Quill Driver

The feathers always made dining out difficult, Gemma thought sadly as she tried to tuck the fluffy down feathers that grew out of her wrists into the sleeves of her formal gown. Nobody ever said anything of course, but they didn’t have to; does anybody want to find a loose feather in their soup or on their steak, even if it’s a friend’s feather? Especially if it’s a friend’s feather.

She patted her hair to delay going back out, not because she thought it needed fixed. Keeping her blonde hair in short, blustery style helped disguise the patch of blue feathers that grew out of the side of her head like a bizarre riff on a Native American headdress. But nothing could hide the feathers that ran down her face from her cheekbone all the way to her collarbone. She always thought she ought to be able to handle the stares; she was forty-three for heaven’s sake, but formal events always turned her into a stammering, self-conscious mess. She tucked the final feather into her sleeves again, but as she turned to go the door swung open and a young woman cannoned into the bathroom like she’d been propelled by explosion.

“Oh! I’m sorry!” She said, reaching out to grab Gemma as if her entrance might have knocked Gemma off her feet. She put her hands on Gemma’s shoulders—nobody touched Gemma—and froze, her mouth in a perfect, ridiculous red-lipsticked “O”.

For one horrible moment Gemma assumed she’d felt the feathers under her sleeve and was about to be disgusted, but instead the woman said, “You’re Gemma Blank! Ohmygosh, ohmygosh, ohmygosh, I’ve read everything you ever wrote! Besides Dan Torres—who is just so awesome—you were exactly the writer I was hoping to meet tonight! You have to be the smartest person I’ve ever known! Oh, oh, say something clever!”

This was infinitely worse than being called a monster. Gemma’s mouth went dry. “I-um, I don’t really…”

The red O of the woman’s mouth arced downward in still more openmouthed, exaggerated dismay. “Aww, don’t tell me you’re one of those no-fun people who don’t ever have something to say for themselves in person! That’s soo depressing; you just can’t disappoint me like that.”

“Um, sorry…” Gemma said, ducking her head, sidestepping the woman and hurrying out of the bathroom. Out in the banquet hall she found a waiter carrying a tray full of the little quiche things she liked, a glass of wine, and went to stand by a large plant where she could safely eat her quiche and reflect on all the really clever and nasty things she could have said.

These pleasant thoughts carried her successfully past the mingling-and-light-refreshments part of the dinner to the actual sitting down part. Gemma went towards the table queasy and with clammy hands; there would be no escaping if she landed next to someone like Bathroom Girl. She tried not to make eye contact with anybody, but she couldn’t avoid seeing the man sitting directly beside her.

Her uneasiness turned into pure butterflies.

It was Dan Torres. Dan Torres. It was his collection of short stories, The Sky-flung Prophet, that had convinced painfully shy, teenaged Gemma to begin putting down her thoughts on paper. His later work on writing: The BIC (Butt In Chair) Command had inspired her so much she’d ventured to send some of her own work for publication.

She sat down. She tucked her skirt in under her thighs. She took her silverware out of her napkin, sat it by her plate, picked up her glass, realized it wasn’t filled, sat it back down again, and peeked at him carefully from under her bangs.

He was tall, in his mid-sixties, but retaining his penetrating trademark stare and his massive eyebrows, half quirked in sardonic amusement. His was one of those male faces that seem to remain attractive into old age despite—or somehow because of—their ugliness. He was talking to a nondescript man a decade or so younger than him sitting across the table—perhaps he wasn’t nondescript, but she couldn’t really be aware of anybody but Dan Torres. Should she say something? Would it sound too fan-girly to mention she’d read everything he’d ever written? Had he ever heard of her?

The nondescript man beside him said, “Oh, are you Gemma Blank?” She nodded, trying to look normal and not dazed or distracted.

“It’s great to meet you, I’ve loved your work. I’m an editor with Writer and Reader’s Quarterly.”

“Oh, thank you!” Gemma said and smiled but was inwardly reeling over the fact that Torres’ had looked over at her sharply when the editor said her name. Had he read her work? Gathering up her courage, she turned to him and said, “Aren’t you Dan Torres? I’ve—I’ve read you. Um, everything.”

The great man, her idol, just surveyed her in silence for a beat too long for comfort. And then he said, his voice a mellow rumble: “Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Blank. I hear you’re the country’s cleverest feathered author, hm?”

Gemma felt her face redden. “No…um…probably not…but…um, thanks…”

“No? Well with with a comeback like that I’d have to agree with you. Come on, live up to your reputation. Say something clever for us. Or maybe fly a few circuits around the room and prove those feathers aren’t just a marketing ploy.”

An overpowering white noise seemed to drown out most of Gemma’s thoughts. If only she could think of the clever comebacks she’d thought up for Bathroom Girl. She pulled her napkin into her lap and twisted her hands into it tightly. He was still talking.

“No, no, it’s a good idea, I’ll give you that. Not many people are willing to commit to a physical deformity as a gimmick, but it takes guts. It’s good salesmanship. Doesn’t really make you a great writer, but still, it’s an angle.”

“I—I don’t, it’s not—”

He threw back his head and laughed. “Good grief woman, can you even speak at all?”

The nondescript man suddenly cut him off. “Funny thing—see, Gemma, I picked your essay “Sunshine Wheelhouse” up off the slush pile a couple years ago, and you hadn’t even included a feather! It was almost as if you impressed me by your writing instead of a gimmick.”

Gemma looked up and met his eyes, and had the sudden relief of realizing that here, somehow, miraculously, in the moment of her misery, was a friend. A stranger, but a friend.

Dan Torres rolled his eyes. “Come on, Nate, are you rescuing her? She can learn to take a joke.”

Nate ignored him and leaned across the table conspiratorially so that Gemma sat forward to hear him.

“What would you say if I told you this incomparable writer was just told, not ten minutes ago, that he was ‘Really insightful and deep; like Gemma Blank, but not as clever.’?”

Gemma blushed, pleased. “They—they said that? Really?”

“To his face.” Nate’s eyes met hers with a gleam of mischief in them. Dan Torres was muttering something in a grumpy bass, but Gemma shakily smiled back at Nate.

“Sounds traumatic.”

“Terribly.” Nate said solemnly. “See, I’ll let you in on another little secret; Mr. Torres is so insecure about his writing that if he thinks another author might be as good as he is he spends time on goodreads anonymously writing nasty reviews of people’s books. Just so you know if your ratings tank in the next few days. It’s just a spoiled jerk with a bruised ego.”

Dan Torres nearly stood, knocking his chair backwards, and snarled at Nate. “You keep your pie hole shut, you—”

Nate leaned back and crossed his arms. “I don’t want to hear it, Dan. I have put up with your crap long enough, and bullying a fine writer—”

Gemma noticed something familiar and red in her peripheral vision. It was Bathroom Girl, who had buttonholed the editor of Slate magazine and was punctuating her conversation with exclamations and giggly shrieks. Pausing only for an inward reflection on how incredibly strange some people are, Gemma stood up and walked over to her.

The editor of Slate cast her a grateful glance and shot off as Bathroom Girl put her laser attention on Gemma. “Ooh I’m so glad you came back! I didn’t get your autograph—”

Gemma gently took the young woman’s elbow and turned her to face where Dan Torres was out of his chair, snarling across the table at Nate. Bathroom Girl’s eyebrows went up to her hairline and her mouth made the same excited red “O” as it had before. Gemma murmured, “But why get mine if you could get his?” And gave her a gentle push.

Bathroom Girl descended on Torres with fluttering hands and excited squeaks. Nate looked over at Gemma, his eyebrows raised in amusement. She grinned at him and turned to go. She really didn’t like dinner parties; she’d go home and have a cup of tea. Maybe she’d write about heroes and expectations, and friends found in unexpected places.

From his seat, Nate watched her go. A few feet away Torres was enduring the onslaught of an overenthusiastic fan; flattered but increasingly irritated as she talked too fast to let him say anything. He’s so brilliant, so clever, and yet so bound by praise, thought Nate, still watching Gemma’s retreating back. Sure, of the two writers, Dan Torres would probably always be more popular at dinner parties, more driven to perform and impress. But in the end, which of them was happier?