The Writing Retreat(10)

Three people strode onstage and the sweltering audience went silent. There was a female book editor from the New Yorker, a young male author who’d won all the awards that year, and Roza, gorgeous and casual in torn jeans and a black tank top. She wore her russet hair long and loose, and her unexpected thick-framed glasses balanced nicely with her red lips. She was laughing at something the editor had said. Her musical voice, picked up by the small mic attached to her neckline, bounced around the space like a bell.

“Well.” Asha, the editor and moderator, exhaled and grinned. “This is something, isn’t it? Everyone, let’s welcome Roza Vallo and Jett Butler to the stage.”

During the rapturous applause, I looked around, realizing how many men there were in the audience. Probably there to see Jett, who’d gotten a high-six-figure deal for his first book and had been called the next Hemingway.

Asha introduced Roza and Jett in contrast: established versus new, overtly feminist versus a more terse and traditionally masculine approach. They watched her with modest smiles. While Asha perched on the edge of her seat, Roza and Jett looked completely at ease. Jett grabbed the water bottle waiting by his feet and took a large swig, tucking his longish blond hair behind his ear. Roza was still, watching Asha with a beatific expression.

“So where do we even begin?” Asha fingered the tiny notebook in her lap. “You’ve both come out with new works this year: Maiden Pink and Mr. Mustang. Both brilliant.”

“Why, thank you,” Jett said in a low, smooth voice, prompting a few chuckles. He glanced at Roza like a daring child.

“Jett, let’s start with you. How does it feel? You’re twenty-six years old and you’ve been nominated for a National Book Award. What was your reaction to that?”

“My reaction was: Finally!” he intoned with a slight Southern drawl. “Just kidding. Um, I don’t know, really. ‘Surreal’ is such a clichéd word, but that’s how it felt.”

“You started it at quite a young age, right?” Asha asked.

“Yes, in college, actually. But it took six years to get it right. Thousands of hours. And actually that’s important.” He held up his pointer finger. “A lot of people were mad about the advance. But when you break it down by labor, it’s really pennies on the hour.”

“You went to Duke?” Roza’s sudden question, honeyed with her light accent, was like a hitch in the script. Asha and Jett both glanced at her. “Good school.”

“Yep.” He nodded. “I was blessed by the good Lord above to get a full ride.”

Roza’s eyebrows shot up. “Ahh. So you began this beautiful novel at Duke.”

“Thank you for calling it that.” He grinned, flirting. “Some thought I was a little young to consider myself a novelist.”

“Oh, no, Jett.” Now her brows knit. “When I started writing Devil’s Tongue, I was sixteen years old. Don’t let anyone ever tell you you’re too young.”

“Thank you.” He crossed his arms, enjoying the attention.

“How did you support yourself there?” Roza cocked her head. “Apart from the full ride, how did you pay for food, rent?”

Jett glanced at Asha, who looked slightly perturbed but seemed to be letting Roza take over.

“Odd jobs, mostly.” Jett shrugged. “Things that would tire my body but not my brain.”

“Odd jobs.” Roza beamed like a parent viewing her child’s straight As. “Wonderful. And after school, you moved to New York?”

“I stuck around Raleigh for a while first.”

“Girlfriend?” she asked knowingly.

He chuckled. “Well, yes. I was with someone. But I also didn’t have the money to move at that point.”

“Who was this girlfriend?” Roza asked.

“Whoa,” he laughed, turning to Asha. “This is getting personal.”

“Jett,” Roza said before Asha could answer, “these lovely people all trooped here in the scorching heat because they wanted to learn about us. Isn’t that the whole point of author events? To get a glimpse into the life and mind of the person who’s been whispering into your brain for the last ten hours?” Roza turned to the crowd. “You would all like to hear about Jett’s college girlfriend, right?”

We cheered. The tenor of the hot room had shifted. A new eagerness swelled, a sharpening of the senses, like we were a crowd at a coliseum watching a brave but ultimately doomed gladiator stride out into the ring. Somehow we knew even then she was out for blood.

“Sooo.” Roza’s intonation rose and fell. “What was she like? What was her name?”

Jett glanced at Asha with pleading eyes. Catching his gaze, she cleared her throat. “Roza, I have a lot of questions for us to get to today—”

“June.” Jett said it suddenly, almost involuntarily, stopping Asha short.

“June and Jett.” Roza pressed a hand to her chest. “My god, that is adorable. What was her major?”

“She was—is—a writer, too. We met in freshman seminar.” He’d resigned himself; he was going along with it, confused but regaining his cockiness. “She’s a fantastic writer,” he added generously.

“Is she published?”

“Not yet. She will be.”