Episode 1: The Favorite Teacher

Nuria Delgado's feet ached. Her back ached. For that matter, her neck didn't feel so good either. She'd done and redone the practical bun on the back of her head several times today, but it was starting to wisp out more than she could fix without at least a decent brush. This interview was going to have to be her last for today.

She wondered if any of the dozen or so bookstores she'd canvassed over the last two days would call her back. One manager had even said, "I'm afraid if we hire you, you'll be gone in a month when something better comes up." She'd tried to explain to him that nothing better had come up in a year and that she just wanted a job. She doubted she'd gotten through to him and, even if she had, she suspected that everyone she'd spoken to today believed the same thing.

She rubbed the back of her neck and stared at the job application, nearly identical to the thousands it felt like she'd filled out this week. It seemed like there would be a market for a generic job application in the service market, that you could fill out, photocopy, and hand to all of your prospective employers.

Then, she thought to herself while suppressing a slightly hysterical giggle, I could get rejected at the speed of light. If Nuria had learned anything this week, it was that three years as a teacher and four as an editor didn't qualify you to stack books on a shelf anymore.

"Miss Delgado?" a voice asked. She looked up and wondered who the ernest young man looming over her was. At first, she thought it must be the store manager, but he was dressed in blue jeans and a t-shirt for a band she'd never heard of. On top of that, she hadn't told anyone in this store her name yet.

"Is that you, Miss Delgado?" he asked, "It's me, Quentin Edwards."

The name was immediately familiar, but it took her a few seconds to remember from where. Then, she had to roll back the clock a decade to make a match. The Quentin Edwards she'd known hadn't been as tall or lithe or had as much hair as this young man, but of course, he had only been in the eighth grade at the time.

"Quentin Edwards?" she asked in wonder, "I haven't seen you in almost, it must be, seven or eight years now."

He sat down across from her, the little cafe table shaking a little as he slid into place, "Nine years, more or less," he answered, "Ever since you gave up teaching to get married. So," he added, casting his eyes down, "I guess I should call you Mrs. Lopez."

"No," Nuria said, sighing, "That lasted less than two years. I'm just Miss Delgado again. But I think that you're probably old enough to call me Nuria now."

"Nuria," Quentin chuckled, "It seems really strange. I've thought of you as Miss Delgado for so long. What are you doing here?"

Nuria glanced down at the application in front of her. Quentin followed her glance. He asked, "You're working here?" He couldn't keep the shock out of his voice. Nuria had noticed that her students always seemed surprised to find out that she was a human being.

"Why not?" she asked him, "It seems like a nice enough place." In fact, it seemed like every other bookstore in Manhattan--airy and well-lit, thousands of shelves of books on cheap carpet wrapped around a small cafe like the one they were sitting in where they sold overpriced little sandwiches and bitter coffee.

"So, you didn't go back into teaching, then?" Quentin asked, "After your divorce, I mean?"

Nuria sighed heavily, "I would have, but all I kept getting offered were positions at the worst schools in the inner cities. They didn't need teachers. They needed... well, something else. Nobody seemed to notice that I'm five foot nothing, only that I'm a Latina English teacher and bilingual." She paused and looked up into his concerned brown eyes, so dark they were almost black, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to rant. How have you been doing?"

Quentin flashed her a diffident half-smile, "It's all right. I'm glad to see you. I..."

"Mr. Edwards," said an efficient looking young woman about the same age as him, "there you are. Everything is set up if you want to start the signing a little early. There's quite a line building up downstairs."

"Actually, Mayumi-chan," said Quentin, stretching a little, "I thought I would get something to eat and I ran into an old friend. Nuria Delgado," he indicated the woman in the navy blue tailored suit, "This is Mayumi Sakura, my terrifying efficient editor."

Mayumi reached out and shook Nuria's hand, "Assistant editor, actually. I mostly coordinate Mr. Edwards's public appearances. Nice to meet you."

"Mayumi-chan," Quentin said, "this is Miss Nuria Delgado, my eighth grade English teacher to whom many of us owe our current good fortune."

Mayumi and Nuria both raised an eyebrow. Mayumi spoke first, "Oh," she said, "you're Miss Delgado." She put the emphasis on the first word, as if she'd been waiting to meet Nuria for a long time. Then, she turned back to Quentin, "Can I get you something to eat?"

"Sure," said Quentin, "See if they have any of those little sandwiches with smoked salmon and a cup of coffee, please. Nuria?"

Nuria started to demur, but her stomach grumbled loudly in protest, "I... the chef salads did look rather tasty."

Mayumi already had her Palm Pilot out, making notes, "Dressing? Anything to drink with it?"

"I, uh..." Nuria was trying to process a lot of information at once. Quentin was a writer. He had his assistant editor fetching coffee for him. He had said that he owed his old teacher some debt of gratitude for his current career, "Thousand Islands and a Diet Coke, if you don't mind, Miss Sakura."

"Will you join us, Mayumi?" Quentin asked.

"Can't," said Mayumi, already backing away from the table, "I've still got a million details to take care of before things get started."

Quentin sighed apologetically. Then, as if reading Nuria's mind, he said apologetically, "I tried to get her to call me Quentin. She won't. And, if I try to do anything for myself at these appearances, she gets very offended. She likes to think I'm some sort of rock star who doesn't know how to take care of himself."

"Quentin," said Nuria, "I'm very confused. I always thought you'd make a great writer, but I don't remember seeing anything of yours published and this seems like something of an event. Are you publishing under another name?"

Quentin chuckled. Mayumi brought over their food, placed it in front of them, and sped off. He began to unwrap his sandwich. Nuria watched him, getting the sense he was enjoying some joke she wasn't in on. Finally, freeing his sandwich and lifting half of it to bite, he said, "I've written a couple of books under the name J. X. Wolffe."

It took Nuria only a second to recognize the name, "Wait. The J. X. Wolffe who wrote the _Barrens Princess_ books? I thought she was a woman."

Now Quentin guffawed, "You're certainly not the first person to tell me that. I think a lot of my fans are also disappointed, when they first meet me, to realize that I am not John Brubaker."

"I took my neice to see one of your movies," Nuria said, "She's absolutely in love with John Brubaker."

Quentin raised his hands in mock horror, "I take no credit for the movies. I barely want credit for the books."

"What?" asked Nuria, confused, "Why?"

"Have you read them?" Quentin asked.

"Yes," lied Nuria. Quentin raised an eyebrow at her, "Well, no." she admitted. "But, I did see the movies."

Quentin leaned in so as not to be overheard, "Formulaic tripe," he said, "And this third one is the worst so far. Naturally, it's presold over a million copies. I'm betting that your niece is between fourteen and seventeen years old."

"Fifteen," said Nuria.

"She's my target demographic," said Quentin, "When I wrote the first book, it was sort of a joke, an exercise in genre fiction. I never even expected it to see publication. I'm a huge fraud. I'm about to go downstairs and have hundreds of teenaged girls tell me how much I understand them. I didn't know a goddamned thing about teenaged girls when I was their age. I know even less now."

Nuria, who had felt a strong sense of empathy for the Princess Elena character when she'd seen the movie asked, "Well, how do you write for them?"

"I don't know," said Quentin, shrugging, "I just write them as if they were adult women. In the first draft, Priness Elena was 35. Then, when I realized what that would mean in the setting, I made her 22. My editor suggested nineteen to make room for sequels and appeal more to their target audience, so I said, 'Hell, why not make her fifteen?' and he thought it was a great idea. I think I changed less than ten percent of the book between 35 and fifteen. She's not realistic at all."

"I seem to remember," said Nuria, "that at fifteen, what I wanted most in the world was to be thought of as an adult."

Quentin looked thunderstruck. He didn't speak for a long time. Nuria, wondering if she'd just said something horribly foolish, concentrated on attacking her salad.

"So," Quentin asked when she was down to lettuce and dressing, "If you haven't been teaching for the last seven years, what have you been doing?"

"I was editing for a publisher of Spanish-language trade books," said Nuria, "I can tell you a morbid amount of detail about the Mexican and southwestern US building trade. They went out of business about a year ago. I... haven't been able to find anything since."

Quentin asked, "You're an experienced editor and you haven't been able to find work? Where have you applied?"

"Everywhere," said Nuria a little defensively, "Here and in Chicago, plus a couple of places overseas. My experience is too specialized, or so I'm told. And times are tough all over."

Quentin looked at his watch, "I'm sure something will turn up soon," he said absentmindedly, "I really do need to get down to the signing. Listen, I'm having dinner with Sean Riley tonight. He'd love to see you again, I'm sure. Will you join us?"

"Um, sure," said Nuria, "What is Sean up to these days? You two used to be inseparable."

Quentin smiled as he stood, "I'll let him tell you that." Reaching into his wallet, he pulled out a business card and offered it to her, "This is the restaurant. We have a reservation for 7:30. It's not too fancy. If you like, I can send a car."

"No," said Nuria, "That won't be necessary. I'll see you at 7:30."

-=-

Nuria's apartment was huge by Manhattan standards, certainly considering what she paid for it. Still, with three people living there, two under 25 and seemingly genetically incapable of maintaining a neat common area, it usually seemed crowded. With two bedrooms, a full bath, an actual kitchen and a living room big enough for four people to sit in comfortably, she was incredibly lucky to have found it. Even if the alternative hadn't been living on the street, she would have been loathe to lose it.

Nuria realized that she had also become quite fond of her roommates, although she hadn't known what to make of them at first. Even though she was not quite ten years their senior, they made her feel like she was as old as time.

Nuria's feet and back still hurt. She moved a newspapaper out of the way onto the floor and flopped down onto the couch. The shower was running, which meant that one or both of her roommates were in there. When Nuria had first moved in, she'd thought they were a lesbian couple, since they seemed so at ease with each other and their own bodies. They had assured her they weren't. They were two red-blooded American girls who didn't like to be labelled.

Still, Nuria doubted she'd ever become fully at ease with the two of them and their strange ways. She proved this by practically jumping out of her seat when Pearl came out of her bedroom dressed only in a pair of white silk panties and a towel on her head.

"Hey, hon," Pearl asked in her faintly Southern accept, "How did it go today?"

Nuria kicked her shoes off while undoing the bun and letting her long, black hair cascade down over her shoulders. Leaning her shoulders on the arm of the couch, she arched her back to try to crack some of the tension out of it, "Long," she answered, "Today was long. I feel like I walked a thousand miles."

Before Nuria could protest, Pearl had pulled her feet into her own lap and begun rubbing them. Nuria would have argued, but the younger woman's deceptively powerful thumbs knew just where to dig and how hard. Nuria had always been weak in the face of physical pleasure. Instead, she let out an appreciative sigh and let Pearl work her magic. The only problem with Pearl's foot rubs was that they put her in mind of Pedro doing the same thing and thoughts of Pedro always brought on a sense of melancholy.

She didn't fight it this time. Running into Quentin had put her on such a high that a little nostalgia couldn't hurt her.

"Take off your hose," said Pearl reasonably, "I don't want to risk putting a run in them."

"My feet stink," protested Nuria.

"Then I will annoint them with sweet-smelling unguents," said Pearl, giggling.

Nuria tried again, "I'm not wearing anything underneath them."

"Afraid I'll peek?" asked Pearl.

"No," answered Nuria, "It's just..."

"Ha," said Pearl, "shows what you know. Get em off."

Nuria knew that her roommates delighted in shocking her. They often teased her by referring to her as the House Matron. They really weren't half as wild as they pretended to be when she was around. She was determined not to let them get her as flustered as they used to.

"Okay," Nuria agreed, standing so that she could maintain a little bit of decorum, "but you'd better get those unguents."

Whatever unguent Pearl retrieved smelled of lilacs and felt like olive oil. The sensation was so pleasant that Nuria soon found herself dozing off. When she jerked awake the second time, she looked at the clock in alarm.

"Relax," said Pearl, whose hands had moved up to Nuria's calves and were rubbing them slowly, "You've had a long day and could use the rest."

Nuria chuckled, "The day's not over yet. I ran into a former student of mine. I'm meeting him for dinner."

"Ooh," squealed Pearl, reminding Nuria of just how young she was, "a date. Why didn't you say so sooner?"

"It's not a date," protested Nuria, "I told you. It's one of my eighth grade students. Actually, it's two of my eighth grade students."

"Ooh," repeated Pearl in a more subdued tone, "Two young bucks. I'm impressed. Miss Delgado, I'm impressed. Here Carla and I thought you were settling into spinsterhood and..."

"I am settling into spinsterhood," Nuria assured her, "These are just some students of mine who want to catch up with a teacher whose class they enjoyed."

"Mmm hmm," said Pearl, "And how old are these eighth graders of yours now?"

"Twenty-three or twenty-four, I guess," said Nuria doing the math.

"Cool," said Pearl, "Are they cute?"

"They were when they were in my class," answered Nuria, "But probably not the sort of cute you have in mind. I haven't seen one of them since then. The other, I only ran into today for the first time in seven years. It turns out he's J. X. Wolffe."

Pearl dropped Nuria's legs to the couch, "You're shitting me?"

"I would never," Nuria assured her.

"Carla," Pearl shrieked, "Get in here."

Carla appeared from her bedroom, wearing a thick terrycloth robe, "What's wrong?"

"Miss Delgado's got a date with J. X. Wolffe tonight," said Pearl.

"You're shitting me," opined Carla.

"We're not," said Pearl, "She taught him English in the eighth grade."

"Oh, my God," said Carla, "I love his stuff. I can really relate to Princess Elena. Can you get him to sign my copy of _Chicago Rising_?"

"Do not be giving her your book," said Pearl, "She's going to be too busy macking to be getting stuff signed." Both younger girls squealed.

"I will not be macking," said Nuria, "He's much too young for me. Besides, he used to be one of my students. I'd feel like a child molester."

"Oh, my God," said Carla again, "Bring him home, then. I love his movies and he's got to be loaded, besides."

Nuria had never seen her roommates act like this. They were usually so cool and collected. Now, they seemed like a couple of fourteen year-old girls drooling over Tiger Beat.

"Yeah," said Pearl, "If you don't want him, bring him here. Carla and I will show him a real good time."

"Who said I was sharing, bitch?" Carla said, joking.

"You'd better share," said Pearl, "I'd hate to have to take him away from your scrawny ass."

"Girls," said Nuria, knowing they were joking, but getting nervous nonetheless, "He's probably married or at least seeing somebody. It's really nothing like that."

"Nope," said Carla, "He was seeing that actress--Anne Turing, the old chick who played Queen Rayeth in _Defender of the Imperium_, but they just broke up."

"So, he's into old chicks," said Carla, "You got a chance, Miss D. What time is this date?"

"I'm meeting him at 7:30," Nuria began.

"Get in the shower," said Carla, "You got to get ready."

Nuria knew that Carla was playing with her at least a little. She only spoke, as she referred to it, like a "gangsta bitch," when she was out with people who would look at her strangely for speaking correctly or when she was messing with Nuria's head. Still, what the two of them had said had put her in such a tizzy that she couldn't think straight. She did as she had been told, going to her room to strip out of her interview clothes and get into her flannel robe, then cross the apartment to the bathroom. The greatest shortfall the apartment had was a single bathroom and only two real bedrooms. Nuria's room had originally been an office, which suited her fine since it meant that it had a ton of shelf space for all... or at least most of her books.

Nuria was just sliding out of her robe again when Carla called, "Oh, I almost forgot. You got a call from one of the Barnes and Noble's today. He said you should call back as soon as you can. It's on the message pad in my room."

Muttering to herself, Nuria pulled her robe back on and went into Carla's bedroom. Carla's decoration of choice seemed to be transparent handkerchiefs in varying colors. The air was heavy with sandalwood incense, mostly covering the strong smell that Nuria could now easily identify as marijuana smoke. Both girls smoked some, but little enough that even Nuria's mother-hen instincts had been mostly assuaged.

Nuria dialed the number on the pad. She got one of the managers she'd interviewed with earlier in the week. She knew the one. In an oddly melancholy and needy mood, Nuria had flirted with him far more heavily than she had meant to. He offered her the job she'd applied for and arranged for her to start Monday.

Nuria couldn't contain herself. Once off the phone, she gave a whoop of delight and danced into the living room where she grabbed hold of a puzzled-looking Pearl, now in panties and tank top and began to dance around with her, leading her in a waltz.

"What's going on?" asked Carla, "You win the lottery?"

"No," said Nuria, "I got a job."

"Good for you," said Carla, "Now, get in the shower. You get yourself a man, the day will be complete."

The phone rang. Nuria looked at it with dread. They'd made a mistake. They'd meant to hire someone else. They were calling back to cancel.

Pearl detached herself, "I'll get it," she said.

"No," said Nuria, "it's okay. I'll get it."

She picked up the phone, "Hello."

"Hello," said a brisk voice on the other end of the line, "Am I speaking to Nuria Delgado?"

"Yes," said Nuria, "How can I help you?"

"Miss Delgado?" the voice said, "This is Kate Bakersfield with Aqueduct Books. Do you have a moment?"

"Yes," said Nuria.

"I was just reviewing our pool of applicants and, if you are interested, I would like to extend you an offer of employment."

"I'm sorry," said Nuria, "I just accepted another job not five minutes ago."

"Have you signed anything yet?" the other woman asked her anxiously, "I'm sure we could enter a competetive offer."

Nuria furrowed her brow. What in the hell was this woman talking about? Some bookstore managers took themselves much too seriously. Still, it couldn't hurt to listen, "All right," she said, "What do you have to offer?"

"A junior editorship," said Kate Bakersfield, "If I offered you more than seventy thousand, the senior editors would have my head. But you wouldn't stay junior for long and, on top of that, I can offer you a half point on everything you get out the door."

"A half point?" Nuria asked, almost too astounded to speak.

"That's gross, of course," said Kate Bakersfield. When she got no answer, she went on, "All right--a full point if you can get galley proofs on my desk in time for Christmas. That gives you almost six months. Even at a million units hardcover, that's over a hundred thousand dollars."

Nuria suddenly realized where she'd heard the name Aqueduct Books. It wasn't a bookstore. It was a publisher--one she'd applied to more than six months ago. Why had they called her now? Realizing that Kate Bakersfield was waiting for an answer, she stalled, "You were going over resumes?"

"Yes," said Kate Bakersfield, "Well, I was doing so at the behest of a very high-profile client who mentioned an interest in working with you. He was under the impression that you worked here. He wants to work with you. We want to work with him. So, the question is, can I call him back and tell him that you work here?"

"Who?" Nuria asked dumbly.

"J. X. Wolffe," said Kate Bakersfield, "He said he wanted to work with you. So, can he?"

"Um, yes," Nuria managed to mutter.

"Great," said Kate Bakersfield, "Can you come in tomorrow to fill out some paperwork?"

"Yes, of course," said Nuria, searching for a pen, "Where are your offices?"

"We'll send a car," said Kate Bakersfield, "Where are you?"

Nuria told her. They covered a few more details and exchanged pleasantries. When Nuria hung up, she fell on the couch, more or less in a sitting position. She realized then that her roommates had been standing more or less in tableau since she had picked up the phone.