Page 2 of Cruel Delights
“Um,” I say finally, “it’s Friday.”
“Right. It is.”
I blink. “Today’s… payday.”
“Right. It is,” Winston repeats. Then he sighs. “About that, Lyra. You’re not going to like this.”
“That’s what my Granny Opal said when she gave me up to the foster system.”
“Listen, we value you. We really do. But…” he gulps down some air and I swear I hear another voice in the background—a low, sultry female voice. “We have to let you go, Lyra. It’s just not working out. Your obituaries, they’re pretty good. Well written.”
“Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“I’ve had five complaints just this week. You’ve gotten too tongue-in-cheek. People want their loved ones respected. Not belittled.”
My jaw drops open. “I don’t belittle anyone!”
“You called Mr. Herald Singleton a racist and sexist dinosaur of his time.”
“I’m… not seeing the issue.”
“Obituaries are an announcement of the dead—they’re paying respects publicly.”
“Cut the crap, Winston,” I snap, jamming my things into my book bag. First my decade-old laptop, held together by duct tape and gum. Second, my sweater and crumpled up gum wrappers. “This isn’t about my ‘tongue-in-cheek’ blurbs.”
“Alright, Lyra, I’ll keep it real with you. It’s funding. The newspaper is making some cuts… and you happen to be one of the things on the chopping block. Turns out, nobody gives a damn about obituaries. Nobody even reads them.”
“Baby, come back to bed,” coos a voice in the background.
I sit up straighter against the elm tree, my spine rigid. “Who was that?”
“Nothing. Nobody. Point is, sorry. We’re not able to keep you—”
“Is that Claudia from Astrology? Winston, that better not be fucking Claudia from Astrology!”
Claudia must hear me shriek on the phone, because she answers back, “Can’t you just… hang up on that girl?”
Winston clears his throat a split second too late to conceal the comment. “Anyway, Lyra, I’ve got to go. I appreciate the work you’ve done. But, unfortunately, this is the end of the road with theEaston Times. Feel free to use me as a reference. We’ll try to get you your final check in the next week or two.”
“Winston, no! Don’t hang up on me—is this because I wouldn’t sleep with you at the holiday party—WINSTON!”
The line clicks, going dead.
My jaw’s still hanging open. I stare at my phone, half shocked, half pissed as hell. I’m about to dial him back and tell him off when the groundskeeper approaches me wringing his hands. An unnatural, almost pained smile stretches across his lips.
“You’ve been disturbing the cemetery guests again with your presence,” he says. “We’re going to have to ask you to leave.”
“I’m sorry… but what? This is a cemetery! It’s a public space.”
“We’ve had complaints.”
“It’s the lady with the little boy, right? She had Karen written all over her.”
I’m too pissed about my phone call with Winston to bother battling for my right to chill at the cemetery. I snatch my book bag off the grass and stomp toward the uncompromisingly tall and foreboding iron gates.
Winston doesn’t answer the angry texts I send him. My calls go straight to voice mail. At the beep, I give him a piece of my mind.
“This is because I wouldn’t fuck you, right?” I ask. “You had to make some cuts and a few sections were on the chopping block. Hmmm, I wonder who would go between fucking Horoscopes and Obituaries? One opened their legs, the other didn’t! Fuck you, Winston—I petsit for your iguana when you were in the hospital getting your gout in check!”