Plain Jayne by Brea Brown Read Free Book Online

blooming headache, thanks to my
self-destructive addiction to soy sauce—I feel a slow smile spreading across my
face. “Yes… I think I am.”
    “This jackleg’s just another picky professor with a syllabus
of tedious assignments. You never shied away from those challenges back in the
day. What’s the diff?”
    I chuckle bitterly at this comparison. “Appeasing a
professor for a grade is one thing; but making fundamental changes to my
novel—a project that’s like a child to me—feels like selling out.”
    “Oh, good gravy!”
    “What?”
    He launches the bag of our dinner waste toward the trash can
and seems to consider it a win when it lands on the floor next to the bin.
Standing, he stretches, making his checked button-up shirt ride up and show an
expanse of flat, hairless belly and a perfect innie belly button.
“Sister-friend, you already done sold out!”
    “I beg your pardon!” I stand, too, ready to hurdle the
coffee table and scratch out his eyes if he persists with his offensive
accusation.
    Tugging his shirt into place, he tilts his head at me and
blinks pointedly. “You’re getting paid for this, right? Then, bam! Sell-out.
And I completely approve, by the way. What’s the point in producing art if you
can’t profit from it? But… then you can’t get up on your high horse, either.”
    Damn if he doesn’t have a point. Can I win even one argument
today? If I were willing to tell him that I felt like I’d be betraying family
members that he doesn’t even know existed, I might score a measly point, but
using my personal tale of woe as inspiration for my novel is admittedly the
epitome of selling out. Anyway, I’m not desperate enough to win that point; I
won’t be telling Gus—or anyone—how close my debut novel follows the story of my
life.
    After much consideration, I retort lamely and without rancor,
“Bite me.”
    He grins, showing off his magnificent, orthodontist-perfected
choppers. “I would, girl, but you know I don’t swing that way. Now I don’t know
about you, but I need to spend an hour or two in the little boys’ room after
that meal and then head off to the Land of Nod, if you know what I’m sayin’.”
    Unfortunately, I speak fluent Gusese, so I do know exactly
what he’s sayin’.
    ******
    The next morning is an exercise in ignoring. First off, I
use supreme self-control as I ignore my dialing thumb, which is itching for me
to call Tullah and appeal to her human side about finding a new editor for me.
Coffee helps. Thinking about the monumental task of complying—or pretending to
comply—with Editor Mussolini’s changes to my manuscript brings the itching back
full force.
    Must resist.
    Cure for every ailment or problem I’ve ever had:  writing.
Oh, the irony. Well , I tell myself, I’m not going to get anywhere
until I get started (thank you, Captain Obvious), so I slide my laptop from
its case, boot it up, and open the most recent version of my manuscript.
Breathing deeply through my nose, I close my eyes and then scroll to the fire
scene. Fire tornado. I can do this.
    This is when I have to ignore the screaming in my head:   You can’t do this!!! That’s why you purposely made the fire marshal tell
Rose what happened. To keep it clinical, unemotional, and brief, and to avoid
any chance of your graphic imagination running away with you.
    Right. Well, the first time I wrote this was five years ago.
It’s been twelve years since the actual fire. Surely, I can detach myself—as a professional —enough
to do what’s required here.
    Right?
    A tingle at my hairline alerts me to the cold sweat breaking
out there. Chills run up and down the backs of my thighs. My vision narrows,
and my breathing quickens. The walls of Gus’s tiny apartment close in further.
    Must not panic.
    I take several slow, deep breaths until my facial features
feel like they’re in proportion with the rest of my head again before focusing
on the blinking cursor in front of me.