Summer Intern (11 page)

A
fter passing out in a shivering damp mass under my blanket, I finally came to a few hours later, feeling crushed by not only my blindness but also my acute guilt for freaking on Teagan. Here I had defended Matt tooth and nail only to discover that he was, in fact, a bona-fide scumbag. When I heard the door open, I staggered out, looking like a street urchin, to find Gabe and Teagan with Chinese takeout.

“Teagan,” I said, gulping. “I owe you a mega-apology.”

Even she looked surprised. “How come?”

My eyes started to well up. “Matt's a grifter.”

I told them how James had shined the light on the narrow wormhole I'd been living in with my crush on Matt.

“Knock me over with a feather boa!” Gabe exclaimed, hand on heart. “I am in clinical shock! Somebody book me a suite at that
Girl, Interrupted
place! I am
freaking out
!”

“I'm sure you feel vindicated,” I said to Teagan.

“Kira, I don't feel good about this. I'm sorry that it worked out this way. I really want you to have a nice boyfriend and be happy,” she proclaimed, hugging me. Teagan, the self-professed hater of physical contact, actually initiated an embrace.

“Sorry I doubted you—” I said, hugging her back.

Gabe just stood there, still reeling.

“Gabe? Gaaabe!” Teagan teased. “Earth to you! What, a hot guy can't be a raging jerk-off?”

“No, I just, I just—”

“He's charming, right?” I asked him, wanting backup. Clearly I wasn't the only one sucked in by his alluring wiles.

“He's goooood,” Gabe said, nodding slowly, still in space. “He's really good.”

“So,” Teagan said, putting a strong hand on my shoulder. “What are we gonna do about it?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, my eyes twinkling with thoughts of him being cuffed and collared. “Like, as in revenge?”

“As in, I say we take you out and cheer you up after we scarf this lo mein. We'll hatch our plan on the town!”

 

Two hours later, the three of us were full of MSG and dancing our hearts out at a hole-in-the-wall East Village club called Saint. Gabe was in heaven, as the room was packed with the most gorgeous gay guys I had ever seen.

“A far cry from East Jesus, Texas, or wherever it is you hail from,” Teagan teased, winking at him as, mouth agape, he stared at the shirtless hotties.

We had finally collapsed into a corner booth and were refueling on Cokes and peanuts.

“I don't ever want to go home,” Gabe said.

While I just had my own experience of how the big city can wake up the naive with a smack, Gabe had a wake-up call of his own: that this hot-blooded, electric Gotham was the first place that had made him feel whole. All summer he had seemed so happy and in his element, but I could tell of late he was getting progressively stressed about the end-of-summer discussion that he planned to have with his parents.

“Guys, my parents are coming next week. I have to tell them everything!” said Gabe.

“Do you think they'll freak?” I asked. Gabe was so sweet, I couldn't imagine that his parents were the type of people who would disown him or anything like that.

“I have no idea what they'll think.”

“Are you more worried about telling them that you're gay or that you're not going to college back home?” I asked.

“Well, first off my dad will definitely have a hissy if I don't go to U of W. It's gonna be like dropping a bomb on them. My dad and his dad both played ball there and all that dumb crap. But helloooo? That's clearly not happening,” he said, flexing a nonexistent bicep.

“Ain't that the truth.” Teagan laughed. “The only balls flying at your face come in pairs!”

“As for the gay thing…I don't know. I'm hoping they have some inkling and it's not a total shock attack.”

“Gabe, with those electric blue leg warmers and leopard shirts you don, I'm sure that they have some idea,” said Teagan.

“You're right! But I'm scared. I need help!” said Gabe, his eyes pleading.

For the next hour we plotted how Gabe could break the news to his family. After deciding honesty was always the best policy and that he should just rip the proverbial Band-Aid off when they arrived, we focused our group's attention on the other dilemma du jour: Matt. Between shifts on the dance floor, we caucused and emerged at three
A.M
. with spirits high, ears still buzzing, and an ace up my sleeve.

“H
i, Matt, where are you?” I asked, walking along Seventy-second Street and Central Park West.

“I'm in the park at Seventy-second Street,” he said. “Counting down 'til I can see you, beautiful. Where're your coordinates?”

“Oh, I'm a few blocks away,” I lied, fighting fire with fire. “I'll meet you by the Bethesda Fountain.”

I approached the park, catching him in my sights but always staying a few steps behind to spy on him. Turning the tables empowered me, and made me feel like he was the prey this time.
Fine, he was cute, but now, after everything, I thought he looked almost too hot, like a fake soap star. I wanted to watch him for a few minutes to see him in action. Was he like a predator, looking at girls to see who his next victim would be? No, not so far.

But then: There it was. When no one was looking, he casually bent down over the John Lennon memorial circle and picked up one of the many bouquets of flowers. And then I knew. Every time he brought roses for me, they'd been snatched from that monument for the dead Beatle. That little turd.

I arrived at Bethesda Fountain, practically gagging that I'd let this scumbag, this manipulative centipede, burrow into my life so deeply. But with Meryl Streep's aplomb, I brightened when I saw him and gave him a quick peck on the cheek.

“These are for you,” he said, handing me the pilfered buds. “How's my girl?”

I could have said I was terrible, considering I had been fooled by a con artist, but I contained it. My roommates and I decided that if I called him out on his various falsehoods that he'd just walk off and do it again to some other unsuspecting fool. And why do that when we had a perfect one lined up for the taking?

“Listen, Matt—” I said, knowing full well any sentence that began with “look” or “listen” meant the relationship was going the way of the
Titanic
. “I've been thinking—”

“Is everything okay, sweetness?” he purred, stroking my cheek.

“You know, this is all happening so fast and to be totally honest, while I think you're great, I feel that I need to focus on work
stuff. I'm not in a good place for a relationship right now. It's not you—it's me,” I said, almost stifling a cackle.

Considering I'd just lobbed the most insulting breakup initiative ever—the “it's not you, it's me” refrain—he was taking it quite well. He didn't seem to care at all, in fact.

I continued. “I need to stay on my work path right now and I'm starting fresh at school next month—”

“Hey, sweetheart, I totally understand,” he said soothingly, giving me a hug. Gee, that was easy. “I hope we can stay friends. No hard feelings.”

“No.”

A calmer breakup had never occurred in history, and as he walked off among the sunny crowds of park revelers, with his stolen “Imagine” flowers, I was happy to have him out of my life.

I
tried to lay as low as humanly possible the next week at work for fear I would run into James. I know it's silly; he couldn't have been nicer, but I felt like such a complete nerd that I didn't want his sad looks of pity. I had slipped into his office early one morning and returned his sweatshirt with a little thank-you note pinned to it, and now, instead of being my usual run-around-Sally-how-can-I-help-you gal at the office, I mostly stuck to CeCe's lair. She had me doing totally boring stuff, like picking up plane tickets from the in-house travel agency and messengering
them to the models, photographers, and makeup teams that were going on various shoots in Cabo, Paris, and Hawaii. She also had me create a master list of what models were affiliated with what cosmetic companies so we could pretend that we used only that makeup when we shot the girls. Ennui.

Daphne, of course, couldn't help but comment on my new low profile. She made a few disparaging remarks in that Daphne way, where it wasn't quite bitchy, more seemingly innocuous, but the undercurrent was harsh. One day when she ran into me in the bathroom she said, “Oh my God, there you are! I thought you fell down a well or something! You used to be omni and now you're like milk carton.” I just laughed it off. Another day, when I got into the elevator at five, Daphne looked at her posse and said, “I wish I could leave early, but work is so intense in the ed-in-chi's office that I simply can't. You gals are so
lucky.
”

But what really bugged me was when Daphne pranced into the photo department one day when I was being subjected to a particularly embarrassing form of torture that befalls interns in the bookings office. The beauty department was doing a story called “Makeup Bag
Disasters
!” and they had forced me, along with some other low-level assistants, to dump out our cosmetic kits—without warning—and then a photographer immediately swooped in and took pictures while the editor criticized everything I had. (“
Ewwww!
That mascara must be like five years old?” she'd screamed, recoiling. “Do you get a lot of styes?” And then she picked up a smushed tampon and said, “You're not blocking
anything with this puppy. Don't wear white pants!” I was humiliated.) I was thanking God that James was out of the office when I heard Daphne's aristocratic snotty voice behind me say, “I heard from a little birdy that you and Matt are splitsville. I am so sorry if you are having a Jenny Ani moment.”

I just looked up at her and smiled, knowing revenge would come soon enough. “Yeah, he dumped me. I was really bummed, but he was out of my league in a way. I can't compete with all his private jets and flashy vacations.”

It practically
killed
me that Daphne's eyes lit up with a sparkle, but I knew that I had to plant seeds in order to pay them both back. Daphne drove me nuts.
Little birdy?
Who says that? Who are these little birdies and can we please call pest control?

One night I had to stay late. CeCe was out in the Hamptons on vacation and kept calling me to change the model on the shoot the next morning. Her indecision was killing me. First she wanted an Icelandic beauty, then a Swiss Miss, and then an African Queen. I felt so guilty calling and booking these girls—seemingly giving them their first big shot—only to call back and cancel. Finally, at ten at night, the guy at the modeling agency said
enough
, that he would never let his big clients work with
Skirt
again if they kept jerking around his ingenues, and CeCe relented (“of course, he's bluffing;
everyone
wants to work with us, but I have a dinner, so fine”), and I was released.

As I was the last one there—even the maintenance crew had left—I walked alone down the darkened hallways toward the
elevator. Most of the lights were out, except I noticed that the fashion closet was unlocked and the lights were on. That was odd. The editors were maniacs about closing up shop in the closet. All the stuff in there was worth, like, millions of dollars. Retail, anyway. There was fine jewelry, furs, designer clothes, shoes, everything. Maybe some editor was working late. I looked through the slit between the door and the wall and saw a shadowy figure trying on clothes. It was Cecilia.

“Hey,” I said, popping into the closet.

Cecilia jumped as if she had seen a ghost.

“Oh my God, sorry to startle you!” I apologized. “I just thought I was the only one here.”

“What are you doing here?” Cecilia snapped.

I was taken aback. “I had to finish something up for CeCe. What are
you
doing here?”

I glanced at the outfit she was wearing—a new Chanel suit that we had just gotten in—and then down at a pile of clothes that were stuffed into a T. Anthony suitcase with the monogrammed initials C.M.B. The closet was usually immaculate, so at first all I could think was that someone would be in deep doo-doo for leaving all those clothes scattered about. But then it all clicked, and I realized that the bag was Cecilia's and she was taking the clothes. Daphne had said someone was stealing from the closet, but she didn't know it was her
best friend
.

“I'm just helping clean up this closet,” said Cecilia, pretending to be nonchalant. “Putting stuff away.”

“Here, let me help you,” I said, putting down my bag and moving to hang up the gorgeous Missoni dress that was draped on top of her bag.

“That's okay, I can do it,” said Cecilia, somewhat testily.

“It's really no problem.”

“Do you have to be little-miss-do-everything all the time, Kira? I mean, I know your boyfriend dumped you, but get a life.”

I stepped back as if I had been slapped. Cecilia's perfectly sculpted nostrils were flaring and her eyes looked glazed.

“What are you talking about?” was all I could come up with.

“Just get lost. Go get a life or something and stop interfering. You're always trying to one-up everyone!”

That did it. “Cecilia, I would leave if I genuinely thought you were going to put these clothes back where they belong. But I have a feeling that you are going to steal them. I know we've had theft recently, and now I know it's you.”

“Don't be ridiculous!” she said, her eyes ice.

It was a standoff, and a staredown.

“If I'm so ridiculous, then put the clothes back.”

“You are so lame! You put them back,” said Cecilia. She dumped the clothes out of her duffel. “I was just using my bag to gather the ones strewn around the room and then I was going to hang them up. But be my guest, Miss Goody Two-shoes.”

She turned on her slingbacks and sauntered out. I stared at the mess she had made and, with a sigh, started to pick up the gorgeous handmade clothes one by one. Some of them were so
beautiful that they were almost like artwork. I couldn't believe that Cecilia, someone who had everything, would steal. I know kleptomania is a disease and has nothing to do with what you do or don't have, but I think in her case it was more a case of spoiled-brat-itis. Nice friends, Daphne. Good job.