I was freezing. I went inside to get warm and get dressed, and I realized I’d sat out there much longer than I’d thought, for almost an hour.
I wished I had a hair dryer so I could blast some hot air on myself. I’d never use it for its intended purpose, but even so . . .
I dressed, ate a yogurt and some Jell-O, and I was scrutinizing my mixed-media piece when I heard my cell phone ring. I let it ring. It was probably just Jonah, and he could wait right now. I was adding some more details to the canvas when the phone rang again, about twenty minutes later. I wiped my hands off on my jeans, went across the room and ripped my phone away from its charger. Hm. I didn’t recognize the number. I shrugged. Might as well tell whoever it was that they had the wrong number.
“Hello,” I said.
“Yes, hello,” said a disorganized-sounding man with a British accent. “I’m calling for . . . let me see here. Leslie Courtney.”
Leslie Courtney? Yep, wrong number.
But before I could say anything, the man continued. “I’m calling about the illustrator position.”
I felt my eyes go wide. David Charles’s editor! Oh my God . . . he told this man that my name was Leslie Courtney? How in the world was it possible to get Leslie Courtney out of Lissy Kenway?
“Max Sovanich?” I said, hoping I got the name right.
“Yes. Hello?”
“Um,” I said, not knowing where to begin. “Hi. That’s me.”
“Wonderful, wonderful. So—”
“Actually,” I said, trying to interrupt as gracefully as possible, “my name’s Lissy Kenway, not Leslie Courtney.”
“Oh, pardon,” he said. “I must have the wrong number.”
“No!” I shouted, maybe just a little too desperately. But I realized that Max Sovanich was about to hang up, and I’d better act quickly. “I mean . . . I talked to David Charles yesterday.”
“All right.”
“I think we had a bad connection,” I said. “He thought my name was Leslie, but it’s actually Lissy.”
“Lissy?” Max sounded it out slowly. “That’s quite an unusual name. Is it, like, Lizzy, but with an S?”
“Pretty much.”
“Very well. Let me get this down here . . . spell it for me, will you?”
“L-I-S-S-Y.”
“L-I-S-S-Y. All right.”
“And Kenway is K-E-N-W-A-Y.”
“K-E-N-W-A-Y. All right. So, Miss Kenway, Mr. Charles says that you come very highly recommended by a friend of his.”
Really? I had to suppress a squeal as I said nonchalantly, “Oh.”
“I myself haven’t been able to get in touch with her just yet,” Max Sovanich continued. “But I’m told she’s your art professor — India Burke, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent.” Max Sovanich coughed. “Excuse me. Okay. So we need to set up an interview . . . how to determine the best way to go about this . . . where do you live, Miss Kenway?”
I told him.
He sounded almost triumphant. “Well, that’s brilliant then, brilliant, Miss Kenway. We have an office right downtown there. You know Mr. Charles lives outside the city, right?”
Well, I guessed I did now. “That’s nice.”
“As far as a meeting goes . . . how does Monday sound?”
“Monday’s good.”
“Monday . . . shall we say nine a.m.?”
I considered it. Hopefully, the meeting wouldn’t go on too long and I could make it across town to my digital media class by 11:15. “That should be fine,” I said slowly.
“Excellent.”
Max Sovanich gave me the address, and I hastily scribbled it down on my hand with a half-dried-up marker.
Labels: january brings few faces
