Off the Record Camryn Garrett (best book club books txt) 📖

ALSO BY CAMRYN GARRETT

Full Disclosure

CONTENT NOTE: discussions of sexual assault and sexual harassment

this is a borzoi book published by alfred a. knopf

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Text copyright © 2021 by Camryn Garrett

Cover art copyright © 2021 by Erick Dávila

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Garrett, Camryn, author.

Title: Off the record / Camryn Garrett.

Description: First edition. | New York : Alfred A. Knopf, [2021] | Audience: Ages 14 & up. | Audience: Grades 10–12. | Summary: “A teen journalist uncovers the #metoo scandal of the decade: a bigshot Hollywood director is taking advantage of cast members.” —Provided by publisher

Identifiers: LCCN 2020043217 (print) | LCCN 2020043218 (ebook) | ISBN 978-1-9848-2999-3 (hardcover) | ISBN 978-1-9848-3000-5 (library binding) | ISBN 978-1-9848-3001-2 (ebook)

Subjects: CYAC: Journalism—Fiction. | Sexual abuse—Fiction. | African Americans—Fiction. | Youths’ writings.

Classification: LCC PZ7.1.G3745 Of 2021 (print) | LCC PZ7.1.G3745 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—dc23

Ebook ISBN 9781984830012

Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

Penguin Random House LLC supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to publish books for every reader.

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Contents

Cover

Also by Camryn Garrett

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Los Angeles, California

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Austin, Texas

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chicago, Illinois

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Atlanta, Georgia

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

New York, New York

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Acknowledgments

About the Author

For survivors

@JosieTheJournalist: help i forgot how to write

I’ve rewritten the same sentence five different times. No matter how I rearrange the words, they don’t sound good enough to be published.

Clearly, Black films only receive critical acclaim when they heavily feature Black suffering. Where are our happy movies? They exist, but you don’t see them winning Oscars.

I smack my keyboard. Nothing changes. I’m still on the living room couch, an episode of Real Housewives playing on the TV. My Word document stares back at me, cursor blinking as if daring me to rewrite the sentence for a sixth time. How am I supposed to end an op-ed like this? In conclusion, I’m sure most of the people reading this are white and don’t want to hear about race, but please don’t cancel your subscription.

I minimize the Word document, flipping to my email. No new messages. Still the same emails: one from Target, one from Spelman College confirming that I sent my application, a few from Instagram. Nothing from the contest. Nothing telling me whether I won or lost.

Ugh. I rub my forehead, staring up at the Deep Focus magazine covers hanging above our TV. The Obamas, Serena Williams, and Jimi Hendrix. They’ve been hanging there forever, some of the best covers of my favorite magazine ever. Normally, they inspire me.

They’re a little too in my face right now—while I’m waiting to hear back from the talent competition. If I win, I’ll get the chance to write an actual cover story for the magazine. Me writing a cover story for Deep Focus.

I take a shaky breath. It’s almost too much to think about.

I should be focusing on this op-ed I owe Monique. She enjoyed my last piece, and the one before it. That should make me feel better. But my anxiety doesn’t pay attention to how I should feel. According to my sisters, I worry about everything, even the pointless, but especially the very important.

I glance at the inbox again. Still no change. The winners are supposed to hear back by the end of today. But why are they taking so long? What if they didn’t like the samples I sent, or they thought my writing was too immature, or they got turned off by how much I write about race—

“Well, look here. Josie’s right where we left her.”

My head snaps up. Dad lumbers through the door, rolling a purple suitcase with one hand and holding his backpack strap with the other. I don’t know why Alice is bringing so much stuff when she’s just an hour away. She could come home every weekend, if she wanted.

Dad’s still in his accountant uniform—white shirt, black tie—the air of math and numbers swirling around him. He glances at the muted TV. Blond women in sparkly dresses lunge for each other across a gigantic table. I shrug.

“I leave it on for background noise,” I say.

Alice appears with an eye roll. She looks the same as she did when we dropped her off in August: ripped jeans, edges of her box braids tinged purple, her signature bored face. Looks like her first few months of college didn’t change a thing.

“What are you writing now?” she asks, swinging her backpack to the floor. “Another review of Real Housewives?”

“Shut up.” I only wrote those recaps to get my foot in the door and she knows it. “It’s a serious piece.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

I scowl, opening my email and sending the piece before closing my laptop. This piece is fine. If Monique doesn’t like it, she’ll send me edits, same as usual. At least it’s better than a Real Housewives