Digging In: A Novel(7)

Jackie shivered. “I can’t call it that. It would break Frank’s heart.”

“We’re going to do what it takes,” I said. “If that means speaking in phonics and following the lead of some skinny hipster bitch in Heidi braids, so be it.”

Jackie flicked her cigarette into the open air, a rare sign of aggression for her. “We’re not powerless,” she said.

“We’re not,” I lied. “Not at all.”



When five o’clock came, the six of us glanced nervously around the airy loft, not making eye contact, but trying to gauge who would be the first to leave. Did we exit together? In pairs? Would Lukas dismiss us? Glynnis pulled Petra’s book from her bag and began flipping through pages in search of the answer.

“Meeting!” Lukas called out from the conference room.

We scurried into the brightly lit room, rushing to take our places around the table. Instead of boxes, the table held six brown paper bags this time, a name scribbled on each.

Lukas took his spot at the head. He steepled his fingers and closed his eyes for a moment before speaking. “Petra Polly believes adaptability is the heart of creativity.”

Six heads nodded in unison. Maybe Petra wasn’t so bad. There was truth to that assertion. Not a complete truth—creativity was a complicated beast—but close enough.

“And speed is the heart of adaptability,” Lukas continued. “The client should not have to wait for your precious inspiration. We’re picking up new clients all the time, and they want the work done quickly.” He stood and began distributing the brown bags. “I visited the farmers’ market earlier and picked up one item for each of you. By tomorrow, I’d like you to create an effective ad for this product, adaptable to all platforms, from a national magazine to an Instagram ad. We’ll reconvene to share our work, then I’ll rate the ads according to Petra’s rubric for effective communication.”

Create an ad in a day? Effective ads required a lot of thought, and those thoughts had to marinate. Lukas watched too many reality shows.

I wondered if we’d all slink away to study our products in private, but no, for my fellow designers it was Christmas morning. They tore into their bags, pulling bunches of radishes, spinach, and green onions and fresh-baked bread. Triumphant, Rhiannon hugged a bouquet of daylilies to her ample chest. Jackie smiled weakly at her jar of strawberry jam.

My bag sank into my lap, whatever it contained weighing as much as a newborn. With an equally heavy heart, I revealed my product, a flat, gelatinous circle, brown so dark it was almost mahogany, with lighter bits sprinkled throughout. It glistened like an oil slick. “What’s this? A cow patty?”

“There’s a label,” Lukas said, his jaw clenching. “You’ve got more description than most, Paige.”

Vegan chocolate beetroot flourless cake.

Some instinct rose up and told me Dandelion Girl was responsible for this stomach churner. “Would anyone actually eat this?”

Lukas smirked. “It’s your job to ensure they do.” He directed his attention to the group. “Tomorrow’s meeting is at nine a.m. I would say good luck, but you shouldn’t need it.”

Excited by the prospect of getting to work, the good employees of Guh practically leaped for the exit, pushing past me in a blur. I knew I should rush out with them, putting my enthusiasm on display, but I took my time gathering my things, overwhelmed by all I had to carry—Petra’s book, the odd cake, my box of personal belongings. I pushed out of the building awkwardly, the box nearly sliding out of my arms.

“Let me help you with that.”

Dandelion Girl. Her dark forearms were smudged with something neon pink, and the carrot had half slid out of her hair.

“I’ve got it,” I said through gritted teeth.

“No, you don’t. Stop being ridiculous.” She took the box from my hand and shouldered it. “Where to?”

“My car. I had to park a ways away because of the market.”

We walked down the main boulevard in silence. I’d never been good with silence. I had to fill it. “Who’s watching your tent?”

“No one,” she said, grinning. “I have faith in my fellow humans.”

Good luck with that, I thought, and refrained from saying anything else until I spotted my car. “That’s me,” I shouted in a way I hoped meant, you can go now.

She didn’t take the hint, but waited patiently until I opened the trunk, and carefully tucked the box inside. “You’re gonna love that cake.”

“Did you make it?”

“I sure did.”

“Is it . . . good?”

“I’ll let you decide. I will say this, though—some people call me a magician when it comes to cooking what I grow.”

Magician. That could be interesting. Inspiration wasn’t exactly knocking, but it was definitely lurking. “Are you? How so?”

“I can do anything with vegetables,” she said, and somehow it didn’t sound like a boast, just a simple, unadorned fact. “I’ll serve you something you’ll swear is this buttery, flavorful steak, and it turns out to be a slab of butternut squash. I’m this seasoning guru. Like, an alchemist.”

The ideas flipped through my head like cards in a Rolodex. Magician, guru, creation . . . “Thanks,” I said, opening my car door. “Do you want a ride back?”