Summer Intern (12 page)

I
was unprepared for what went down the next day. I had taken the subway with Gabe and Teagan as usual, and we spent most of the time brainstorming and rehearsing Gabe's imminent confession to his parents. At first I didn't notice anything was amiss when we got upstairs (although the petrified look of our bug-eyed receptionist should have alerted me), and it wasn't until I got to CeCe's office that I noticed the hallways were unusually quiet. As soon as CeCe saw me, she quickly hung up the phone, pressed the intercom buzzer, and said, “She's here.” Then
she reknotted her Hermès scarf, which I'd seen her do when she was nervous, and came out from behind the desk, barring my entrance into her office.

“Genevieve wants to talk to you.”

I was confused. Genevieve? The editor in chief? What was this about?

“Me?”

“Yes, you,” said CeCe, her cigarette breath whipping my face.

“Okay,” I said. “Should I, um, go to her office?”

CeCe nodded solemnly.

This was so odd. Did Cecilia confess and Genevieve want to ask me about it? Or was this about the job that Alida promised I would get? I couldn't imagine, but my mind raced. The way people looked at me when I walked by warned me that it wasn't going to be a pleasant conversation. I nervously straightened my long-sleeve button-down shirt that I had tucked into my black skirt with the side bow, and was glad I had gone conservative today. I was wearing nice silver ballerina flats and simple jewelry, and knew I had to pass muster.

When I entered Genevieve's outer office, her two assistants—who I had never seen smile—gave me a look and one of them nodded. “She's ready for you.”

I walked through the glass door and saw Daphne sitting regally, legs crossed, on the first chocolate brown fauteuil. I glanced around the room and noticed Cecilia and Alida, who were both sitting on the sofa, and then turned my head to meet Genevieve's
gaze. For someone so tiny—I mean, literally, the woman was no bigger than half an Olsen twin—she was an incredibly imposing presence. I watched her eyes study my outfit from head to toe, slowly, as if she had all the time in the world and this was super important, before she met my gaze. She stared at me for what seemed like a full minute before speaking.

“Kira, is it?”

“Yes,” I said meekly. I felt like I was a model at a go-see.

“So, what's going on, Kira?” said Genevieve. She had the ability to speak without moving any other part of her body besides her lips. I usually talk with my hands, especially when I'm nervous, but she remained unmoved. No wonder she had burned up the corporate ladder. That was a skill.

“I guess I'm not sure what you mean,” I said. I wanted to turn and look at Alida for support, but I would have had to contort my entire body to see her, and I figured that wasn't a good idea.

“Last night Cecilia saw you in the fashion closet stuffing clothes into your bag. Can you explain?” Genevieve said, again cool as a cucumber.

This could not be happening! Cecilia was blaming me?

“What? That is
not
what happened, Genevieve,” I said, quivering. But then I tried to summon the power of my voice. Confident! Be confident! I reminded myself. “I was working late on a project for CeCe and when I left I noticed the light on in the closet and I saw Cecilia trying on clothes and putting them into
her
duffel bag.”

“I knew she would do this!” said Cecilia loudly, slapping her hand on her thigh. I turned to glare at her.

“Don't worry. Genevieve knows the truth,” said Daphne to Cecilia, reassuringly.

“It was a T. Anthony monogrammed duffel with Cecilia's initials,” I said, as if this information proved my point.

“Genevieve, she's clearly lying,” said Daphne smoothly. “Cecilia is a
Barney
. She has all the money in the world. There's no way she needs to steal anything. She has an entire shop filled with everything.”

“Kleptomania has nothing to do with need,” I said lamely. Oh my God! They all thought I did this.

“Alida?” asked Genevieve coolly.

I turned and looked at Alida imploringly. Please be my ally!

“I have to be honest, Kira has been the best intern I think we've ever had. She always works late and pitches in, and I've never seen her take anything for herself. It seems out of character.”

Thank you, Alida! I smiled nervously at her.

“Of course, now it all makes sense
why
she worked late. She wanted the opportunity to take things,” interjected Daphne. Bitch!

“Daphne, I don't even know where the key to the closet is,” I said.

“That's a stupid excuse. You could have swiped it from someone,” said Daphne, seething. We both glared at each other.

“Genevieve, you can come to my apartment and search everything. I promise you I didn't take anything. Cecilia, will you let them come over to your apartment and check your closets?” I
asked, turning to her. I saw Cecilia squirm.

“Ridiculous! There's no reason to do that,” said Daphne. “Kira probably already sold everything. There's a big black market for this stuff.”

“I would totally let you over to look at my stuff, but because of who my parents are and the fact that we live on Park Avenue, there's all sorts of legal stuff that has to happen first,” said Cecilia. Lame excuse.

“Someone's lying,” said Genevieve evenly, glancing at me and then Cecilia.

“Not me!” Cecilia and I both said in unison.

“Kira, how did you come to us?” asked Genevieve, again motionless.

“She's a Cotton intern,” Alida interjected. “She won the position over hundreds of qualified applicants.”

“Where are you from?” asked Genevieve.

“Outside Philadelphia,” I said.

“Hmmm…” said Genevieve. I could tell she was trying to process in her head how much money that meant I had. She was leaning toward me as the culprit!

Suddenly there was a knock on the door.

Everyone turned and saw James through the glass. He waved and Genevieve nodded to let him in.

“Sorry to interrupt, but I think I can clear this up,” said James.

“Really…” said Genevieve, more as a statement than a question.

“Daphne told me about the theft a few weeks ago, so I put one
of the cameras from the photo department in the closet, you know, to record who is there after hours. I think if we look at it, we can see who is really telling the truth,” said James, glancing at me and winking.

Yaaay.
My knight in shining armor! My hero! I whipped my head around and looked at Cecilia, who had now melted into the sofa. She looked nauseous.

“Does anyone want to say anything now?” asked Genevieve.

“Bring it on,” I said confidently.

“Let's do it,” said Daphne, standing up.

“Wait!” shouted Cecilia, holding out her arm to stop Daphne's departure for the screening.

Every head in the room whipped in her direction and could tell at once, from her guilty expression, what the outcome would be.

“Do you have something to say?” asked Genevieve, her tone unreadable.

“Okay, I was borrowing stuff from the closet, but I totally planned on giving it back. Daphne borrows all the time, and I just didn't think it was a big deal. Daphne even gave me a key,” confessed Cecilia.

“What?
” screamed Daphne. “That key was not to be used recreationally. That was in case of emergency, for me, because I always lose my keys.” She addressed the last part to the entire room, but it fell flat.

“Alida, did you tell your interns that nothing was ever to be borrowed from the closet without permission?” asked Genevieve.

“Maybe one hundred times,” said Alida.

“Come on, everyone borrows,” insisted Cecilia.

“Not lately, not since the theft,” I said. “And besides, we all know you weren't
borrowing.
When you borrow, you tell other people. You were stealing.”

There was pin-drop silence as we all waited for Cecilia to respond. Finally she stood up and flipped her hair. “You know what? I don't want to deal with this. It's like a minor misunderstanding that you're making into a big tragedy. I don't need to work, and I don't need to stand here accused of stuff. I'm going to go talk to my lawyer.”

Then she walked across the office, opened the door, and sauntered out.

Silence.

“Sorry, Kira!” said Alida, coming up and giving me a big hug.

Daphne looked confounded but quickly recovered. “How horrible this must have been for you!” she said, embracing me. “Cecilia had us all duped. Now we know her true colors! Let's have lunch and do a rehash and regroup. I'm so shaken.”

“Um, raincheck maybe,” I said. I turned and looked at Genevieve to await her response.

“Well, that's settled. I have a nine o'clock, so if you'll all excuse me,” she said coolly.

I couldn't believe that was all she said, after my frigging life was on the line. But, whatever. I wanted to get the hell out of there and get this over with.

I left the office, arm in arm with Alida, but not before turning to James and thanking him. Profusely.

“No prob,” he said with a wink.

God, he was hot.

A
fter an Oscar-worthy reenactment of the war zone that was Genevieve's office, I had Gabe and Teagan drooling. I thought Teagan would literally go out and bash in Cecilia's face with a polo mallet, but I mollified her with the parting image of the humiliated Trumpette leaving red-faced and stammering about her lawyers.

“Rock
on
, girlfriend!” exclaimed Gabe, high-fiving me dramatically. He saluted me so loudly that everyone sitting near us in the Lower East Side dive bar Crush turned around to see the
owner of the larynx that had projected so far across the room.

And speaking of crushes: Not to be so 1950s, but something about James's saving my ass made me feel very much the damsel in distress who was rescued. Big time. But the still-lingering embarrassment over slumming with Matt clouded my confidence with him. When I'd spied James a couple times later in the day, he was busy bolting around and could barely spare a sec to chitchat. Gabe and Teagan looked at each other slyly as I described James's foresight and
Mission: Impossible
–style gadgetry with full unprompted camera installation.

“That's hot,” Gabe agreed. “Almost as delish as Tom Cruise in that harness. Yummy.”

“I mean, he totally helped me dodge a bullet,” I mused aloud. “I could have been
arrested
, not just canned. I feel like I owe him majorly.”

“Aren't you glad you saved the V-pass?” Gabe teased. Teagan snorted out her Diet Coke.

“Shut up!” I said, feeling my pale cheeks blush again.

“Oooooh! Kira and James sittin' in a tree—” Gabe sang.

“You guys, I'm serious—how do I thank him—not in a horizontal way, Gabe. He would
never
be into me in that way, anyway….”

“Hmmm…What do you both love?” asked Teagan, hand on chin as she perused the pages of
Time Out New York
, the city's “obsessive guide to impulsive entertainment” with everything to do, eat, watch, and visit under the New York sun.

“How about buying him a cool photograph?” Gabe offered.

“Reminder: I'm broke,” I offered.

“I got it!” Teagan said, wide-eyed. “Check it out! Look at this ad. In teeny letters it says the Damguards are playing Monday at The Mercury Lounge!”

Gabe and I looked at each other. I suddenly felt very uncool to ask my next question.

“Who are they?” I asked sheepishly. “I've never heard of them.”

Teagan laughed. “Kira, it's Radiohead. They do sneak shows under a code name for die-hard fans. James would die and go to heaven,” she said, eyes ablaze. “And the tickets are el-cheapo 'cause it's at such a tiny venue that the ticket cartels can't screw you. It's perfect!”

As the corners of my mouth turned up for a smile, I heard the group's music in my head. I couldn't think of a better thank-you-for-saving-my-hide present.

 

“A surprise?” James asked, cocking his head to one side. “What kind of surprise?”

“How could I tell you? It would ruin it,” I said knowingly. The tickets were burning a hole in my pocket, and I could not have been more revved up.

“You don't have to do anything for me, Kira. The only reward I need is the sweet taste of justice,” he said with a laugh.

“Well, Spider-Man, that's very bold, but I still feel the need to
thank you, so Monday night consider yourself booked.”

One thing I did know as he waved good-bye to enter his staff meeting: The crush from June that had withered on the vine was now back in bloom.

L
uckily I didn't have too much time during the weekend to dwell on my impending sorta-date (at least in my mind) with James because Gabe's parents had come to town and it was time for a Dr. Phil–style sit-down. I was nauseous for him, but I was also nauseous for myself and Teagan because Gabe insisted that we be there to serve as cheerleaders. It seemed totally inappropriate for me to be caught in the middle of a major family revelation, but Gabe said he really needed our strength and support to get through it.

It's funny, because the way I had envisioned his parents was nothing like the reality. Yes, okay, I subscribe to stereotypes (guilty!), but instead of a plump, frosted-blonde, matronly midwestern woman clad in Talbots, Gabe's mother was petite and totally chic with her Sally Hershberger–style tousled haircut, Bottega Veneta handbag, and miniskirt. I suppose due to Gabe's description I had expected his father to come into the apartment toting a football and clad in all sorts of University of Wisconsin paraphernalia, but instead the guy was wearing a fairly innocuous Lacoste shirt and jeans.

And they were nice. I mean, super nice. Which makes sense because Gabe was super nice. But I had pictured characters from
Desperate Housewives
ready to do all sorts of evil deeds from Gabe's description. It's not like he bashed them—I guess his giant fear about telling them he was gay made me think they'd be satanic.

“It is so nice to finally meet you,” said Gabe's mom (“Call me Meg!”), who greeted me with a kiss.

Gabe's father, Mitch, was less affectionate but pumped my hand several times with enthusiasm.

“Can we get you anything to drink?” asked Teagan.

“We bought champagne at that cute store on the corner!” said Meg. “We wanted to have a celebration.”

“Thanks for looking after our boy,” said Mitch. “His mother was so worried sending him off to the big bad city.”

“You're embarrassing him,” said Meg, tousling Gabe's hair. He
indeed looked embarrassed.

“Shall I open it?” asked Mitch, pulling the champagne out of a paper bag.

After pouring the drinks and chitchatting for a while, Gabe's parents started to throw out a few feelers about going back to their hotel to shower before dinner. Teagan and I nervously glanced at Gabe, wondering if he would go through with it. It was starting to look like he might bail out, but we knew that we couldn't let him.

“So, Mitch, Meg, are your other children living close to home?” asked Teagan, giving Gabe a look.

“Yes, we're so lucky. Mary-Elizabeth is married with two children, lives just down the street, and Patricia teaches second grade at Sacred Heart; Chad is a senior at Madison. He wants to be a physical therapist, or maybe do something with sports medicine, that's his passion, and J.P. will be a sophomore, as obsessed with football as the rest of my boys. Well, except Gabe.”

“We were surprised Gabe even worked at
Sports Today,
” said Mitch.

“I don't,” Gabe blurted out.

He had been so silent that his words took everyone by surprise.

“What do you mean?” asked Meg, confused.

Teagan and I watched as he shot us a look before taking a slow, deep breath. “I told you I was working there but I'm not. I work at
Skirt
magazine. You know, the fashion magazine.”

His parents paused. “Why wouldn't you tell us that?” asked Mitch, perplexed.

“Maybe we should go,” I said, rising.

“Please stay,” pleaded Gabe.

I felt so awkward in the middle of the Jerry Springer moment but I had to honor my friend's wishes.

“Mom, Dad, I'm gay,” said Gabe, finally looking at his parents.

I stared at them, waiting for the screams and the cries, but they didn't say anything. Gabe spoke again.

“And I'm going to the Parsons School of Design, which is a fashion school, because I want to be a designer, not a football player.”

Meg seemed to inhale slowly, and then she looked at Mitch, whose face I couldn't read.

You could cut the tension with a seam ripper.

“Sweetie, we're so happy for you,” said Meg.

I was stunned.
What?
Did she just say, “happy for him”?

Gabe looked up at her. “You are?”

“Sweetie, your father and I had sort of thought for a long time that you might be, you know, gay, but we didn't think you knew it, so we didn't want to say anything.”

“We went to a therapist, you know, at, what's it called, Meggie?”

“Gay and Lesbian Support Network,” said Meg, nodding.

“Right,” said Mitch. “And we asked them what to do—you know, we think our son is gay and he doesn't know it….”

“And they said not to do anything, that you'll figure it out in your own time,” interjected Meg.

“But we were worried that you had your heart set on football at Madison, wanted to follow in your big brother's footsteps, and maybe that wouldn't be the right place for you and you'd get frustrated,” said Mitch softly.

Suddenly Gabe burst into tears. Heaving, sobbing tears. His mother went to him and gave him a big giant hug.

“So you're not mad at me?” asked Gabe.

“Of course not, sweetie,” said Meg. “We want you to be happy.”

“What about you, Dad?” asked Gabe.

“I'm not used to it, I admit. But I know it's genetic, it can't be helped, and it's who you are, and I love who you are. Jesus tells us to love everyone without judgment,” said Mitch.

“Oh my God! I should have told you
years
ago!” said Gabe, still crying but also laughing.

Tears were streaming down my cheeks also. And I stole a glance at the impenetrable Teagan, who was also sobbing.

“But honey, I think you need to apply to Parsons,” said Meg gently.

“I did. I'm in!” said Gabe.

“Well, then this calls for a celebration!” said his father, pouring more champagne.

We spent the next hour laughing and crying while Gabe filled in his parents on his summer at
Skirt
and how nervous he was about telling them and everything else. Finally Gabe and his
parents left for dinner, and Teagan and I, emotionally wrecked from the day's events, rented
The Princess Bride
and ordered in Chinese before retiring to bed at ten o'clock. If only everything had happy endings like that.