Rejected

Maggie gets rejected from the New York Sun, and her younger brother gets expelled from his private school in Buffalo. Things just aren't going Maggie's way...

A Book’s Cover, chapter 1

Miss Lane,

We here at the New York Sun appreciate your enthusiasm to be a part of our establishment. However, there is a lack of positions open, and we see that you don’t have the experience we would prefer for our staff to have. We’re afraid that our newspaper isn’t the place for you. Thank you again for showing such interest in our journalistic endeavors.

Sincerely,

George Kepler, Editor-In-Chief

My head met my desk. Lack of positions? There were three positions open when I went in there about two weeks ago. Only about four people (including me) had even bothered to show up for interviews that day. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to add up what that meant. The three others had gotten the jobs of their dreams and I was stuck in a place where I didn’t want to be. Again. I sighed and pushed away from my desk on the chair. I stalked out of my study to go make dinner.

Abigail rubbed up against my leg, whining in sympathy. I complained to her enough, so she knew what was wrong immediately. I scratched one of her fuzzy ears, eyes still glazed from working on my latest resume.

Once upon a time there was a college girl who majored in something she adored. After she graduated, she tried night and day to find a job that supported said major. It hasn’t quite happened for her yet.

A constant shrill squawk of something mechanical snapped me out of my pity party. Magazine in hand and sprinting towards the kitchen, my patience was tissue paper thin by this point. The smoke detector screeching up a storm helped me realize that I may need anger management classes in the future. In desperation I threw a stiletto heel at it, and the plastic white cover fell off.

“OH MY GOD, SHUT UP!” I threw the stiletto heel’s twin and hit the smoke detector right on target. Thankfully, the smoke detector decided not to test me and obeyed me for once. A furious knocking pounding attacked my door. I rushed to the door, and yanked it open, leaning against the door frame in exhaustion. “Yes?” An angry sixty-year-old woman dressed in vibrant-colored clothing stood in front of me, a fraction away from foaming at the mouth, but no spit flew from her bright pink lips. Heaven forbid if she got saliva on her neon blue yoga pants, or her highlighter yellow shirt.

“That is the third time this month, Miss Lane! You are aware that I am still more than capable of reporting you to the landlord,” Ms. Penicopolis ranted. I sighed; these visits were much too frequent for my liking. Most of them had to do with Abigail pulling an escapade and going to my neighbor’s apartment, begging for her famous cream cheese Baklava. I blew a stray black bang out of my face.

“Yes, I know, Ms. Penicopolis,” I replied, as steady and rehearsed as a third grade class repeating some information their teacher just told them. Her glare narrowed at my usual response.

“If you know, then why don’t you fix it? Back in Yugoslavia, I could fix toilet with eyes closed! Surely you fix some faulty smoke detectors, yes?” she raged. I rolled my eyes.

“Ms. Penicopolis, I assure you, as soon as I hear from another employer, I will pay to have someone come and fix my smoke detectors,” I swore. The woman stared at me with pity in her washed out brown eyes.

“You still haven’t gotten hired? Bah! Writing is for fools! Now being a doctor or a lawyer, now there’s a steady career! Here, child, this might help you relax.” She shoved a neon pink flier in my face. “This is last time, you hear?” Abigail had managed to sneak up next to her, and start sniffing at Ms. Penicopolis’s thigh. She leapt a foot in the air with a squeal. “No! Bad dog, bad dog!” She gave me one last reproachful glare, and stalked back to her apartment. I shut the door with a shake of my head.

“Oh, Ms. Penicopolis. A doozy, as always,” I whispered as I kneeled down to pet Abby on the head. She gazed at me in the feigned innocence that only a Wheaton Terrier could have. “Don’t look at me that way. You know she hates it when you sniff her.” More innocent stares. “I don’t care if you love her baklava, she doesn’t appreciate you,” I chastised. Abby’s ears went down, and she licked my hand sadly.

“This girl is on FIRE~~~~~” sang the electronic Alicia Keyes. I speed-walked to my phone, and restrained a yawn. Abby trotted behind me. I groaned, somehow knowing this conversation was going to be a long one. “You’ve reached Maggie,” I answered.

“YOU IDIOT! I TOLD YOU TO TEXT ME!” I rolled my eyes.

“Hello to you too, Arthur.”

“For the love of God, don’t call me that!”

“I’m your sister. It’s my job to oppose everything you say for me to do,” I responded. “Plus, Ace sounds like a name of dog that Abby would fancy,” I added. I snickered at the image of my younger brother with Siberian Husky ears and a tail to match.

“You have any better ideas for nicknames?” he questioned. I could feel his glare of annoyance through my Android.

“Plenty. Art, Artie, King of the Whiners, Brit-Boy, Ari…” I trailed off. “Look, you’re not helping your case by arguing with me, especially now. What do you want?” He went quiet. I inched the bridge of my nose. “Arthur Dustin Lane, if you tell me you forgot, I’m going to personally drive to Buffalo and kick your butt.”

“No! Damn, you’re being a b***h tonight. I-”

“Swear jar,” I mocked.

“Like you’re one to talk.”

“Nice comeback. Listen, Art, I’m thrilled to be talking to you, but we haven’t talked since my birthday in April. It’s September. Are you in trouble?”

“A little bit.” He paused in what I assumed was hesitation.

“I don’t have all night. Spill or I’m hanging up,” I threatened. Arthur cleared his throat, but didn’t continue. “Look, whatever you did, I can help fix it. Besides, how bad can it be?” I tried to convince.

“You see, I kind of got expelled…” I went quiet. I could hear Arthur shifting uncomfortably in the background, as if he were wearing uncomfortable leather pants. I finally found my voice.

“…That is bad. And you’re calling me an idiot? What the hell did you do? Drive a car through the school wall?” No response. “Arthur?” Still no response. “Arthur Dustin, answer me! I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what is going on!” Still no response, that little moron. I swear, sometimes my brother, despite his geeky demeanor, was thicker than a wall of concrete. “Did you or did you not drive your car through the school wall!?”

“It was an accident, Maggie, I swear! This idiot got drunk during the football game, and he thought it would be a good idea to jump on my car because he apparently thought it was his friend’s car, and he ended up on my windshield! I should have pressed the brakes, but I panicked and hit accelerate! He rolled off, he’s fine, but I wasn’t paying attention to the fact that I was still going, and I slammed into the school! You think I would do that on purpose? I was focused on the drunk dude, if he was ok, what the hell I had just done, was it my fault, you know normal questions! It seemed like I had run him over, even though I didn’t! I’M NOT CRIMINAL! I don’t have a record, and I’m just a humble nerd! I-”

“Ok, Art, I’m sorry I flipped, just calm down,” I begged.

“I read books, I was in the Robotics Club! I was the starter for Brain Bowl! I was in the running to be the president of Student Council, I-”

“Art-”

“MY LIFE IS OVER!”

“ARTHUR DUSTIN LANE, CALM YOUR MAN TITS!” I felt stupid for lowering myself to my dork brother’s level, but using idiotic words like that caused my brother, not to mention my friend Clint, to at least smirk. Abby jumped up, startled, and ran to my bedroom.  I heard Arthur snicker on the other end of the line. I heaved a sigh of relief. My brother was still in there. “Do you feel better?”

“Yeah, a bit. So enough about me. What’s going on with you?” he asked forced nonchalance, as a desperate attempt to change the subject.

“We’ll get to me in a second. I’m not trying to be the bad guy here, but I want some details. Are you being charged by the police?”

“No. The drunk guy is, because he was drunk on the premises of Woodrow Wilson Private Academy and caused me to get out of control in the first place,” he explained, taking shaky breaths.

“Wait, if this is the drunk guy’s fault, then why isn’t he the one getting expelled?” I demanded.

“Oh, he probably is, at Bradley J. Lohan’s. He was there cheering for the team we were playing against, which was-”

“Bradley J. Lohan, I got that. Still, the faculty knows that it wasn’t your fault, so why are they expelling you?”

“It’s a private school, Mags. They need to get rid of the disgrace that caused damage to their precious school,” he snapped. I really wanted to reach through the phone and smother my little brother with a hug.

“It’s their fault, then. They were stupid enough to get rid of one of their brightest students,” I reasoned with my big-sister logic. “What did the police say to you?”

“‘That boy was drunk, no one could predict his actions, you’re off the hook,’” Arthur answered in a gruff tone. I think he was trying to imitate the Terminator, but I couldn’t really tell.  

“How’s the car?”

“Surprisingly, she’s alive. Betty can make it through anything,” he boasted. Because of his circumstances, I decided not to bash on him for creating an almost inhuman connection to his car.

“That’s good. How much are the damages going to cost?”

“Only about three hundred dollars. She only broke a headlight,” he answered in obvious pride. I choked on air.

“Are you serious?! You-you-you CRASHED through a wall of bricks, and you lost nothing but a headlight? That-that just defies logic,” I stumbled.

“Well, there were a lot of dents too, but I got them out with a toilet plunger,” the 16-year-old enlightened.

“Still! Your windows should have been broken, your windshield should have been smashed, and you’re hood should have, like, caved in! How?!”

“I don’t know. Betty is like the Bat-mobile; she’s totally indestructible,” Art drawled.

“I don’t know about indestructible, but it’s one tough cookie. How’d Dad react?” I questioned.

“After he found out that we didn’t have to pay for the school to fix the wall, and that I could pay for my car by myself, he thought it was hilarious,” he chuckled. I giggled, knowing Dad probably did what Arthur just described.

“How about Gemma? I take it she wasn’t as chill as Dad with the whole thing,” I deduced. Arthur sucked in air through his teeth.

“Mom, not so much. She took away BETTY,” he moaned, turning the moan into a shriek when he said his car’s name. I rolled my eyes; of course she took away the car when it wasn’t even Arthur’s fault.

“That’s stinks, little man, but I can’t really say I’m surprised,” I sympathized, holding my cell phone in my left hand so I could open the fridge, get the milk, and pour myself a glass of chocolate milk. He sighed in exasperation.

“She’s not that bad, Maggie. I know you prefer your mom, but Gemma has some good qualities,” he tried to convince. I evaded the argument that was about to occur.

“I’m working the entire breakfast shift at Dan and Dani’s Breakfast Nook on 8^th street. I just got rejected from the New York Sun. I’m running out of reporter positions that are open,” I told him, changing gears.

“Well, at least you have one job. Why are you working though? I thought Samantha was paying for your apartment,” he inquired. I swear that he was cocking his head in confusion.

“Yeah, my mom’s paying for the apartment, but I still have to pay for food, new appliances, clothes, and I paid for the satellite TV and the actual TV, so I have to pay that bill. Plus, I’m still working off some student loans,” I answered, my voice as dry as a piece of toast.

“Can’t you just ask Samantha for money?” he asked in a tone that suggested I was mentally impaired.

“I could, but I’m actually doing fine. I know it sounds like a lot, but if you manage your money the right way, it’s not as bad. Dan and Dani pay really well. I just want another job, so I could make life easier, and probably more fun,” I explained. There was a dubious pause on the other line. “Really!”

“Well if you’re that busy, I probably shouldn’t be asking this, but-”

“Asking me what?” I demanded.

“I was getting to that, Maggie. Calm down. Mom wants me to go to another private school, but there are none she likes in the Buffalo area, but one she did like is in the Manhattan area,” he prompted. The gears clicked in my head immediately.

“Gemma wants you to live with me for the rest of the school year,” I predicted.

“Yes. Gemma and Dad promised to pay for the tuition and uniform and everything, and they gave me my own debit card. I can help pay for stuff, I promise,” he begged. I snorted.

“Just warning you, but it might not be the most comfortable. I have the futon in my couch, and I have my bedroom.” An idea popped into my head. “Or I could clean out my study, and get a bed in there,” I suggested.

“I don’t really care, Maggie. Is that a yes, then?”

“Sure. I don’t want a lecture through e-mail or Skype if I said no,” I admitted. He snorted.

“Samantha would do the same thing, and you know it,” Art retorted.

“No. She would write a strongly worded letter, since she’s in the Amazon right now, with no internet,” I corrected. Art laughed.

“Our moms are really different, aren’t they?”

“Eh. Alright, dork, go to bed. It’s almost 9:30. Text or call me when you plan on getting here, so I can make arrangements.”

“Hey! I’m in tenth grade! I make my own curfew now!”

“Don't care. Seniority rules.” I hung up and went to make Ramen dinner. Bah. And they told me I’d stop eating Ramen after college.