two private phone numbers, because she also had her own cell phone. Zoe picked up during the first ring.
“Zoe Reisman’s room at the Reisman residence, Zoe Reisman speaking.”
“Zoe? It’s me. It’s a stupid idea.”
“What?”
“Trying to get my story published—it’s a stupid idea, Zoe. Even if I get the book done, and even if it’s halfway decent, no one will ever read it, and even if they read it, there are probably a million books that are better. So what’s the point?”
It was silent on the other end of the line.
Natalie said, “Zoe? Are you there?”
Zoe’s voice was hard. “Let me talk to Cassandra Day.”
“Give it up, Zoe. Cassandra Day is dead.”
Zoe was fierce now. “If you don’t put Cassandra Day on the phone this instant, then I’m going to call the police and tell them that a girl who looks just like you is hiding there in that building on the fourteenth floor and has kidnapped an amazingly talented person named Cassandra Day. Now you just put Cassandra on the line, or the next thing you’ll hear is sirens.”
Natalie smiled. She knew Zoe wasn’t going to let up, so she paused a moment. Then in a quiet voice a little deeper than her own she said, “Yes? This is Cassandra Day.”
Zoe said, “Thank God you’re all right! Now listen, Cassie—”
Natalie broke in, enjoying her new voice. “Oh, my . . . no, no, no, dear. No one ever calls me Cassie. It’s Cassandra, always Cassandra.”
Zoe never liked being interrupted, but she held on to her focus. “Fine. Okay, Cassandra. Listen, Cassandra. Don’t you believe one thing that that deadbeat Natalie tells you. You are a great writer. One day your grandchildren are going to read all the books you’ve written. And we are going to get this first one published, okay? You’ve got to trust me on this. Are you with me?”
Natalie sighed, but still speaking as Cassandra she said, “Yes, I am with you. . . . But I must say that you are an extremely annoying and cantankerous person.”
“Miss Day, let me worry about me. You just make sure you keep your head clear. Now, you go home and do some writing this weekend, okay?”
Natalie didn’t answer. Five seconds. Ten seconds.
Zoe said, “Cassandra? . . . You are going to go home and finish another chapter this weekend—right?”
“I guess so. Sure. I’ll keep writing.”
“And Cassandra?”
“What?” said Natalie.
“I’m proud to know you, Cassandra. Good-bye.”
“Thanks, Zoe. Bye.”