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And then the text comes, and I exhale.

Good luck, B. They'd be crazy not to pick you.

A smile is plastered on my face as I turn off my phone. My lucky charm text came through.

I slip my phone into my bag. 

Inhale deeply.

You know what? The failed pitch appointments simply don't exist. They didn't happen. They are all behind me and might as well have been bad dreams. This is the only moment that counts.

I check the arrangement of the folder tucked under my arm one last time. Raise my chin. Focus on a confident stride. And walk through the doors.

The pitch room is bright and emotionless and expansive. Twenty-five or so tables litter the room with two folding chairs on either side. Agents sit on the side facing the doors, nameplates on the tables, faces alert to the new charges coming through the doors. Scanning us with a flick of the eye first to our name badge and any accompanying glossy ribbons on our lanyard (i.e., multipublished author, TIFA award winner, contest finalist) and then continuing the scan for any other clues that they can scrape from our bodies. We're the new recruits to the publishing army. One of us just may be, despite our pale faces and shaky gaits, the needle in the haystack they are hoping to find.

I already know what they see in me:

Bryony Page. Five foot five.

No lanyard of rainbow-colored ribbons falling down to my knees showing I'm important in any way.

Brown, uninteresting shoulder-length hair that matches the brown, uninteresting eyes and ensemble.

Department store clothing that shows, if you look closely, the hole where I pulled off the tag with my teeth. (So. At least I'm classy.)

In other words, utterly unremarkable in any way.

Agent Kerry Cross's eyes zing with mine as soon as I enter. She's perched at her table directly ahead, fingers looped through one another.

Immediately I avert my gaze.

She's the one who told me not three hours ago that my writing was "like eating a burrito. Burritos are nice, but they aren't filet mignon. And the publishing industry is much too congested for a burrito."

My eyes then land on Agent Tim Graves and ricochet away immediately like a bouncy ball let loose in the room. He was the one I actually had a tremendously pleasant conversation with—fourteen of the fifteen minutes, that is. He nodded with what appeared to be genuine interest as I rattled off details about my grandmother's history and the inspiration for the novel. He read my sample chapter thoughtfully. Laughed at my jokes. I remember I had glanced over while he read and actually felt sorry for the girl at the table to my right, sweating bullets as she tried to convince the disinterested agent on the other end that her story was not a total rip-off of Orwell's Animal Farm, that it was "just about a farm full of animals who overthrow the leadership and create a peaceful economy of their own... but...in space."

And then the one-minute bell rang, and I slipped out my business card, feeling incredibly sure of myself. I slid it over to him. Gave it a little tap with my index finger. Said in a quietly thrilled way, "Here's my information. This was an absolute pleasure."

And then, to my utter shock, he slid it back. "It was a true pleasure, Bryony. You've got real potential here. I look forward to seeing it one day out in the world."

And then he slid back everything toward me. All of it. As though he'd rented my materials from the library and had enjoyed them, but now it was time they return.

I slid my business card back. "That is so kind of you," I said a little unsteadily. "I so respect your opinion in this business. It would be an honor to work with you. Here is my email."

At which point he slid it back, with a few more confusing and uplifting niceties. We slid it back and forth several more times, and long story short, it was the timekeeper who eventually stepped in with a waiting conference attendee behind her, picked up the business card, and pushed it into my hands. "He's saying no. He's saying he doesn't want you."

Apparently, as I found out later, Tim Graves has a reputation for being nice to the point that he is incapable of turning someone down to her face. He just spouts out compliments and avoids taking on folders until the attendees eventually get it and walk away. Which worked for everyone, apparently, except the most desperate ones. Like me.

Okay. New plan.