Nowhere to Go but Up

Eve Thompson

Ms. Asuncion

English 9 Honors, Block 6

2 October 2015

Nowhere to Go but Up

         She walked through the storm of swirling snow, rain, and ice. The New York winter weather was anything but kind to those who liked the warmth. The frosty air found the little bits of exposed skin, the part of her wrist where the glove met her coat. It blew deep down into her boot where her sock reached the leg of her jean. She braced herself, clutching the manuscript tight to her chest. Her manuscript was her life, the only thing keeping her afloat in the craziness of this world.

         She had tried all the publishing companies in New York. This was her last chance. The other publishers had practically thrown her out on the streets without even a glance at her story. She reached her destination, a tall, glass building that made her tremble in her boots. She pushed the revolving door, glancing around at her surroundings. The information desk was to one side, plush chairs surrounding it. There was a cart offering hot chocolate, coffee, or tea. As a writer, she went straight for the coffee, the only thing that kept her sane in the madhouse that was her mind. She took a sip, relishing the somewhat bitter taste.

         She pressed the up button for the elevator, watching the floors tick by. Eight, seven, six…

"Ding!"

         "What floor?" asked the elevator operator, a grandfatherly man with a white beard. He made her think of Santa Claus. It was Christmas time, after all.

            She looked at the list of companies next to the buttons on the elevator wall. NYC Publishing, twelfth floor.

“Twelfth, please.”

“You’re the fiftieth person I’ve taken there today. Writer, eh? What’s your book about?” He smiled encouragingly at her. Her book was a mystery, about a murder and the fight for justice for the victim. It was based off of something that had happened in Virginia that had intrigued her and left her wanting to know more.

“Oh, um, it’s a mystery,” she said quietly.

“I’ve had a few mystery novelists. They’ve mostly come out happy. A few were crying, though. But don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll be fine. My best advice, just sell. Be charismatic.” His words were lost on her, though. Getting her talking, or even thinking about her story threw her into a different world.

“Ding!”

“You’re here, sweetie. Good luck!” The elevator operator gestured for her to get out. She shivered. It was a long hallway with plush carpeting and a door at the end. She read the words written on her hand.

 “Stephen Curtis, Publisher.” She opened the heavy wooden door. The secretary at the front desk smiled at her.

“Hello, how can I help you?”

She was about to answer when a man strode into the waiting room, talking on his expensive cell phone. “I told them it was an original piece! He copied it? From what?! This is absurd. I’m too busy to deal with this! I have an appointment!” He opened the door, walked out, and slammed it. She hoped the man wasn’t Stephen Curtis. He was her only hope.

“How can I help you?” the secretary asked again.

“Oh, I have an appointment with Stephen Curtis. My name is Melanie.”

“Sure, Melanie. One moment, please.” The secretary disappeared down the hall. She took a seat in one of the comfortable armchairs and flipped through a magazine, not reading the words, just seeing them. She had butterflies in her stomach. Every appointment gave her that nervous feeling. The little boy sitting next to her looked at her white knuckles clutching the manuscript.

“Starving writer?” he asked.

“You could say that,” she smiled a little. He didn’t know how often people called her that.

“I’m waiting for my daddy to take me to lunch. He owns this company.”

“Oh, well, put in a good word for me?” she joked. Before the little boy could answer, the secretary appeared in the hallway.

“Melanie? Mr. Curtis will see you now.”

“Bye,” said the little boy. She took a deep breath. It was time to face the music. She hurried after the secretary, who led her to an open door and a man at a desk. The fulfiller of her dreams could be sitting there. This could be the difference between her book getting published or getting thrown in the trash.

“Melanie?” She nodded. “I’m Stephen Curtis. Pleasure to meet you.” The secretary closed the door, and Melanie sat in the chair in front of his desk. “So, tell me about your book.”

She pressed the down button on the elevator. It was already at her floor, as if it had been waiting for her. The grandfatherly man smiled at her.

“So, how did it go? Did you get your book published?”