Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
We go around to all the tables, pinning ribbons to tablecloths. And when we get to Cynthia Lear’s table, I hold my breath as Mom shuffles through the basket. She grins, then hands it to me. “You pin this one.”
Her rosette reads: ‘Best Up-and-Coming Superstar.’
And I happily pin that ribbon to Cordelia’s table.
It takes a good long while to pass out all the ribbons and by the time we’re done, it’s nearly nine-thirty. Time to get ready for the last signing session.
I kiss Mom on the cheek and send her off with Dad, feeling good about this morning. But we cannot end the author breakfast until I make my own little awards presentation.
I go back to the staging room and open a box with a pink velvet bag inside, grab it, and then make my way through the catering door and into the break room.
The room of maids stand and clap when I enter. “Oh, ladies! Please.” I beg them to sit down. “I’m late. You should be booing me!”
“Mr. Steve,” Rosa says—she’s the head maid on the convention level. “We could never boo you. You make us smile with your books.”
“Oh. I can boo him for something, Rosa.” This comes from Margarita. “This year, we have nothing for you to sign, Mr. Steve. Because you publish no books this past year!”
“I know.” I cringe. They have always known it was me. The first two years they just gave me knowing side-eyes or eyebrow waggles when I handed them their thank-you envelopes from the pink velvet bag. One cannot throw a gala the night before an author-narrator-assistant breakfast the next morning without a gargantuan number of elves making the party disappear and getting things ready for a gargantuan amount of food.
The maids on the convention level are my elves. They make everything run smoothly.
Anyway. The third year when I came in to give them their bonuses for pulling an all-nighter, they had stacks of books in the breakroom.
My books.
And they wanted me to sign them.
No one said anything about SS. And I signed them all Steve Smith.
And every year since then, they’ve brought books for me to sign.
“Oh, Margarita,” Carmen says. “You’re mean. And you’re wrong! Steve wrote”—and she pulls a book out from behind her back—“this.”
I smile. Then laugh. Because it’s Alien Ascension. Book three of my terrible, no-good, piece-of-shit sci-fi series. Which actually did release this past year.
And then everyone brings a hand out from behind their backs.
In every hand is that same book.
A book with my real name on it.
I sign them all right there in the break room, sitting at an old plastic table with no banner, or tablecloth, or swag to give out. And I tuck their bonus envelopes into the pages before I hand it back.
By the time I’m done, it’s nearly eleven and I’ve already missed an hour of the signing.
But I don’t care.
I think… I think signing those books for the maids might be the highlight of my entire career.
They all blow me kisses as I head out and promise to see me next year.
When I get back out to the floor, the place is wall-to-wall packed. And I notice that the catering door smacks Leslie’s table when it opens.
I peek around the door, ready for the wrath of Raylen, but… she’s not there.
“Huh.” She must be in the bathroom. I figure I’ll do her a favor and move her table over so that door won’t drive her crazy. There’s not really enough room. The tables along this wall are kinda packed together.
But I am Steve. So I clap my hands, use my Tank voice, and says, “Authors. Can I bother you to move your tables down a foot? Because Raylen Star’s table is too close to the door. Can we do that, please?”
Before I’m even done speaking, a hundred people—authors and assistants, readers and listeners, narrators and models—are all moving the tables.
Literally two minutes later, the problem is solved.
I move Leslie’s table myself.
Then I sigh, and make my way through the signing, walking up and down the aisles saying hello. And after I’ve gone by every table so I can joke with everyone about their rosette ribbon, I end up at Essie’s table.
I haven’t spent much time with her. But she doesn’t need my help. She is generous, and happy, and laughing, and she makes time for every single person in the line. She will sign any book you put in front of her, no limit. And even if someone is only coming for her to sign an autograph book, she makes sure they leave that table with something from her secret swag bag.
A free water bottle with our logo on it.
A pair of fuzzy socks with Master Choke’s hands wrapped around the ankle.
A tea towel with Sugar’s face on it.
Or even a free book. But sometimes, those readers don’t want paper books. No place to put them. That’s why we have the secret swag box.