Summer Intern (13 page)

A
fter a night of full MSG binging, I returned to work, ready to begin my final two weeks as a summer intern at
Skirt
. While Gabe was having a good-bye breakfast with his parents, Teagan and I boarded the packed Hughes elevators as usual.

But when they opened on our floor, the mood was most certainly out of the ordinary. A pall had been cast over the normally bustling office. As I was having acid flashbacks of Charlie Sheen's final scene in
Wall Street
when he meandered through the maze of
cubicles, I noticed not one but two grim-faced staffers carrying boxes of belongings. Teagan and I looked at each other as if to say
huh?
And then we saw Richard.

“Girls! In here!” he whispered. We obediently darted into the conference room.

He was fanning himself with our last issue, sweating. “You're gonna
die
!” he exclaimed breathlessly. “Heads are rolling!”

“What's going on?” Teagan asked.

“Over the weekend, we all got calls for an emergency staff meeting at eight
A.M
. this morning. We haven't had that since Genevieve's predecessor, Miranda DuChoix, was fired on Saturday's Page Six in the
Post
!” he said, eyes ablaze. “So we all gather around this morning, and who shows up but Mr. Hughes, who said he sold the magazine to Sly Oldshack after an offer even he couldn't refuse!”

No. Way. We were too stunned to respond. The rug had been totally ripped out from the staff's Louboutin-covered feet—not a soul knew about the sale and the whole crew was totally blindsided.

“And get this: Genevieve's out,” whispered Richard. “Alida's in. She's the new editor in chief! Apparently, she's been having secret meetings for months with Sly Oldshack, presenting her ideas.”

Suddenly Richard's words triggered the memory of seeing Alida in that out-of-the-way restaurant. So
that
was who I saw Alida with that time near the studio! It wasn't a secret affair behind her boyfriend's back; it was a clandestine job meeting
behind Genevieve's back!

“Oh my God!” Teagan squealed giddily. I loved how my Goth comrade was suddenly alive with the spark of scandal.

“First order of bidniss,” said Richard, looking both ways. “Firings galore. CeCe was the first to get canned. She called Alida a bitch and stormed out!”

My jaw hit the table. So there was justice in the world.

“Half the staff is Audi 5000,” he said, listing the sackings, which obviously included the dispatching of Daphne to
Tinsel Monthly,
which Daddy still owned. “But luckily you are looking at the nuevo senior editor!”

Teagan and I jumped up and hugged him, but our congratulatory embrace was interrupted by a rapping on the conference room window. Oops, busted. We turned to find Alida herself looking in. She signaled to me to come outside. Uh oh, was I in trouble? Maybe I shouldn't have been so publicly gleeful when there was a job guillotine snapping down on half the editors' skinny necks.

I followed her outside into the hallway, gulping.

“So, Kira,” she said, smiling calmly. “I know you start Columbia this fall—”

“Mmm-hmm,” I responded, wondering why she wanted to talk to me.

“So it's a good thing our new offices are on the Upper West Side,” she said, eyebrow arched as she smiled, awaiting my response—which was simply utter confusion.

“What do you mean?” I probed.

Alida laughed and put a hand on my shoulder. “What I mean,” she said, “is that you were one of the best interns I have ever seen in my tenure here. You have your ear to the ground, you're a killer trendspotter, you have guts, soul, and”—she looked me in the eye—“heart.”

I didn't know what to say.

“I want you on our team,” she said, to my disbelief. “We need a girl on the street, a college editor. I want you to helm your own section of the magazine, like a hip shopper's index in the back of the book. You're dedicated, chic, and I know you have a really bright future in this business. You think you can handle it on top of schoolwork?”

Yes! Yes! A thousand times yes! “Alida, I'd be
honored
!” I gushed, hand on heart. It was literally the greatest thing that could happen. And screw stamping books in the library or some menial go-nowhere job, the
Skirt
money would help fund my student life and be a humongous resume builder! I was reeling.

“All along I watched you work late, stay focused, and even deal with Daphne with total grace,” she said. “It wasn't fair. And life's not fair. But your work did not go unnoticed. I for one was very impressed. And your diligence and perseverance really reminded me of someone,” she said with a grin.

“Who?” I asked.

“Me.”

I only hoped my future would be half as major, as Alida would
now flank the front of every runway from here to Milan. Instead of being cold and demanding, she was a true leader who would actually teach her staff instead of berate them.

“I can't thank you enough,” I said, hugging her. “This is literally my dream come true!”

And it was. And now there was only one more reverie left to conquer.

“R
eady?”

I turned around and saw James leaning against the wall by the door. He looked H.O.T. in his white T-shirt, khakis, and scuffed-up Vans—so hot that I had to exhale slowly and tell myself to keep it together. Sometimes simple is best. More people should understand that. Maybe that would be my first column, called “Miniskirt,” for the new
Skirt
. My mind was meandering because I was nervous.

“Sure,” I said. “Let me just get my stuff.”

I grabbed my bag and felt myself blush for no apparent reason. It was odd. I see James day in, day out, but it was like there was this new shift; we were both swingin' single and now he could potentially be
mine
. I could be on an episode of
Maury
: “When Friends Become Lovers.” Although I was getting ahead of myself.

We barely spoke to each other as we exited the office because there were so many people around, so it wasn't until we got in the taxi (I was planning on taking the subway but James wanted to splurge) that we had a chance to chat.

“Congratulations on your new gig,” I said to James. Alida had made him senior photo editor.

“To you as well,” said James.

The leather seats felt hot on the back of my legs, and I just prayed when we got out that I wouldn't have all those weird markings and red lines smashed on my thighs. Maybe it was a bad idea to wear a short frock.

“Cute dress,” said James. I blushed, but then realized he must have seen me adjust it over and over again.

“Thanks.”

Why was I so mute and fidgety? I was acting like a mime in Central Park. So much had transpired but I didn't know what to say.

“And thanks again for, you know, saving me the other day. It was just my luck that you had cameras in there and caught Cecilia on tape.”

“I have a confession to make,” said James with a smile. “I didn't
have cameras in there,” he said. “I was bluffing.”

Shock. “What?”

James crossed his ankles, put his hands behind his head, and stretched like a cat who'd just chowed a canary. “I knew you didn't steal, and I knew that you'd go down for it, and I couldn't let that happen.”

My mind raced. “James, what, what if they called you on it?” I sputtered.

“I kind of didn't have that part covered. But I knew I had to do something, and it was the first thing that came to mind.”

His unflinching gaze suddenly made me bold. “Why did you know you had to do something?” I asked coyly.

James looked at me, cocked his head to the side, and then smiled again. “Because I like you, Kira.”

Before I could talk myself into a bumbling lather, James leaned in and kissed me. His lips were soft, and he slowly put his arms around my waist so that I felt myself falling backward into the leather backseat. It had been nice with Matt, but something now just clicked and I knew that this was what it was supposed to feel like. It was all tingly and strange and too good to be true. We kissed the entire way downtown; the beeps and honks and sirens of New York seemed to fade to mute as we kissed deeper and deeper, almost as if we were making up for lost time. The whole summer, we were meters apart down the hall but miles apart in terms of being at this moment. Better late than never.

When we got to the venue and I revealed my surprise, his jaw
hit the floor as he pulled me into him.

“Kira Parker. I can't believe you!”

I could tell he was overjoyed by my secretly hatched plan and euphoric at the rush of the music starting—as I myself was on cloud nine thousand just to be beside him. Radiohead's songs made everything that much more explosive as we made out under the blue-hued lights, but the truth was, we could have had a soundtrack of cacophonous sirens and it would have felt like Eden in that sweaty concert hall. We kissed nonstop throughout the set (we must have looked like those annoying people that you tell to get a room) and continued at the bar we went to after. It wasn't until after James had walked me home and I floated to bed that I realized what this feeling was—I was in love.

I
always love a good update, so let me just press the fast-forward button and tell you where things ended up six months after our cab mack-fest. The taxi home crashed into a wall, leaving us on side-by-side respirators at New York Hospital. Just kidding. Seriously, it could not have turned out better: After Alida's premier issue of
Skirt
, newsstand sales soared. The new team was so passionate and dedicated and the whole vibe of the office was refreshed and excited. Alida led the staff in a great way—instead of being scared of our boss, we all looked up to her and
wanted to do our best to kick ass. The mag was already nominated for multiple awards and had a cool new look and fun feel; people were reading it cover to cover, including my column, which I am thrilled to say has gotten great feedback through reader mail.

One day, while I had my nose in magazine spreads, a smiling Alida plopped a tabloid in my face. The
New York Post
featured a huge article with the headline
HUGHES PUB HEIRESS SWINDLED
. It went on to say that Daphne Hughes's boyfriend, Matt, who had several aliases, had charged up a storm on her credit card and her daddy's various accounts about town. She and pops would be pressing full charges, and her humiliation was as public as it gets. I kind of felt bad for her. But not that bad. As for “Matt,” he faced up to three years in the slammer. Karma!

When school started in September, I made a concerted effort to really be engaged, not just for my role at the magazine, but also for myself. I've managed to build a student life at Columbia—I have great new friends, I worship my professors, and I truly feel immersed in campus culture. But when the gang hits the keggers or has dorm room fiestas, I can push the eject button I'd made for myself over the summer. Instead of grody cafeteria food, I meet up with Gabe and Teagan (who are both loving their programs) for yummy ethnic binges downtown. When my roommate goes to scream at football games, I am working a Saturday shift at
Skirt
or wandering the streets finding cool boutiques opened by young designers in Brooklyn.

The cute frat boys my pals pine over may be great, but as I do
my math problem sets or art history essays in the library, I don't get distracted by them. Because I know when I am done, James will pick me up for another New York adventure—bands, photo shoots, late dinners, or just long walks. Last week, Alida told me that the fall collections (always shown the season before on the European runways) would be smack in the middle of my spring break from school, so I would be going on my first-ever trend-spotting trip with the senior fashion editors. James scheduled a huge cover shoot with the model du jour at the same time, so we'll be together in the City of Light. I can't believe it; I feel so lucky that I stayed on my own path all summer, which led me to now: the once-miserable summer intern who ended up the happiest girl in the Big Apple.