A Special Place for Women, Laura Hankin [brene brown rising strong .txt] 📗

just need to walk the length of her messy childhood bedroom. If you can, without breaking your ankle.’” He turned back to his examination, pausing at a picture I’d hung up on my wall, the black-and-white portrait of my mother from her college yearbook. She was wearing a collared shirt, her dark hair blown out in the Farrah Fawcett style that people went nuts over at the time, her chest tilted away from the camera but her face looking at the photographer with a proud, almost defiant stare. I always imagined that he’d just called her something like “little lady” or “sweetheart”: Now turn your head this way, sweetheart! And she’d turn her head, but she was not going to do it sweetly, because she had worked her ass off and now she was graduating cum laude, dammit.

I’d actually hung it up there when we were still hopeful that a treatment would work. She’d give cancer the same kind of defiant stare she was giving in the photograph. Cancer would take a step back, say Sorry, ma’am, wrong person, and slink off to find some other target. This picture was supposed to be a triumphant talisman. It had turned into a memorial.

“Your mother?” Miles asked, and I nodded. “Huh. She was beautiful. I also think that she could have kicked my ass.”

“Probably,” I said, and sat down on the bed. He sat on my desk chair, which let out a little squeak as it absorbed the solidness of him. “Okay, so what do you think about the story?”

“It’s very promising so far,” Miles said. “And I trust you. But obviously, there’s the matter of journalistic integrity. Fact-checking, and all of that. Can you get me some proof?”

“Yeah, of course. They keep taking my phone away from me. But if what that woman wrote in the mirror means what I think it does, I’m getting an official offer of membership the next time I go. Then I imagine that they’ll stop with the whole confiscation routine, so I can sneak you some pictures or a video. Not to mention the address of the clubhouse.”

“Perfect,” he said.

I bit my lip, steeling myself. “Two bits of potentially bad news. This other new member I met said that the membership dues are five hundred dollars a month and I don’t . . . I don’t just have that lying around. I mean, I can get it eventually—I can pick up extra shifts, but if they need it this week . . . Does the Standard ever give advances?”

“They don’t,” he said. “At least not to unproven writers.”

“Ah,” I said. “Okay, I’ll figure something out. Maybe I can put it on my credit card—”

“Beckley,” he said. “I’ll cover you.”

My heart thumped. “Really?”

“Yeah, I can swing it for the first month.”

“That’s . . . Are you sure?” Was this acceptable journalistic practice? And even if it was, was it a good idea?

“I am,” he said. “I know I was hard on you at first, when you were pitching me. But then, as I’ve been getting excited about this piece . . .” His lips turned up in that crooked smile I liked so much. “I started thinking about that union piece you wrote, back when you were new at Quill.” I nodded. I’d spent months delving into the unionization efforts at a local fast-food chain. Miles had given me incredible feedback every step of the way, pushing me further. I was proud of that piece, elated at what it might do. Then, with it all set to publish, Quill’s billionaire owner had gotten wind of it and killed it. Turned out that the chain’s owner was a good friend of his. He owed him a favor.

“That was a damn good piece—I still remember some of those lines—and I didn’t fight hard enough for it,” Miles said. “So now, I’m not going to let you get screwed over because of five hundred bucks. I’ve got you.”

“Thanks,” I said, trying not to blush from the fact that, years later, he hadn’t forgotten something I’d written. “The other issue, though . . . That same member said something about a nondisparagement clause in the contract.”

“Ah,” Miles said, and frowned. “That complicates things.” He rubbed his chin, leaning back in my desk chair, putting one leg up across the other. His trousers rode up, exposing his ankle, the light brown leg hair escaping from the top of his red sock. He thought for a moment, then sat forward again. “Okay. Look, you’ve got a good story already. Obviously I want to know about Nicole Woo-Martin, but plenty of other people will be satisfied with what you’ve learned so far. You’ve been inside the belly of the beast. It seems like you’ve got a thesis, that it’s an unholy, elitist union of corporate interest and pseudoscience. We can get you a small camera to sneak in with you this next time you go so you can grab a picture or two even if they take your phone again. Maybe ask for a moment alone with the contract and get a clear shot of that. And then tell them that you’re uncomfortable with the terms and get out of there. With your writing talent, you can still get an interesting article out of what you have right now.”

“Fuck no, are you kidding me?” I sprang to my feet and began pacing the narrow room. “You think I’m going to get this far and then give up? Who knows how things change once you’re a member? There must be so much that they keep from you when you’re there on a trial basis!” Miles started to say something but I cut him off, so he folded his arms and watched me, an expression that looked like amusement creeping across his face. “I’m only just starting to scratch the surface with these women. There’s this mysterious door that I’ve never seen anyone go into or out of, but that I catch Margot and some of the others staring at all the time, and I think that might have something