Liam Davis & The Raven (2 page)

“Marc, you’re news editor.”
Jill turned a dark shade of crimson. News editor was a tough but rewarding job, and the chief made a good decision giving the job to Jill. Pain in the ass though he was, he definitely had potential that needed nurturing.

And what nurturing do I need?

“Liam Davis,” Chief Benedict read from the sheet.

My pen
cut into my palms. This was it. After countless nights working to deadlines, writing, re-writing, editing, I’d finally be
Scribe
’s features editor.

“Y
ou won’t be working in an editorial capacity this semester.”

The pen fell from my grip, clattering on my notebook.
“Wh—what? But I—I’m the best.”

“And
you don’t lack modesty.”

I blinked, strugg
ling to focus on his next words through the ringing of his last words.

“
 . . . an exceptional editor, I’d like to see you expand your skill set. And this goes for all of you. I’m trying to challenge you to approach topics that are out of your comfort zone. . . .”

Won’t be working in an editorial capacity.

“. . . commit yourselves to this, and you’ll be better prepared for the real world of publishing once you’re through here at the
Scribe
.”

Won’t be working
 . . .

“
 . . . Liam, I’m challenging you with the party page.”

The
what
?

Was this a joke?

Jill shot to his feet, knocking over his chair. His nose flared again, and sweet, shy Hannah flinched as spittle flew out of Jill’s mouth.

“You’re giving the most popular page of the magazine to him?
Liam effing
Davis
? How can you give someone who doesn’t have a single friend outside
Scribe
the
party page
? That’s a recipe for a stuck-up, frigid disaster. Someone who has no life will not be able to give this column life!”

“That’s quite enough
, Mr. Jillson. Contrary to popular
thought, your opinions are not always welcome.”

I placed my pen in the center of my notebook
and stared at the chief. He’d known what I’d really wanted. He’d even talked me through what the position meant and how to be the best. Why did he give me
this
? Had I offended him somehow? The chief wasn’t the passive-aggressive type; he’d have told me if I rubbed him the wrong way.

Jill threw his hands up. His mouth
opened but his raging voice was the last sound I wanted in my ear. Calm and easy did it. We could discuss the issue and politely make it clear the chief had made a mistake. “Jill—”

“Marc, to you.”

I shifted in my seat. “
Jill
, you don’t like me, that’s clear, and believe me when I say the feeling is quite reciprocated. But you’re also protective of the party page, and I can appreciate that.” The chief raised both brows close to his hairline. “Unfortunately, sir, he has a point. I don’t have enough jackass in me to run the party page as well as Jill can.”

“I seem to sense the potential.”
Chief Benedict laced his fingers together and leaned forward, his elbows resting on either side of his binder. “But it’s quite simple, Liam. Do you want to be on the
Scribe
staff this semester?”

What kind of question was that?
“Of course—”

“Then
we’re settled here.” He brushed his beard again. “Now, before we discuss the particulars of this year’s first issue, I want to remind you all that this year’s
Best College Article
deadline is at the end of next week.

“
Pick only what you believe are your top three pieces from last year. Two external judges from prominent newspaper agencies will be reading and ranking your articles. One from our own
Post-Gazette
and another from out of state. So please, consider wisely which pieces you’ll submit . . .”

Drenched
again, this time in afternoon rain, I let myself into apartment twenty-three, and lowered my bag next to my forgotten umbrella at the door. If I’d taken it this morning like I’d meant to, would the day have turned out differently?

Maybe I wouldn’t have fallen over, got
ten soaked, and arrived late to my meeting. Maybe that would’ve put the chief in a better mood. Maybe he would’ve changed his mind about me doing the party page?

I stripped
out of my wet clothes and padded to the laundry room to start a load.

But it was what it was. I
had
fallen over, arrived late and wet—and tonight I’d have to do research for my first column.

They’re only parties.
I can handle it.

I just ha
ve to be professional and choose an angle that will work for me. The politics of student parties, perhaps?

B
ack at my bag, I pulled out my notebook and, bypassing the dining table by the large arched windows, moved to the couch. I took out the flyers I’d grabbed from bulletin boards on campus.

The folded bunch rested heavy in my hand. One by one, I
leafed through them. Bling Bash. Derelict Dance. Nightmare on Shady Avenue. Booze Banger.

I
shook my head at a crude drawing of a shot glass nestled between breasts. “Doesn’t that sound awful?” The only answer was an echo of my voice. Even the rain pattering against the window lessened.

Thick
clouds layered the apartment in dark shadows so I turned on a light before sliding out my laptop.

I read through
an email my mom sent me, and looked over her application to work as a nurse in a retirement home. After sending it back to her with a few minor suggestions, I began choosing my top three articles from last year for the BCA competition.

The
article I knew had to be submitted centered on the importance of student activism on campus. “By far my best work,” I said, shifting my feet over the cool hardwood floors.

I really needed to get a rug
, warm the place up some more.

I hesitated before composing a
n email to my father. I wasn’t sure what his reaction would be when I wrote to him that I didn’t land the features editor position. We didn’t talk often, and the last time we saw each other face-to-face, while I was visiting New York, he calmly sat me at his desk, shaking his head.

“Everyone has different abilities. I’m sure you’ll find something you’re good at, but you don’t have the right
 . . . personality to work as a journalist here.”

I leaned forward, steepled my fingers together and rested my elbows on his desk. “I want a
apprenticeship at this company. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

My father leaned back in his chair, frowning. “When I was at university, I held the student newspaper’s features editor position for two years. A tough feat, the competition was stiff. Do the same, and you have a
apprenticeship.” He scribbled something in his diary. “But, Liam, there will be other things for you out there if you fail.”

“I won’t fail.”

I shut down my laptop. I wouldn’t tell him anything just yet. There had to be a way for me to land the features editor position.

I
picked up the flyers once more. Carrying them around the narrow kitchen island, I popped a slice of bread into the toaster. It sparked.

Zing!
A small shock shot up my arm.

I jerked my hand back
and dropped the flyers on the bench. Shaking my hand, I glared at the toaster.
I ought to write a report on the dangers of second-hand electrical appliances!

Jill’s snigger
came to mind, and it stopped my chuckle short. Why did his words niggle at me so much? True, I
didn’t
have any friends outside my professional circle. My life consisted of writing, reading, editing, and studying. I was lucky if I remembered to eat. But sacrifices had to be made if I was going to land my dream job. I didn’t have time to waste on getting drunk and making friends at Booze Bangers.

My toast popped
, and I carefully plucked it out of the death trap.

A shiver rolled over me.
Who would know if I suddenly died? No one would be there to miss me. My mom maybe, but her calls were irregular at best—who knew when she’d figure it out? Most likely it’d be Chief Benedict who noticed something was wrong.

Except
 . . . if I died
today
, he might think I didn’t want the party page, that I quit.

No one would know
!

I didn’t even
own a cat that would meow until the neighbors were annoyed enough to investigate. How long before they found me? Longer than a week? Would only the smell of my decaying flesh tip them off?

I shook my head
and, drawing in a steadying breath, unplugged the toaster.

It hardly solved the issue, but it’d do for now.

My gaze dropped to the bright orange flyer on the bench, now covered in crumbs from the toast I gripped too hard.
Nightmare on Shady Avenue
party
.
Maybe I should go. Maybe it’d calm me and make me see how good I have it.

Make me see t
hat worse nightmares exist.

Along with deafening music,
multiple kegs overflowed.

One didn’t need to see them to know it
, either. The run-down Victorian house reeked of beer and something more acidic. I prayed it was vodka and not the regurgitated remains of someone’s dinner, but I wasn’t about to investigate. No, I planned to find my angle for the column, write my notes, and get out of here.

I steered around a large crowd ch
ugging beer from jugs, vases—even a watering can—and perched myself on a carpeted step at the bottom of the staircase in the foyer. Here would have to do; there wasn’t anywhere else to sit. That, and I wanted to avoid banging into Jack and Jill, who I’d briefly encountered fist-bumping each other in the kitchen.

A
couple making out against the wall shared the lower steps with me, and their suppressed moans harmonized with the vocalized pleasure of other couples. Seemed the foyer was the place for hooking up.

Taking out my notebook, I scribbled
some notes.
Rooms large with dim lighting. Half the guys wear black-and-red striped pullovers. Some have fake hands with long, sharp fingers. . . . Nightmare on Elm Street is projected in the living room, and the slashing terror lights up the wall.

I twisted away from the grim images.
There was a reason I’d always been sensible enough not to watch it.

A
girl in a white dress at the bottom of the stairs twirled. She lit up the dim foyer and her smile lifted with a laugh as she followed her Freddy boyfriend around the corner. Her laugh continued, making me think of Linda. How long was it? A year since she’d broken up with me? Time really flew by.