“Kenway,” said India Burke, my Advanced Drawing teacher, as I was preparing to leave class with the rest of my classmates. “A word.”
“Uh,” I said, “sure.” I waited for the surge of students to pass up the aisle before I moved out into it.
“How would you feel about a job?” She dug out a trash can from under her desk and started sharpening colored pencils over it.
“A job?”
“You know. Employment.”
“Doing . . .?”
“I have a friend — well, not a friend exactly. He’s more like a — well, that’s not even the point. The point is, he’s a writer.”
“Okay.”
“He writes children’s books. It’s ridiculous, I know. But you know kids these days, they’ll read anything.” India rolled her eyes.
I shrugged. I had nothing to add to that; I didn’t really keep up with literary trends.
India tossed her head and sighed. “He’s looking for a new illustrator,” she said. “His old one abandoned him.”
“That sounds . . . harsh.”
India nodded solemnly. “Contract dispute or something, I don’t really know. The point is, he wants a new partner. Are you interested?”
“Yeah,” I said, surprised. “Yeah, I am interested. Wow.”
“Exactly.”
“Um.” I was confused.
“Oh.” India slid open a drawer in her desk and dug around in it. “Shit,” she said, and coughed. “Okay, here.” She handed me a business card. “Call him. Tell him I sent you.”
I took the card. It said, simply, “David Charles, author” and then it gave a cell phone number and an office number. “Thanks, India,” I said.
“Don’t mention it.” India went back to sharpening her pencils. “Call the cell number. The office is just that — the office. You’ll have to deal with them later, but you should definitely talk to them first.”
“I will,” I said. I tucked the card into my jeans pocket, then pulled it back out for fear of losing it. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” India said. “Just, you know, don’t wait.”
“I won’t.”
India bit her lip. “He’s, ah . . . well. You’ll see. Just . . . keep that in mind.”
“Fair enough,” I said, and left.
Labels: january brings few faces
