A missing book is about to write the story of her life — before she even gets one.
Recent high school grad Anya doesn't just want to write the great American novel — She wants to publish it, too. So she has faked her way into a summer internship at a major New York City publishing house thousands of miles from home in order to pursue her dream career. But her shaky, clandestine plan — which includes camping out in the office and surviving on leftovers from the pantry refrigerator — is completely upended when she loses track of a coveted manuscript by one of the biggest authors in the world. Off she has to race into the late night New York City streets to track down the manuscript — to save her internship and preserve her cover story, not to mention her best-laid career plan — before the sun rises and her boss is back in the office.
Come along on the madcap quest in this YA novella filled with secret door venues, abandoned subway stations, concealed backrooms and crash pads, mysterious missed connections on old school rotary phones, electric alleyway kisses, and revelatory poetry hiding in plain sight.
A missing book is about to write the story of her life — before she even gets one.
Recent high school grad Anya doesn't just want to write the great American novel — She wants to publish it, too. So she has faked her way into a summer internship at a major New York City publishing house thousands of miles from home in order to pursue her dream career. But her shaky, clandestine plan — which includes camping out in the office and surviving on leftovers from the pantry refrigerator — is completely upended when she loses track of a coveted manuscript by one of the biggest authors in the world. Off she has to race into the late night New York City streets to track down the manuscript — to save her internship and preserve her cover story, not to mention her best-laid career plan — before the sun rises and her boss is back in the office.
Come along on the madcap quest in this YA novella filled with secret door venues, abandoned subway stations, concealed backrooms and crash pads, mysterious missed connections on old school rotary phones, electric alleyway kisses, and revelatory poetry hiding in plain sight.
I wasn't usually invited to the toasts. And technically, I wasn't invited to this one, but because I was pulled into the last second effort to put it together, at the very least I'd get to mill about in the group of people raising glasses, as opposed to the usual: being huddled over in my cube, my work-a-day motions provided with the soundtrack of everyone else in the office having a good time.
"Anya, what are you still doing here?"
The big boss — Francine — was looking at me like I had failed to rush to the vet a deathly sick puppy that was lying at my feet.
"I was just about to leave, Francine."
"You do know how important this is, right?"
As a matter of fact, I did know. Because literally one minute earlier, when she was tasking me with picking up the champagne for the toast, had told me just that, in tones usually reserved for someone who was being given the responsibility of delivering a package that contains the formula for an antidote to the virus that is in the process of wiping out the entire human race.
I had spent the first 30 seconds excited that I would get to be a part of the toast — so excited that you would have thought that I was going to be personally thanked. Not going to happen. Still, it felt like a little bit of publishing history was happening, and I was going to be there to witness it — maybe even showing up in some photographs that many years from now, would end up in the biography about my long and storied career as a writer AND publisher who transformed the literary landscape. Or, more realistically, maybe they'd just end up on the publishing house's Instagram page, and I could share the photo so all my friends would see me making it big in the big city. Not now, of course — I didn't want to social expose myself and ruin everything in the real right now (more on that later), but at some point in the future, when I'll probably need to show photographic evidence to case close on everyone that I really did spend six whole weeks of the summer in New York City working at a publishing house.
The inside-my-own head revelry of both the toast and the future brag did not last long, however, because it hit me like a seven layer chocolate cake in the face — while I'm wearing my favorite summery cocktail dress, no less — that I had no way to actually purchase the champagne.
This was double-drag bad — like, not only is the party off, but the house where the party was supposed to be is engulfed in flames. For one thing, Francine expected that champagne to be ice cold and ready to pop in far less time than it was going to take me to get to and from the liquor store that is located just around the corner from the office.
But the bigger issue is that I had no way to actually buy the champagne for the very simple reason that I am not 21 years old, and I don't have a fake ID.
Yes, it sucks. It sucks to not be able to buy alcohol. Old enough to vote, but not be able to go to bars. Or get into shows, or clubs. But that's nothing compared to the suckage that is about to swallow up my situation into a deeper and much darker hole. And the situation is this: I am 18 years old and I just graduated from high school, but nobody here knows this. They think I am 21 and about to start my senior year of college, because that is what I told them. At the time that I applied for the internship, it was an impossible lark, and I didn't really think about any of the consequences of getting exposed as a fabulist because I simply didn't think it was ever going to happen.
But such an exposure will trigger a cascade of questions and open up the floodgates to a number of deceptions that I've had to vocalize, sign-on-the-dotted-line, and sustain in order to pull off what I am literally just one day from totally and completely getting away with.
I know it sounds like I'm a lying, no-good cheat, but to my mind, I applied for an internship in a field I am desperate to break into, got it, and have worked hard during my six weeks here at Teasdale House. While it's true that I lied about my age, and that I was close to finishing up college, not to mention telling my parents that this was all part of a University program for pre-college students — I wasn't trying to be deceptive. The false information propping it all together didn't seem like a big deal at the time. But now, it's clear to me that there's quite a few people — and institutions — unknowingly tangled up in the web of deception that I've weaved to pull all of this off. If it all falls apart... Well, frankly, I can't think about that right now.
I dash into the elevator bank, see a set of doors that are in the midst of closing, and jump my way in, like I'm narrowly escaping a mine shaft about to be rocked by a massive explosion.
It wasn't until after I screeched "Fuck!" that I realized someone was in the elevator with me.
"Good thing you made it! This is the last transport off the literary industrial complex prison module known as the Teasdale House of Strikethroughs and Last-Minute Changes."
***************
Of course it would be Max, or Hot Max as I referred to him in my waking workaday fantasies. I also call him "The dude," because he's always the one dude in meetings full of women. He's one of those forever interns, meaning he's operating outside the usual seasonal cycle, and people think of him as a staffer, but ultimately, he's still just an intern. Likely, when he graduates from college, he will get a job at the publishing house. The word is that he's been promised exactly that. But I have no idea. What I do know is that he's quite the dapper dresser despite always looking like he was out a little too late the night before. I would occasionally relay messages to him from Francine. This is how our interactions would go:
"Francine would like to see the front cover selections for the Spring list's lead titles."
"Okay, I will bring them by in a few minutes, just need to print out the latest versions."
"Great, thanks," I'd say, already turned around with my head down.
Pathetic, I know. I made myself feel a little bit better by acknowledging the fact that he probably wasn't paying close enough attention to me to notice the ridiculously insecure way in which I was functioning, seeing me more as a sentient being transporting messages and documents from one person to another, nothing more, nothing less.
But there was no time for this kind of thinking. In fact, there was no time for thinking at all. The elevator in this shiny and slick new building might as well have been a hyperspace chamber, zapping you instantaneously to whatever floor you needed to get to by the push of a button.
So I just blurted out: "Hey, I just realized I forgot my ID at home. Do you think you could help me get something done for Francine?"
This not thinking thing was really working for me. Not only did I lay the groundwork of the forgotten ID, but I threw in a Francine name bomb. Even if Max was going to try and squirm his way out of helping me out — a fellow intern who never said more than two words to him, if he even remembered anything about me at all — the inclusion of the Francine factor was going to force his hand.
Max swung around and looked me square in the eyes, his smile further lighting up his light green eyes, as well as a no sleep swell to the perfect skin above his everyday, all the time, 5 o'clock shadow. He was holding the elevator door open for me.
"No problem," he said, with not a hint of annoyance, "Whaddya need?"
Anya Chases Down the End is a fictional novella written by Jeffrey Yamaguchi and published in May 2021. At just a little over 100 pages, the story is easily read in one sitting and captivating enough to pull a reader in from the beginning. The main character in the story, Anya, is surprisingly mature for her age, which is a large part of the story than one could imagine.
Having just graduated from high school, Anya has somehow faked her way into a summer internship working in an environment that she can only dream to have one day be a real career of publishing. She's struggling to meet deadlines and protect her real age and experience, all while gaining insight into the world of publishing. She jumps hurdles and forges her way into the publishing group with little hiccups, that is, until the night that it could all come to an end. Anya is trusted with a manuscript with a deadline that she is responsible for. She's confident in her abilities and is determined to show her capabilities when a strange encounter leaves her in a frenzy to search for the missing/stolen manuscript that could make or break her career. The story that follows is a whirlwind of adventure while Anya is dedicated to locating the manuscript and completing her job.
Anya Chases Down the End is a fantastic read for a reader of any genre, but I would find it especially fitting for someone who enjoys coming-of-age stories and poetry. There's drama and chaos, romance, literary excitement, and a remarkable sense of humor within the story that I found enjoyable while reading. I was impressed with the author's ability to showcase a young main character with a sense of motivation and desire for a successful future. Along with the impressive storyline, I was pleased to see that the story was professionally edited to include no distracting spelling or grammar errors along the way.
As someone who has always had that childhood dream of working in the world of literary publication, I found the main character to be relatable and realistic, and perfectly fitting for the storyline. I'm honored to share my rating of 5 stars with my fellow readers and hope others will enjoy the story of Anya as much as I have.