Page 47 of Cuts like a Knife
Chapter Thirteen
A part of me wonders if I could get away with just standing up and walking out.
No. The PA will be all over me if I do.
Instead, I sigh, saw another tiny bite off the edge of my so-called steak, and attempt to consume it. It’s gone cold.
Across from me, Mr. Big Time Sentinel Reporter is nearly finished, and looks happy as a damn clam about it, too.
“Seriously, how can you eat this?” I ask.
“It’s food, isn’t it? And again, it’s free.”
“It’s inedible.”
“Clearly a matter of opinion, kid.”
“Stop calling me kid.”
“You’re twelve. I’m not going to call you f—ing Ma’am.”
The PA bustles back over.
“Can you eat your food, please?” she hisses at me. “Like, now? That’s the winning dish, you realize.”
“This?” I say, incredulous, stabbing the inedible strip of meat. “This actually won something? Who are the judges again?”
“It hasn’t won yet. But it will. We’re filming the judging panel later. Just … eat it, okay? You might be in the shot.”
“Oh I might be in the shot,” I say, in a snotty, mocking tone. They’re dragging me down to their level. It’s not my fault.
“Relax, I’ll eat it,” says Grandpa to her, pulling my plate over toward him and pushing his nearly-empty plate over to my side of the table.
“Stealing my dinner is the big solution?” I say.
“It’ll work. You just need to look like you’re eating,” Pick up a fork and we’re good. I seriously don’t care,” says the PA before she hurries away again.
“Well I do! I care!” I call to her retreating back, but she acts like she doesn’t hear me. “She’s the baby,” I add. “Not me.”
“She’s the baby, you’re the kid. You’re both very very young.”
“I’m a grown up. And I’m here to work,” I shoot back.
You’ve made that clear, haven’t you? That’s what your little performance at the Q&A was all about, right? Showing the room how much you care? How above all this you are?” Old Man Winter pops a huge bite of my steak into his mouth and chews vigorously.
“If you mean that I asked a couple of questions about things that actually matter, then yes. Sure. I care.”
“Ah, things that actually matter. So what? You’re freelancing? Going to sell a big expose on media literacy and the behind-the-scenes exploitation on the sets of all the major reality shows or something like that?”
“Well … no. I’m just here writing. For Citidaze.”
“And would your little magazine even publish a story like that?” he asks.
“Unlikely,” I admit.
“That’s what I thought.” Seeing my face he holds up a hand. “Don’t get your hackles up now. That’s not a slam on your wee pub. It’s just not what you do there, is it? And frankly, I’ll tell you something, even if it was, it’s already been done. That’s an old story, and it’s already been told, by writers a lot more seasoned than you are, and at much better, more appropriate publications.”
“Writers like you, you mean?”
