The Most Beautiful Girl in Cuba - Chanel Cleeton Page 0,86

if today is the day I’ll be called into the editor’s office and let go.

For each story that one of Hearst’s star reporters gets, the thousands of dollars they are paid to dash off to Cuba or the like, the more this jealousy that I am hardly proud of grows; the fear that it will never be my name on everyone’s lips is overwhelming. It’s not supposed to be about the fame or the glory; it’s supposed to be about the stories we write and the public’s interest to be informed, but it is impossible to walk this tightrope of a career and not fear obscurity for that is our death knell. The truth is, as much as we work together in close quarters, the competition is fierce, and there’s a thread of desperation in all of us that pushes us to take whatever risks necessary to get the story.

“I admire you for doing what you do,” Rafael says without a hint of teasing in his voice. He leans down, closing the distance between us. “I particularly liked your exposé of the landlord,” he whispers.

The story I wrote about a thieving landlord ran in the paper a month or so ago and was another stunt job I took on at Hearst’s behest.

“How did you—”

Rafael is gone before I can finish asking him how on earth he figured out that it was my story when I used a pen name on the byline.

Twenty-Eight

Evangelina

After the whirlwind that is the reception at the Waldorf-Astoria, I travel from New York City to Washington D.C., for a special reception for me and Karl where I am to meet President McKinley.

I am excited to see the town where Karl is from, considering all he has done for me, and am more than a bit nervous to meet the American president. I’ve practiced over and over again what I want to say if I’m given the opportunity. I am here because of my story, but I am also Cuban, and my people desperately need my help.

We drive onto the beautiful grounds of the White House, and the closer we get, the more my nerves grow.

I remember the conversations my father had with me growing up, the legacy of revolution that runs through my veins. I am representing my family and my country, and it feels as though this is too big of an opportunity for me to squander. What if America could intervene against Spain as they have for me? If they directed the support they’ve given me to the Cuban people, then I can’t imagine Spain would stand a chance.

“The president is very excited to meet you,” Mrs. Logan whispers, squeezing my hand. She’s become my frequent companion and also a wonderful friend. “There’s no need to be nervous; despite his position, he really is an unassuming man. And very kind.”

Grace sits across from us in the carriage.

“There’s truly nothing to be nervous about,” Grace reassures me. “After all, you’ve faced off against the Spanish. President McKinley should be tame in comparison.”

I smile at the teasing note in her voice. We’ve struck up a friendship of sorts in the weeks we’ve spent together. I will truly miss her companionship when I leave to tour the country to tell my story, and hopefully raise funds and awareness for the fight for independence.

I’ve finished my part of the book over the course of a few conversations with Grace, and now she’s writing it all down, including events like this one and the reception at Madison Square. It feels strange that a story of my life should end at twenty years old, as though I will forever be defined by this one part of my life. I wish I could have ended the story with something inspiring, a grand triumph, me returning home to a free Cuba, but there is so much that is uncertain right now.

This is to be a smaller reception than the one Hearst had for me in New York, but I think the very intimacy of it almost makes it more frightening. There’s anonymity to be had in a crowd of people, at least. Still, perhaps it will give me a greater opportunity to advocate for American assistance for Cuba.

The carriage pulls up in front of the White House, and we are escorted to one of the reception rooms where we are to meet President McKinley. Everything is so grand in this country—at least to me. Grace and Mrs. Logan seem perfectly at home despite