“Raymond is out with the flu and won’t be able to review this in time,” he said. “It’s not due to release for another three months, but he apparently stalked the publisher, insisting that we get a copy. You mind doing a short write up?”
The question was rhetorical. He walked away shortly after asking.
I stared at the book for an hour before flipping open its dust jacket, wanting to believe that her cover was only an homage to mine. That maybe, just maybe, there were only so many photos of planes worthy of being on the cover of a mass printed book.
I started reading chapter one and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up.
This was my fucking book. This was my fucking story.
Every word from my novel had been lifted and repurposed, masked under a more refined and rigid prose. Yet still, the blatant plagiarism shone through the ink.
I flipped through the entire book, recognizing sentence structures and words I’d already written months before. As tears of anger fell down my face, I forced myself to actually read every word of the article in The Times, to see if she would, at the very least, credit me for her stolen work.
“I have a friend who works in the airline industry,” she was quoted two paragraphs in. “I managed to snag a short two-month stint as a flight attendant and I’m excited to share this story with my readers.”
When asked for the inspiration behind her story, she said, “Well, I’ve always wanted to write what I would enjoy reading. I was on a plane one day and I saw this flight attendant who looked like she had a story to tell. All of a sudden, I wanted to be in her shoes, know about her life, so I took that moment and decided to craft something semi fictional, but very meta-world.”
At the bottom of the interview, there were a few lightning-round questions. One in particular stood out: “Did you read any books about flight attendants, aviation, or pilots while working on your novel?’
“Not at all,” she’d answered. “I’ve actually never read any book regarding the airline industry. I crafted the story first and then I consulted a few experts for technicalities. I try my best to never, ever, read any other author’s work while I write.”
Her lies cut deep, but the bolded line at the bottom of the article struck me the hardest: “For inquiries and further information about The Mile High Club Unveiled, contact the author’s agent: Kennedy B.”
I’d never known heartbreak before that moment, never knew what it felt like to feel as if my heart had been yanked from my chest and stomped on repeatedly. I tried not to cry too loudly, but the thought of holding back tears only made me cry more.
Not only did Brooke’s book come out a full three months before mine, it shot up the bestsellers’ charts. And it stayed there. For weeks. Her book was on the tip of every reputable critic’s tongue, and publishers were clamoring for more stories ‘just like it.’ However, when my book finally debuted, it was cruelly dismissed as a “knock off,” and the critics labeled it as “Nowhere near as good as its predecessor,” and “For a debut, Ms. G. should know better than to so obviously copy her superior.”
I never opened a single envelope from my publisher after that. I tossed them all to the side in various corners of my apartment—keeping them as close and distant reminders of a tarnished dream. I stopped answering Kennedy’s phone calls and emails—the few that came anyway, and as much as it hurt me financially, I returned my twenty-five thousand-dollar advance for the sequel to the publisher.
I was too hurt to write anything else for them again.
What I did write was my first official column for The Times: “How It Feels When a Bitch-Ass Bestselling Author Steals from a Debut Author and How My Agent—Kennedy B. of Bronson and E. Literary Asshole Associates Backstabbed the Shit Out of Me.” I wasn’t classy or careful about it at all. I listed names, dates, and gave dead proof that almost every word in her book was a variation of mine.
Since I was on amazing terms with the logistics team, and never had any prior problems, the article made it all the way to the layout department before my slander was detected.
The next time I came into work, I was fired. Then banned.
Then erased, as if I’d never worked there.
The same month I lost my dream-internship at The New York Times, I received an email from Elite Airways. I’d passed the final round of pre-screening but it would take a while before they would be able to fly me to Dallas for the full eight-week training session. And even then, they admitted that their newly hired attendants could remain on reserve from anywhere for four months to four years.
I still had my part time job as a gate agent—which I had to keep, and there was a massive condominium complex I’d once done an exclusive exposé about. It was a beautiful, state-of-the-art building, full of million dollar homes, and from what I remembered in my report, it had a very high demand for “domestic engineers” and hired a new one every week.
Desperate, I figured I’d give that job a temporary try. And above all else, I would stop writing for a while.
I had to.
I met Kennedy at Andrew’s Coffee on Fifth Avenue, spotted her as soon as I stepped inside.
A beautiful Asian woman with long black hair, she still looked as friendly and approachable as she did when I first met her years ago.
“Hey,” she said, smiling as I sat across from her. “Do you still take hazelnut and Splenda in your coffee?”
“You actually remember something about me?” I rolled my eyes. “Shocking.”
“So, you don’t take that anymore?”
I stared at her.
She pushed a cup of coffee toward me and smiled again. “How have you been? It’s been a long time since we last spoke. I’m actually surprised you answered my phone call.”
“No shit.”
“Um…” She sipped her tea, having the audacity to look confused. “Did I catch you on a bad day? Is something wrong?”
“Yes.” I gritted my teeth. “Yes, you did catch me on a bad day and yes, something is wrong—something is very wrong.”
“Would you like to meet me some other day, then?”
“I don’t want to meet you after today at all.” I tried to hold back and stay calm, but I couldn’t. “You are the worst fucking literary agent ever,” I said. “The fact that you still have my number is appalling and I hope the reason you’re here is because you’ve lost every client you’ve ever had.”
“I haven’t.”
“Well, that sucks for them.” I crossed my arms. “Have you changed your process about signing new people now or is it the same? Lure them in with a debut book they didn’t write, slap their name on it, and voila! Instant fame and undeserved success.”
She sighed. “I had no idea that Brooke was going to be influenced by your book, Gillian.”
“Influenced? Influenced? Oh, now that’s grand. Is that what they’re calling plagiarism these days?”
“I’ve apologized to you, countless times.” She looked sincere. “I had no idea, and when I found out—”
“You didn’t even tell me!”
The café was suddenly silent and everyone was staring at me, but I didn’t care.