Plotting to Win (7 page)

Tiffani glared at him and twirled a strand of hair around her finger so hard Felicity once again marveled the woman had any fingers left. “You would have done the same thing. You’ll throw me under a bus first chance you get.”

“Let’s not fight. You all just feed the stupid drama.” Carmen was sprawled in her chair with one leg hanging over the arm. “This is a contest. There’s 100,000 dollars at stake. Don’t be fools. We’ll all throw each other under a bus for that dough. Glaring and snarking won’t change the outcome.”

“Says the girl who lied on her query.” Dez laughed, covering his mouth with his hand.

“If you have to psych people out in order to win, you’re a shit writer,” Carmen retorted. “I’m not playing your games. I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to get everyone all riled up so they’ll start making mistakes, ‘cause you can’t win based on your writing alone.”

Before things could get more heated, Nicole Roberts appeared in the doorway. “Come hear what the judges have to say.”

Ophelia stared at them, hard, from behind the giant desk. “Your assignment was to write a 3,000 word short story in a specific genre with the first sentence being the sentence on your paper.”

There was the sound of shuffling. Someone sniffled. Sweat pooled under Felicity’s armpits.

“Many of you excelled. Some of you did not. As the result of this challenge, one of you will be closing up your manuscript and going home.”

Was Victor as nervous as she was? She dared not look at him from the corner of her eye. She shuddered to think of the cameras having caught her looking at him before. It was so easy to forget they were being filmed.

“Carmen.”

Carmen stepped forward and gave a nod.

Nicole picked up a sheet of paper and aimed her gaze at the women’s fiction writer. “Your assignment was historical. You wrote a short story about a suffragette being thrown in jail for picketing the white house. I must say I am amazed at your piece. There are some grammatical mistakes, but that’s to be expected with a rough draft. You did go over a bit in wordage, but only by forty words. I like how you made it authentic by making the clothes and setting so accurate. Well done. My only quibble is you didn’t really use lingo from those times. Their dialect has a very modern feel. A little research into the speech patterns of that time would have helped there. But great piece.”

“Thank you.” Carmen beamed.

“Victor,” Allen Brown called.

“Yo.”

“Like Carmen, you tied in your genre of choice to this. Your assignment was romance, and I’m surprised you pulled this off. You stuck to the word count well, just falling short about nine words. You penned a short story of a woman committing a murder to cover up the misdeeds of her lover. While not what I would normally choose for this topic, I’m amazed that I actually feel the passion coming off the page. The woman seems almost insane in her love for him. Excellent job. Do you mind telling us where this idea came from?”

“Real life, sir. It’s based on a story I covered with the paper.”

“Very good. You really captured the scene and woman’s madness.”

Felicity fought the urge to scream. Killing a man out of love was not real romance!

“Arnold,” Nicole announced.

“Yep.”

“What happened here? What is this?”

“Um, literary?”

“You go on and on for almost two thousand words about a tree.”

Whoa. The woman looked outright disgusted. Felicity actually wanted to take a step back. She could only imagine how Arnold felt.

“Well, literary is really boring,” Arnold mumbled, his head down.

“Yes, it’s boring when not done properly. I have no words. Literary is serious work, interesting, complex. Granted, your first sentence was about leaves, but the entire story … describing a tree? You have no beginning or end, no plot.”

“I wasn’t able to finish. I would have, could have put something more.”

“No excuses. This piece could very well get you sent home.”

Arnold looked about to cry as he retreated back to the line.

“Dez.”

Dez stepped forward.

Mr. Brown peered down at him. “You had women’s fiction. The writing is stellar, but you went over the wordage by 500 words. That’s too much. You came up with a good piece involving a woman having a mishap in the mall while searching for the perfect pink shoes. It’s funny and it works. You do have a problem with overuse of passive voice though.”

“Thank you?” Dez made it sound like a question.

“Whoa. Wait a minute.” Carmen stepped forward, her stance angry. “He puts a woman in the mall and that’s just automatically considered
stellar
women’s fiction? Can you say sexist?”

“She bought some pink shoes too.” Dez laughed.

“You—”

“Miss Montez, this is a time for judging and you are interrupting the procedures. Save your spats for upstairs. If I have to have you removed, it’s an automatic disqualification,” Ophelia stated smoothly, the glint in her eyes daring Carmen to argue.

“Felicity,” Ms. Roberts called, tapping a pen against the desktop.

Taking a deep breath and straightening her shoulders, Felicity stepped forward.

“Your assigned genre was military. You managed to tie your preferred genre into this much like Carmen and Victor did.”

The woman’s facial expression bore no indication of what was to come. Was that a good thing? A bad thing? Had she not stepped enough out of her comfort zone to impress them?

“Very good job. Spot on for the word count, and you took the time to edit it. The only issue I see is some head-hopping, but that’s up to a publishing house. I love how you did this. It’s short but sweet. He’s on the battlefield and sees a shooting star at the same time she does, thousands of miles away. Their thoughts and fears and the love they feel for each other really comes off the page. Again, great job.”

Felicity wanted to ask what a head-hop was, but bit her tongue. Yes, she was here to hone her craft, but the time for questions would come later. “Thank you, Ms. Roberts,” she choked out before stepping back into the line, wiping her sweaty palms on her slacks again. Though she felt her piece was definitely better than poor Arnold’s, nervousness over being eliminated — maybe over the head-hopping issue — still had her feeling antsy.

“Roy.” Mr. Brown took this one.

“Yes, sir!” Roy saluted and stood straight.

“Your assignment was young adult. You wrote about a boy’s first day at basic training and left us in suspense as to whether or not he would stay enlisted. I like the story, but you have a serious problem with run-on sentences and what’s with the big words? Who are you trying to impress? A sixteen-year-old boy won’t know what half of these words mean.”

“I would expect a boy smart enough to consider serving his country would have the mental capability to grasp some bigger words or at least, look them up, sir.” It was apparent the military man was ruffled. It wasn’t possible for his face to get any redder, but his stance and tone of voice implied he was somewhat insulted.

“Last I checked the Army and the Marines didn’t have high IQ requirements.” Mr. Brown glowered smugly.

“Whoa. That’s harsh and uncalled for,” Victor murmured.

Felicity could only blink in surprise, both at what the judge had said and over the fact Victor had once again managed to get right next to her without her noticing. In this, she had to agree. Any respect she’d previously felt for the literary agent dropped a notch.

“Sir, I disagree.” Roy’s jaw tightened, and his hands fisted at his sides.

If the judges are trying to get under our skins one by one, they are succeeding
. Roy had been the only one until now who’d remained unfrazzled.

“Tiffani,” Ms. Roberts broke the ice forming over the room.

“Yes.” Tiffani stepped forward, a bounce in her step.

“Your genre was erotica. Let’s talk a bit about your genre. Erotica is sexually arousing, yes. It contains lots of sexual elements and bedroom play, some of which may make readers uncomfortable. You have that part down.”

Tiffani preened. Her hands were clasped in front of her, and she tossed her hair — an annoying habit. “Thank you.”

But Nicole was not done with her yet. The romance writer shifted in her chair and appeared to be coming up with the right words. “But … erotica must also have a solid story. If it doesn’t have a solid story, it becomes porn, which, sadly, is what you delivered to us today.”

Felicity couldn’t help it. She grinned. On camera, she knew it would look like gloating, and she also knew she could be at the receiving end of harsh criticism the next time around, but damn, it felt good.

“You have a man and woman meeting in a bar. There is no back-story at all. Almost from the get-go, they are tearing each other’s clothes off with their eyes — something not anatomically possible, by the way — and somehow in 3,000 words, the heroine not only fornicates with this man, but four others. What exactly happened here and where is the story? What’s the conflict? From what I can see, the only conflict is ‘who do I spread my legs for next?’”

A choking sound came from Victor. Felicity bit her lips to keep from doing the same. Carmen outright sniggered. Roy shook his head.

“I write this for a living. I know what sells,” Tiffani retorted.

“It’s rubbish,” Nicole stated flatly. “I won’t even get into the errors I found. The story is rubbish. It’s not a story.”

“Everyone, please retire upstairs while the judges and I make a decision. When you are called back, one of you will be closing your manuscript and going home,” Ophelia spoke in a firm voice.

The contestants, some red-faced, some with shoulders slumped, all of them nervous after the criticism was doled out — except maybe Victor, who had his cocky stride, trudged up the stairs to await their fate.

“This contest is bullshit!” Tiffani declared angrily as she threw herself on the sofa. “That woman wouldn’t know a solid erotica if it bit her on her fat ass!”

“She’s sold millions of books. How many have you sold?” Felicity couldn’t bite back the comment. It left her lips almost as soon as the thought formed.

“If you can’t take criticism, go home and save us all from your temper tantrums. You signed up for this. You knew you would get your work torn up. We’re here partly to learn.” Dez pushed his glasses up his nose.

“I’m not going home. That kid is.” Tiffani pointed at Arnold.

“I wouldn’t be so sure of yourself,” Victor cut in smoothly. He caught Felicity’s gaze, and she quickly looked away. He was in cahoots with the porn writer. They could have each other.

“I’d like to know where you get off writing about a woman in the mall searching for pink shoes?”

A groan sounded through the group. Carmen wasn’t going to let that go.

“Girl, I’ve shopped for pink shoes. I don’t see what you are getting so upset over.” Felicity raised her hands in an ‘I don’t know’ gesture.

“There’s a thing called stereotypes, and —”

“I think Roy was insulted the most. Where did that guy get off insulting two branches of the military?” Victor changed the subject. Felicity slumped back in the cushion. They were all wound up and worried and taking it out on each other. Only Victor seemed calm and collected. Even she found herself getting caught up in the angry drama. How was she going to survive another six weeks of this?

She was losing sight of the bigger picture here.

The door opened, and Ophelia’s yellow suit filled the doorway. “We need to see Victor, Felicity, Arnold, and Tiffani.”

Oh Lord. Am I the one going home?

“Your challenge was to write a 3,000 word short story using a specific sentence to start it and write it in a certain genre. Two of you excelled at this. Two of you did not. One of you will be closing your manuscript and going home.” Ophelia’s dark gaze rested on each one of them as she spoke.

Felicity shut her eyes tight and willed her insides to calm down. She was so nervous she might need to make use of Dez’s writer’s cave.

“Felicity,” Ophelia announced.

Oh no. Was this head-hopping that bad?
Aloud, she said, “Yes.”

“As we said earlier, great job. You excelled at combining your genre of choice with the genre you were assigned. You descriptions were spot on. We all felt as though we were there.”

Okaaaaay. Am I going home or not?
She could only give them a nod as words had left her.

“Victor.” Ophelia aimed her gaze his way. “Excellent work. We have no complaints. The story was engrossing and well done considering how short you had to keep it.”

The Latino grinned proudly. “Thanks.”

“Arnold.”

The redhead was nearly quivering with nerves as he stepped forward from Felicity’s left.

“You did not excel in this. You do not grasp what literary fiction is. In all fairness, you were given the hardest genre to write. It takes a strong writer to pull off literary fiction, and you are not it.”

He stared at the ground and said nothing. The time for excuses was past.

“Tiffani.” Ophelia sighed. “If you want to excel at your chosen genre of erotica, find the line between erotic romance and porn and stay behind it. You had the chance to excel here and there really is no excuse for this … this … whatever it is.” Ophelia poked a pile of white sheets in front of her.

Tears welled in Tiffani’s eyes, making them large and watery. Felicity felt a stab of pity and glanced away. The judges were right, but that was quite a beat down.

“The winner of this challenge is by mutual agreement Victor.” Ophelia smiled at him.

Felicity stiffened. If he won, who lost?

“The judges have decided …”

Sharp intakes of breaths could be heard. Fists clenched at their sides as three of them waited their fate.

“Arnold, you do not have what it takes to be the next bestseller. Please close your manuscript and go home.”

“Who came back?” Dez was craning his neck around his armchair to see who was walking in the door.

Victor cast him a wave. “I’m still here.”

“As am I.” Tiffani sauntered in behind him. “Barely,” she added.

Felicity brought up the rear. She didn’t look happy though, and Victor wondered if she’d grown fond of the redhead. He hung back and waited until she was next to him to speak. “You okay?”