Free Blind Submission by Debra Ginsberg

best person for this book. And she tells me that we will be working together, you and I. You are going to make some changes for me?”
    â€œYes, we talked about that. Of course, I’ll just make suggestions and then whatever seems right to you…”
    â€œ
Bène.
Luciana gave me your phone number at home, but I think maybe we could meet at some point?”
    Luciana? My home phone number? “Sure, that would be great. I can call you….”
    â€œ
Bène.
I look forward to it.
Mille grazie,
Angel. Good-bye for now.”
    Before I could replace the phone in its cradle, my computer chirped with the sound of an instant message. I looked over at the rectangle of blue text and saw that the initials of the sender were AA. Anna.
    Did she tell you about St. Lucy?
the message read.
    Did who tell me?
I wrote back. I looked over at Anna. She was bent over her desk, looking very busy, clacking away at her keyboard. My computer sounded off again with another message:
    LF. She likes to tell the new staff how St. Lucy is one of the patron saints of writers. They tried to burn St. Lucy but she was flame-proof. They had to stab her in the throat to kill her. She was Italian.
    No, she didn’t tell me,
I wrote back.
    I just thought it might help you with that Italian author,
Anna responded.
    I briefly entertained the notion that Anna might be insane and was debating a possible response to her last message (“thank you” just didn’t seem appropriate) when Nora approached me with a large plastic tub full to the top with manuscripts and query letters.
    â€œLucy wants you to sort this,” she said. “It’s usually my job, but she wants you to get familiar with the submissions.”
    â€œThese are just today’s submissions?”
    â€œIt’s not bad, really,” Nora sniffed. “There are only about fifty today. Sometimes we get close to a hundred.” She smiled. It was an expression that looked both awkward and foreign on her face. “Have fun,” she said.

    ANNA DROPPED A MANUSCRIPT on my desk, where it landed with a plop and a rush of air. “This is my reading for last night. It’s a reject, but you should look it over. Lucy likes to get second opinions. I’m outta here, so I guess your training’s done for the day. You can probably go now, too.” I looked down at the manuscript and then up at the clock, subtracting three hours. It was six o’clock and my eyes were stinging. A hunger headache throbbed at the back of my head. Nora was gone. I could hear Craig’s voice sounding from behind Lucy’s door.
    â€œYes,” I said, and gathered my purse,
Parco Lambro
notes, and several manuscripts to review, including the one that Anna had just dropped on me. “I have to eat something. I think I’m going to pass out.” But I was talking to an empty room. Anna was out the door before I could finish my sentence. She had also left me without explaining what, if anything, I was supposed to do to close up or finish out the day. With a sudden rush of resentment, I realized that everything I had learned over the course of my extraordinarily long first day, I’d figured out for myself—in spite of, not because of, Anna’s so-called “training.” I tried to formulate a plan for how I would approach Anna, Nora, and even Craig in the coming days to elicit a little more help, but my brain was too hungry and tired to give shape to a single thought.
    I stood up to leave, but a low-blood-sugar head rush kept me from moving until I could steady myself. The phone rang, loud in the now-silent office, cutting through my dizziness.
Answer it. Don’t answer it.
If only I’d left a half minute earlier.
    â€œHello, Lucy Fiamma Agency.”
    There was static coming through the receiver and then a small voice speaking, it sounded like, from far away. “Ah, ook.”
    â€œHello? Can I help you?