Good for You: A Novel
Camille Pagán
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This novel includes grief over the loss of a sibling. It also briefly describes child abuse from an adult survivor’s perspective. As a person who doesn’t like reading graphic or extended depictions of abuse, I was careful to mention it only where I felt it was absolutely necessary. However, I believe books that include abuse as but one aspect of a character’s life can help remind survivors that they’re not alone, and that nothing’s wrong with them. And in my experience, that can make all the difference.
For Laurel Lambert, my lifeline
ONE
Sometimes it takes such a terrible amount of effort to be normal.
After thirty-four years of practice, Aly Jackson nearly had it down to a science. But as her boss frowned at her, she had to remind herself to plaster on a smile. Yes, he’d just announced that he was going to have to cut her staff’s already-anemic pay. But her can-do spirit was why she’d been named the youngest editor in chief in the history of All Good. And she had no intention of making James Fox, the magazine’s publisher and the owner of Innovate Publishing, think he’d made a mistake in hiring her.
“Well, kiddo,” he said from one of the identical leather sofas they were seated at. He furrowed his brow. “I know this isn’t ideal.”
Aly was roughly the same height as a sixth grader—and not a tall one—which was why she slipped on heels soon after she awoke and didn’t kick them off again until right before she crawled into bed. If anyone else had called her kiddo, she would’ve been seething inside. But James was as much her mentor as her employer, and his guidance had helped her ascend the masthead so quickly.
Admittedly, she was the tiniest bit annoyed at the bomb he’d just dropped on her. But the secret to breezing through tough conversations was deciding in advance to keep your cool. And Aly’d been preparing herself for a doozy of a chat since James texted her at six a.m. to say he wanted to have coffee as soon as she got into the office. An early-morning missive from James wasn’t unusual, but he didn’t actually drink coffee; that was his genteel way of informing her he had bad news. (The good kind was delivered as an invitation for cocktails, regardless of the time of day.) Which was fine. When it came to publishing, Aly thought of news as the weather report. You might not like the forecast, but you couldn’t dress accordingly without it.
“It’s not ideal,” she allowed, “but I’ll handle it.”
“I knew you would,” James said warmly. “Which brings me to our second item of business. The pay cut alone isn’t enough. We needed to slash nearly another hundred thousand to make up for a shortfall in advertising revenue.”
His navy suit probably cost what some people spent on tropical vacations—not that Aly would know. Because in addition to hypercompetency and James’ mentoring, the other reason she’d landed the top slot at the magazine was because she’d been willing to accept less than a third of what the previous editor in chief made. For her, the job wasn’t about the money. It was about fulfilling the dream she’d had since picking up a copy of All Good in a doctor’s office when she was in elementary school. Every time she walked into the steel and glass tower that was home to Innovate Publishing, she thought about how all her planning and perseverance had paid off. Money would come later, or not at all. What really mattered was that she’d made it: she hadn’t let her childhood keep her from living her dreams.
“Got it. What are you thinking?” she asked, hoping to buy a few seconds to come up with some suggestions of her own. The magazine had recently reduced pay for freelance writers (again), and the pages had grown progressively flimsier, to the point that they easily tore when turned. After four decades of helping women create effortlessly organized lives, All Good had a brand reach of more than twenty million and was valued at nearly half a billion dollars. Yet there they were—running on fumes and a prayer.
“Whittle the masthead. I need you to shave that hundred thousand from staffing,” said James.
Aly gripped the cup of dark roast she’d bought herself and tried not to let her keen expression give way to the frown lurking just behind it. The two editorial assistants already did the work of four people. The executive and managing editors were essential, and the middle of the book, as they called each issue, wouldn’t exist without her three remaining senior editors. Production and Design were already stretched thin.
Then it came to her.
“We’ll cut someone from the research department,” she told him. Fewer fact-checkers meant more errors, but at least there would be a magazine to mess up.
“Great,” said James. But she could tell by the way he nodded that he was about to say just the opposite.
“I need the rest of the team,” she said quickly. “But we can write more of the September issue in-house.”
“It’s the twenty-first century, Aly. Less is more,” James said with a we’re-in-this-together smile. “Sporty just got rid of their executive editor, and they’re doing fine. Your exec—what’s her name again? Regardless,” he said before Aly could volunteer that it was Meagan, “she has to go. It’s the only logical choice. Don’t worry, I’ll have Linda from Human Resources handle it.”
Learning that she wouldn’t have to personally escort Meagan to the corporate guillotine did little to ease Aly’s mind. They’d both been at the magazine for twelve years and had shared a cubicle for much of that time. Would they have been friends if Aly had not been there to witness every salad Meagan scarfed down over her keyboard or overhear the teary phone conversations she’d had with whomever she was dating? Doubtful. But Meagan was the only person who knew about . . . well, what had happened last September.