Wish You Were Her(81)

“Hey, man. Sorry to call early, it’s Charlie Matuschek, from Matuschek Press.”

“Oh, yes, hi,” Jonah said, fixing his bed hair even though the man on the other end of the line couldn’t see him. “Thank you for calling.”

“That’s okay.” Jonah could tell that the man was occupied with something else while on the phone, but not completely distracted. “You wouldn’t happen to be free for an interview today? We can do online, if it’s too far from where—”

“That would be great. I’m in the city, so in person is fine.”

“Ah, excellent. Cool. Um, we’re on Upper Oak Street and—”

“I know where. By the movie house with the ancient coffee machine.”

“Noon too soon?”

“Not at all.”

“Great. Easy! See you there then, Jonah, thank you for being so flexible.”

Jonah had to smile. It was not a word often used about him. He slipped back into Allegra’s bedroom, ready to ask her what she wanted for breakfast. He found her getting dressed in her walk-in wardrobe. She was wearing pink satin trousers and a soft pink jumper and she looked marginally healthier than the day before.

“I can’t face a bra just yet,” she told him conspiratorially and he blushed.

“I’ve got a job interview. At noon.”

His whole body filled with heat as she stared up at him in complete delight. “Jonah, that’s fantastic! Where?”

“A small press downtown. They’re great.”

“What about Dad? What will he do without you?”

She said it teasingly and Jonah still did not have the heart to reveal what had happened.

“I want to bring you breakfast,” he said instead.

“I’m fine.”

“Properly fine or autistic-won’t-realize-she-needs-to-eat-until-much-later fine?”

She laughed heartily at that. “First one.”

“Okay.”

“It’s after ten, you should go. If it’s at noon.”

Yet neither of them moved. Jonah stared at this cosmic person who, as it turned out, was so much more like him than he could have known. Her mask had been so impenetrable, he had never suspected.

He could imagine the cost of it. The weight of it. Maybe they were both too afraid to say how they felt because they had been communicating with neurotypicals for too long, and become protective of their hearts in a way that only the outcasts do.



* * *



“Eighteen! You’re only eighteen! I thought by your cover letter you were an old man!”

Jonah sat across from Charlie Matuschek and tried to find the right response. “The resumé didn’t tip you off?”

“Well, if I’m honest, I’ve interviewed nine people fresh out of graduate school and their resumés are nicely padded, but I’m not sure they’ve ever read a book published after the Hindenburg.”

“Ah.”

“You know the type?”

“I like the classics.”

“Sure, but you’re not allergic to the Women’s Prize or the Newbery?”

“No, but shortlists can be very dry and trauma-dependent. I’ve recently found my impatience for people who overlook genre fiction and commercial writing.”

“Not exactly what we publish.”

“Right,” Jonah acknowledged, unbothered. “But maybe you should.”

The publisher who owned the small press was in his forties. He wore corduroy trousers and old t-shirts. His teeth were slightly yellow, possibly due to a coffee habit. He was drinking from the largest mug Jonah had ever seen. His hair was thinning but a nice color. He was affable but clearly looking for someone to engage the parts of his intellect that had become as comfy and soft as him.

“I love your poetry anthologies,” Jonah said honestly. “And the essay collections. But you should publish more women and marginalized writers. The literary writing you promote is all a bit … samey.”

This was met with stunned silence.

“I’m autistic,” Jonah said, feeling emboldened by Allegra’s earlier courage. “Your job description said someone who isn’t afraid to say what they think and push the envelope when it comes to editorial direction. Now, if that’s neurotypical code and you actually just want someone to boil a kettle, file things and take minutes, fine. But that’s what I think. And your relationship with bookshops is pretty legendary. But you have to engage with the internet, too.”

Jonah forced himself to make eye contact with the publisher, who was regarding him with an unreadable expression.

“Are you a writer?” Charlie Matuschek eventually asked.

“I,” Jonah hesitated and then decided to be brave. Like Allegra. “Yes, I am.”

The interview continued for an hour. When Jonah was finally allowed to leave, there were two other candidates sitting in the main part of the Matuschek Bookshop, where the press also had their offices. Both interviewees looked disgruntled at having to wait and, as Jonah walked back to Allegra’s building, he felt the timid glow of certainty, the kind one felt after acing a test or excelling in front of a group of strangers.

And no one had brought up the pictures.

It had gone well. He had experienced enough occasions where things had not gone well in his life. That was how he knew the difference.