Summer Intern

I
t was totally surreal: There I was in the midst of a dizzying, glittering collage of designer duds being pushed around on racks by leggy black-clad editors, with a soundtrack of whirring modems, ringing phones, and French accents playing in the background. There were models on go-sees with the bookings department, who were having Polaroids snapped of their gaunt, shiny faces. There were crocodile handbags from HermÃ¨s, Valentino, Chanel, and Marc Jacobs being gathered up for a shoot of “Scaley Chic” reptilian accessories. There was an
armed guard from Van Cleef & Arpels with a briefcase cuffed to his arm as he transported gems for the “Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend” story, and a beret-wearing photographer having a loud fight with the sittings editor about renting out the Central Park Zoo's entire polar bear sanctuary for a ten-page layout of winter's best fur coats.

I was in the frenzied offices of
Skirt
magazineâthe top of the top in fashion, pop culture, and beauty; the bible for any aesthete; the cool girl's forecast for what's hot and what to wear, listen to, even eat (i.e., carbs = the devil). It was a kaleidoscopic mix of hipsters, hotties, and badasses, all yapping a mile a minute on teeny cell phones with a stress level you'd more likely expect to see at the Pentagon rather than at Hughes Publications, the mag's parent company. But in the Gehry-architected glass-and-steel offices, the buzz of calamities at deadline was deafening. Like a trunk arriving in St. Bart's with the wrong bikinis. A beauty associate screaming at a makeup artist that the tweezing for the brow story was too arched. A beeper informing a fashion director of a snag in a Missoni dress on location. Drama was all around. And I had just reported for my introductory summer intern meeting in the gleaming glass conference room. I took my place at one of the empty seats, heart pounding. A platter of baked goods and buttered bagels sat untouched as people streamed into the room.

Beside me were my two roommates for the next two months, whom I'd only briefly met earlier that morning: Gabe, a gorgeous androgynous rocker-type with cheekbones one could slash
a wrist on, and Teagan, a multiple-pierced Goth gal who was still striking and beautiful despite the sharp objects protruding from her face.

Gabe and Teagan had both arrived a couple of days before me and had already paid a visit to the
Skirt
office. The accessories director had immediately taken them under his wing, filling them in on all the need-to-know gossip.

When the meeting commenced, we were each asked to introduce ourselves. For example: “Gabe Tennant. Sagittarius. Midwesterner. Hung over.” My new roomie got some chuckles.

My turn was so yawnsville: Kira Parker from Philly. I'd won the internship through a fashion sketch submission contest sponsored by Cotton, one of
Skirt
's big advertisers. I was headed to Columbia in the fall. I also blurted out that I was “psyched” to get to know the city, and the second the words came out of my mouth like in a cartoon bubble, I realized I sounded hot off the Greyhound. Oh well. When we were all done, each editor explained which department they headed up, and then Alida Jenkins, the executive editor, took the floor to describe how the intern program worked.

She was ten minutes into her speech, explaining the guidelines of what working at
Skirt
would entail, when the door to the conference room burst open. Standing on the threshold were three extremely well dressed girls, all with different shades of stick-straight long hair (the hair of the one on the left was dark brown with caramel highlights, while the one in the middle possessed
the whitest hair outside of a Scandinavian country and the one on the right had the same honey color as Heidi Klum.) They were all clutching Venti-size cups from Starbucks and appeared to have been laughing at some hilarious joke that was so amusing they couldn't stop giggling even when they noticed that the meeting was already in session.

Now me, I would have been mortified to make such a ruckus that every head in the room whipped in my direction, but these girls didn't seem at all fazed.

“Oh my gosh, Alida! Did you start without us?” asked the white blonde in the center. She suddenly looked down at her watch, which I could see from across the room was a solid gold Cartier tank with small diamonds. “Cecilia, you didn't tell me it was ten-fifteen,” she said accusingly to the Heidi Klum look-alike. With that watch, who needed their friend to tell her what time it was?

“That's okay, Daphne. Come on in. We're just getting started,” said Alida with a tight smile.

“Sooooo sorry, Alida,” said the platinum blonde girl. She strode up to Alida and gave her an air kiss on the cheek.

Instead of sitting down, the white blondeâobviously the leader of the packâturned to face the other ten interns who were seated in the room.

“I'm sure I missed the name game, so I'll introduce myself now. I'm Daphne Hughes, this is my second summer interning here, and I go to Brown.” She looked around the room to make
sure everyone was paying attention. I moved my eyes to her friends, certain that they would now take the stage, but before they could, Daphne continued. “Listen, I just want to say that I know you all are probably really nervous right now, but don't worry. Everyone is
really
sweet here, and that's why it's the best magazine on the planet, so don't stress. Of course, they'll work us hard, won't they, Alida?”âshe didn't pause to let Alida answerâ“But it will be so worth it. This is the best way to get your foot in the door if you want to have a career in the fashion world.”

This girl was gutsy. What she had said was basically neutral, but it was the way she said it that was sort of, I don't know, offensive. She was so confident. And patronizing. It was as if she owned the place.

“So, now I'll hand it over to you, Alida, but let me also introduce my friends, because they hate public speaking. This is Cecilia Barney,” she said, motioning to Heidi Klum's clone, “and this is Jane St. John,” she said, pointing to the brunette.

Both girls lowered their eyes and smiled slightly. “Say hello!” commanded Daphne.

Her friends mumbled something and Daphne smiled as if to say “these guys,” and then they all walked to the front row and sat down.

“Okay, so let's continue,” said Alida.

The rest of the meeting progressed and Alida explained protocol, rules, safety, and everything else. I listened attentively, but every once in a while my eyes were drawn to the backs of Daphne,
Cecilia, and Jane. Just their posture seemed intimidating.

Finally, the meeting was wrapping up, and Alida took on a serious tone. “Lastly, I want to say that you will all be assigned to different editors by the end of the day. Once you get your editor, there can be no trading, unless the editor requests a change. But there is one position that will not be decided today, and that is the most coveted one: assistant to Genevieve West, the editor in chief.” Alida said Genevieve's name with reverence. “That will be rewarded in two weeks' time and based on performance. It is a demanding job, and only
one
of you will get it. Even though it's challenging, no one will get an education like the one they get under Genevieve's tutelage. So I suggest you all work hard at your various posts, because that is the only way you have a chance at working in the editor in chief's office.”

I knew then and there that I had to have that internship with Genevieve. That would be like the apex for me. I planned to bust my butt over the next few weeks, take additional assignments, offer to help anyone, and do whatever was needed to get that job.

Daphne raised her hand and Alida nodded. “Last year Genevieve had
two
internsâwhy not this year?” asked Daphne petulantly.

“She thought it got a little hectic, all the people in her office,” said Alida.

“She's such a nut,” said Daphne with obvious fondness. “Okay, girlies,” she said, rising and signaling to her friends. Then they all stood up.

Alida seemed surprised slash annoyed that Daphne had called
an end to the meeting but didn't say anything and instead stood up also. “The sign-up for which editor you want to work for is over here,” she said, motioning to the corner.

Daphne and her friends continued walking out of the room. “I'm working for
you
again, Alides,” said Daphne with a smile. “And put Cecilia down with Richard and Jane down with Stephanie,” she said, more of a command than a request.

Alida nodded, her brow furrowed. It was obvious that Alida was not psyched for Daphne to work for her again.

As soon as Daphne and her gaggle left, everyone else seemed to exhale and ran over to the sign-up sheet. Did they have some sort of prior knowledge of who was nice and who wasn't? 'Cause I sure didn't.

“Who are you going for?” I asked Gabe.

“I put myself down for Warren Frank. He's a queen, too, and brilliant with photographers. I heard he's a bit of a diva, but I think I can handle it,” said Gabe.

“What about you?” I asked Teagan.

“Slim pickings, but Viv Mercer, the sittings editor.”

I glanced at the list. All that was left was CeCe Ward, the bookings editor who was supposed to be the devil, or someone named Mary-Elizabeth Fillerton, who worked in fact-checking. I didn't want to spend the entire summer stuck in some room surfing the net to find out what year Cindy Crawford and Richard Gere divorced or other boring stuff like that, so I took a deep breath and wrote my name down next to CeCe's. I prayed that rumors of her nefarious exploits were exaggerated. But it didn't
matter, anyway, because I planned on working there for only two weeks before I made my move to the editor in chief's office.

When I noticed everyone had left the room, I leaned into Gabe and Teagan.

“So what was the deal with that girl Daphne? She seemed to think she, like,
owns
the place,” I joked.

“Sweetie, she
does
own the place! Didn't you hear her last name?” asked Gabe.

“I don't remember.”

“Hughes. As in Mortimer Hughes. As in her daddy is our boss's boss's boss, the big kahuna,” said Gabe.

I took a deep breath. Ahhh, now I got it. Wow. No wonder she was so bossy. And confident. I guess billions'll do that.