Commute - Camp NaNoWriMo April 2015

Chapter Twenty-Nine - Dog Poop? Really?

I sit, fidgeting, at my computer, waiting for Mr Clifford to finish reading through the interviews. He takes a long time. He's sighing quite often, which I decide not to think about (sighing can only be a bad thing, right? Oh no, he hates it - DO NOT THINK ABOUT IT, MAYA). I stare at the floor. This has got to be the longest twenty minutes of my life.

I haven't polished my shoes in a while.

Eww! They're all grubby! Is that... dog poop?

And what's that scratch on my left shoe?

Where did that come from?

I obviously don't look at - or care for - my shoes enough.

"Miss McKenna?"

Mr Clifford's voice drags my eyes away from my shoes to his face.

"Yes, sir?"

"That was exceptionally good," he says.

I'm just starting to feel good when he adds, "For someone new to the job, I mean."

Oh well. That's still huge praise coming from him.

"The questions were perfectly worded, the setup was nice... I can really see this becoming a main article in the French Weekly next week. I can't wait to hear what ingenious idea you've come up with for the presentation of it."

Uh-oh.

"Um... I haven't really got any ideas for it. Yet."

"You haven't got any ideas?" he says incredulously. "Maya McKenna! We only have one week. And you have no ideas?"

It's quite nerve-wracking to see how easily he can go from praising to a full-blown telling off.

"Sorry, sir."

"Sorry doesn't cut the mustard! If you don't have a presentation for this article, it won't be featured! It's as simple as that. We'll have some stupid 'Meet the Journalists' article that Miranda's got saved on her computer for 'emergencies'. If you cause an 'emergency' on your first project, Miss McKenna... let me put it this way: you won't be physically able to cause any more emergencies. Because you won't be working for French Weekly any more. Do you hear me, Miss McKenna?"

"Loud and clear, sir," I mumble.

"Listen, girl. You come up with a good idea for this article, and I want to hear it tomorrow morning, you hear me? First thing. And it better be good. Now off you go. It's half past four."

I scurry away, feeling like a five-year-old who's just been thoroughly told off, then had all her toys confiscated and been sent to her room.

And that's basically what I am anyway.