I wrung my sweaty hands together nervously and tried to concentrate on something else—anything—the plush blue rug beneath my feet, the vibrant emerald green quill perched upon the desk, that hideous portrait of the man in the scarlet robes (really, they did nothing for his figure). It’s only a job right? I thought. Only my childhood dream…I nervously pushed my glasses back into their place on the bridge of my nose as the man behind the desk finally addressed me.
“Well, my dear, you certainly are a talented young with,” he said with a small chuckle as he stared down his long nose at the article before him.
A smile instantly lit up my face (and I have to say, my face was looking spectacular today, I had used my new Baby Blue eye shadow #2 and the effect was quite desirable).
“But,” the man continued, “I’m afraid this just isn’t what we’re looking for, I’m terribly sorry. Perhaps there’s some periodical you would like to apply to, dear? I hear Witch Weekly
is looking for new, promising young writers such as you. I’d be happy to write a letter of recommendation.” He gave me a sympathetic smile to accompany this little speech.
I looked at him disbelievingly. “But sir, why
“The truth? You just don’t have ‘it’” the man said, and I suddenly noticed the rather large bald spot atop his head. He continued without pausing, in a serious tone as he said matter-of-factly, “Our reporters must not be afraid to dig to the very bottom of our stories, and to pull up some dirt along with it, if you know what I mean. Again I’m sorry, but your article was just too…” he stopped and looked at me expectantly, as if he was waiting for me to agree.
I slapped my hand on his desk (my fingernails painted Periwinkle Blue #5), and leaned in close to his rather round, ugly face. “With all due respect, sir, I do believe I have ‘it’
” I said with a delightful sneer in my voice. “You think I don’t have ‘it’
, well I’ve got news for you, I AM ‘it’
, and you can write that in your newspaper. I can dig so far down, you won’t believe
the grime and muck I come up with. Recall the discovery of the Minister’s secret love triangle with Belinda Beckworth and Celestina Warbeck? Me. Or the Grobblebrook conspiracy? Me. Or maybe more recently, the fact that you’ve lived with your mum for the past five years. Also me.” I draw back, my eyes flashing angrily. “This is my dream, sir, and I’m not
giving it up.”
For a moment, the man’s face is unreadable. But suddenly, he throws his head back, and laughs. He beams at me and says, “Welcome, Ms. Skeeter, to the Daily Prophet
I suddenly notice that that bald spot really isn’t quite so large. His face is actually quite charming too. Really, the man was quite attractive.