Summer Intern (3 page)

A
fter work, Gabe and Teagan took me to our pad downtown. Because I'd found out I'd won the internship just last week, I'd had little time to prep for the move. I'd decided to spend my first night in a hotel to rest up for day one, so I was just now seeing my summer abode. For some insane reason, I was envisioning the set of
Friends
or one of the funky lofts on
The Real World,
complete with state-o'-the-art electronics and hotties shooting pool on our living room billiards table. My daydream couldn't have possibly been more off base. But hey, if those
shows were actually the
real
real world, the cribs would be tiny, grody hovels, just like
our
summer apartment. Gabe and Teagan had settled in and already claimed rooms. So, naturally, I ended up with the smallest, which was literally no bigger than a closet. With no closet in it, my stuff would hang on a rack in the hallway. Good times. Next to my army-style cot was a teeny side table with two drawers for all my stuff. Bonjour, Alcatraz.

After unpacking I plopped in the living room, which looked like Pier 1 had exploded. Gabe suggested we hit Schiller's, a restaurant that he'd heard about from one of his friends. The food was really good and the atmosphere cool, but I wasn't sure I would be able to afford eating out like that every night. Or even every week. Maybe once a month. I was glad, though, that I had a chance to get to know Gabe and Teagan better. Well, Gabe anyway. Teagan was really private and said very little about herself, and usually used sarcasm to answer any serious question. All my efforts to penetrate were deflected. She was totally cool about filling us in on what she had heard about the magazine from a friend who worked there last year, but when it came to personal stuff, she was mute.

Gabe, on the other hand, let everything just flow without an edit button. I could tell he was the type who liked to use his friends as psychiatrists. He explained that he was from the Midwest and his parents were really conservative Catholic Italians who had no idea he was gay and would freak if they did. He had two brothers and two sisters (and had always loved doing their hair
and picking out their outfits), and they were totally loving, but he always pretended to be into sports and stuff when his dad was around. The big secret was that his parents thought he was going to the University of Wisconsin this fall and had no idea that he had accepted a full scholarship to Parson's. In fact, they thought he was interning this summer for
Sports Today,
one of Hughes Publications' other magazines. He planned on coming out to them and telling them about school at the end of the summer, and was prepared for a huge meltdown. I said I would stand by with Kleenex and defibrillators.

When we got home at midnight, I was so exhausted I thought I'd pass out—on my cot that looked like a house party for bedbugs.

Teagan ran a black-nail-polished hand through her raven hair. “Kira, I feel bad you got the shittiest room. If you wanna trade halfway—”

“Oh, no, it's okay,” I said truthfully, touched by her offer.

“I'm so wiped out, you guys, I'm hitting the hay,” Gabe moaned. “I can't believe I'm dying for the weekend already and it's only Monday night.”

I felt the same way. Especially because I had the sinking feeling that the long days working beside CeCe could be measured in dog years.

 

The next day, I was on my knees, attempting to alphabetize back issues of Russian
Vogue
(which was virtually impossible considering I can't read Cyrillic), while I listened to CeCe dissect
yet another fifteen-year-old wannabe model to her face. It was amazing how she could be so cold, and equally amazing that these girls would sit there and take it. I'm sure the second they were out of the room they burst into tears, but before they did, they were somehow able to sit there stoically and listen to an evil woman not half as pretty as they were go on about how they were too fat, their nose protruded, their look was too eighties, their hair too long, their eyebrows too arched, their ankles too thick, and so on and so on. From my angle on the floor, CeCe's desk obstructed my view, but I could hear everything. She criticized one girl so severely that simply listening you'd think she'd be a zit-covered walrus, but when I looked up I saw a dangerously thin redhead with a perfect oval face, porcelain skin, and china blue eyes that were filling up with tears. Forget
Skirt,
CeCe should be interrogating prisoners at Guantanamo Bay.

The door opened and closed again, and I stopped to rub my temples. It was only eleven o'clock but I was already beat. “Hi, CeCe,” said a voice that belonged to someone wearing lizard-skin Jimmy Choos.

I was waiting for a cold, terse reply from CeCe but was shocked when she warmly said, “Hiiii, sweetness!”

Was this one of her favorite models? Oh God, what if it was someone like Gisele? Or Natalia Vodianova? But the voice didn't have an accent. Maybe it was Christy Turlington stopping by for old times' sake?

“I am so beat,” said the voice, and flopped onto a chair.

“I hear you,” said CeCe sympathetically.

“Can I have a cigarette?”

“Sure.”

Must be another editor,
I thought. I returned to shuffling the magazines around.

“Wait, is someone in here?”

Suddenly a face appeared under the desk. As her head was upside down, it took a second to recognize the small cornflower blue eyes and slightly weak jaw with the overly plump pink lips to compensate.

“Hi, Daphne,” I said.

Daphne flipped her head back up. “CeCe, what's your intern doing on the floor?” Daphne laughed. “You are so mean!”

CeCe laughed and looked down at me from her desk chair. “She doesn't mind. You don't mind, right?” she asked, not waiting for an answer.

I stood up. “I'm organizing CeCe's magazines.”

Daphne looked me up and down from head to toe. I was glad I had taken extra time to dress this morning, choosing a vintage eyelet skirt that was summery and a bit formal, and I had accessorized with a big belt and some wooden necklaces to make it casual. I could tell Daphne approved. She in turn was wearing size zero peach pedal pushers with a chic white blouse tucked in. She definitely went for the preppy, rich Southampton look. I watched her face and saw that she didn't know how to respond, but suddenly she stuck out her hand.

“We haven't met yet. I'm Daphne Hughes.” She liked to
include Hughes. I've heard of some boss's daughters going incognito so they could get down with the people, but Daphne was having none of that.

“Kira Parker.”

“Where are you from, Kira?” she asked.

“Philadelphia,” I said.

“Suburb or the city?” she asked.

“Right outside. Bryn Mawr,” I said, looking her carefully in the eye. I sensed that she liked to interrogate people and used it to get them to bend, but I wasn't game for that.

“Are you in college?”

“Going to Columbia in the fall.”

“Good school. Ivy. I go to Brown,” she said, running her hand through her hair.

“I know. You mentioned that at the meeting.”

“Right,” she said, momentarily confounded. “What brings you to
Skirt
?” she asked more boldly.

“Cotton,” I said.

Suddenly she laughed. “That's a funny way to put it. You won the Cotton internship?” she asked.

“No, my papa has a plantation. He did well this year, so I could afford to come to the big city,” I said. She looked confused and then I smiled. “Yes, I won the internship.”

I could tell she wasn't used to being teased because she was suddenly finished with me and turned her attention back to CeCe. “CeCe, I wanted to ask if you could call your friend Mickey and
ask him to put me and my girls on the VIP list again for Butter tonight. Getting in shouldn't be a problem normally, but last night Jane threw up on Tobey. It was a total accident but they made a big deal about it, and so we're kind of like banned for a week, which is so ridick, so could you call Mickster for moi? The VIP list should take care of things,” chirped Daphne.

“That should not be a problem,” said CeCe, like a soldier following a commanding officer's orders.

Since my conversation with Daphne was over, I sat back down and continued cataloging. But Daphne then addressed me again.

“You are so lucky to be working with CeCe. This is the best job in the place,” she said with a fake smile. Oh yeah? Then why didn't
she
want it?

“I tell her that, but she's already told me she's going to try to go for the internship with Genevieve,” said CeCe, waving her cigarette in the air as if this were the dumbest thing ever.

Daphne laughed and her eyes narrowed. “Well, don't get your heart set on it,” said Daphne. Her voice was different this time. It was more of an order than helpful advice. Whatever. Now that she knew I had thrown my hat in the ring, let her try to compete with me. I can be a pretty good foe, if I do say so myself.

“She's got a shot, Daph,” said CeCe. “Remember that Genevieve likes to toy with your father, show him who's boss. She didn't even let your stepsister get the job in her office, and Saskia made it known that it was the only place she wanted to work.”

Daphne's face turned dark. “Well, Saskia is a fool, so I don't
blame Genevieve for dissing her. But Genny and I are dear friends. Many a fashion show we've spent huddled together trashing the idiotic celebrities in the front row. No way will she pick someone else over me.”

Daphne turned and glared at me to make sure I heard her.

“You're probably right,” said CeCe, backing off.

“Anyway,” said Daphne, stubbing out her cigarette. “I should get back. There's a sample sale at Chanel today and I don't want to miss it. They said I could come extra early to peruse the goods before anyone else.”

“Lucky girl,” said CeCe.

Why the hell did she need to go to a sample sale when she could buy anything at full price? That didn't seem fair.

“Bye, Kira,” she said, turning and flashing me a huge saccharine grin.

“See you later, Daphne,” I said coolly.

She paused for a second and then walked out the door. Now that I knew it wasn't a done deal with Daphne working for Genevieve, I wanted that internship more than ever.

I
once asked my grandfather how he went from being thousands of dollars in debt after college to later running his own company (not at the Hughes level, mind you; he owned a chain of shoe stores). He told me it was all about having the right work ethic. While most zombies punch in and out, wish away the day, and live for the weekends, he threw himself into work wholeheartedly each and every workday.

“Be the first one there and the last one to leave,” he advised when I called him the night before my departure. “Don't wait for
someone to come to you—be proactive and seek out the work. Only then will people know they can count on you, and then you become indispensable.”

As resident Xerox whore and gopher girl, I found it hard to imagine any intern becoming that irreplaceable. But when Gabe and Teagan popped by CeCe's office at the stroke of 4:59
P.M
. to bail, I said I had more to do and that I'd meet them back at the ranch. They, along with all the other interns, were out the door so quick you'd think the building had a four-alarm fire—especially the Trumpettes, who vociferously announced their nightly plans upon departure: choice restaurant rezzies, nightclub lists, driver pick-up locations. They all went back to their various Upper East Side perches for disco naps before the preening process began.

But what would I be running off to, exactly? My depressing apartment? Another dinner I couldn't afford? That was a waste of time, because what I really needed to do was to show everyone at the magazine how committed I was so that I could get the internship. I was sure that CeCe would not give me glowing props to Genevieve—especially if Daphne was my competition. I had to meet some of the editors and network. It sounds kinda kiss-assy, but, frankly, none of the other interns cared that much.

First I wandered down by the accessories department. Richard was gabbing on the phone and I didn't want to interrupt him. Next I strolled to fashion, where I saw two editors on their knees packing for a Military Chic shoot.

“Hi,” I started, suddenly getting a little nervous as the two girls,
both so stylishly accessorized with layers of delicate chains and chunky belts, turned around. “I'm Kira. I'm an intern in the bookings department, with CeCe, and, um, I was wondering if you guys need any help?”

“No, I don't think so…” one said, wiping her brow while looking me over.

“Thank you so much, anyway,” said the other, which I assumed was my cue to leave.

“Okay, thought I'd check just in case!” I said, turning around.

“Wait—” said the first one. “Actually…come to think of it, we still haven't unpacked the trunk from our Palm Bitch Acid Preppy shoot. Do you mind getting a start on that?”

“Sure!” I offered, beaming and psyched to be of use.

“There's no way you can finish tonight. I mean, there are piles and piles of things to be labeled, packed in bubbleopes, and returned to the fashion houses, but you might as well crack it open and get started.”

The duo introduced themselves as Trixie and Lilly (Trixie was a petite Korean beauty and Lilly had almond eyes and chic shaggy brown hair). They were both in their twenties and were market editors at the assistant and associate level—probably what I would be right out of school, so it would be interesting to glean what they were typically up to.

I began the unpacking process, which was robotic but actually interesting. I opened velvet box after velvet box to find different pieces—pink and green bikinis, gold aviator sunglasses, sixties-era
Jackie O head scarves, and wedgie ribbon-tie espadrilles. Each piece had a corresponding Polaroid in the Palm Bitch shoot box, which catalogued all the pieces that were pulled, sent, and shot for the story. It yielded a four-page spread but involved weeks of work and tens of thousands of dollars in expenses: airfare to Florida, an alligator trainer for the Everglades shoot, a photographer with his assistant, hair and makeup artists, the model, and the stylists and their assistants.

As I checked off each piece, wrapped it, and filled out labels for the returns to the Michael Kors, Gucci, and Ralph Lauren public relations departments, I got a good rhythm going. And ninety minutes later, I was finished.

“So I'm done, I guess. Anything else?”

Trixie and Lilly turned around, stunned.

“Finished?
No way
,” Trixie said skeptically, rising to survey my work. She must have thought I'd royally screwed up to have completed my task so quickly, but as she went over my packets and files, her eyes widened. “Lil, she just did this
all
,” she said, jawon-floor. “Kira, you rock!”

Lilly got up and came over, too. “Oh my God. You are like Supergirl! You just saved us hours of work, you little Speedy Gonzales!”

I beamed. It wasn't rocket science—and it had been fun to see the inner workings of a shoot-in-a-box.

“And it's like seven o'clock! You are the best intern ever; you're working overtime for free,” she added.

“Well, I have no life,” I admitted. “I'm in New York for
Skirt
, so I might as well be at
Skirt
,” I shrugged, hoping I didn't sound like the biggest dork on planet earth.

“Who else around here has no life?” a voice asked in the doorway. It was James, carrying a portfolio. “I feel like I'm in lockdown in Attica today. I haven't left my desk once.”

“Hi, Jamesie,” Trixie said. “Do you know Kira? This chick just cleared out this mammoth steamer in like under two hours. We worship her!”

“Yes, I know Kira,” he said, giving me a trademark weak-in-the-knees-rendering smile. “And boy do I wish we had some help like that in the photo department. Our intern left at three o'clock. On a shoot day,” he said.

“Oh, how's that Pier Sixty nautical chic thing going?” Lilly inquired.

“Fine, except the photographer's assistant just called to say they need more berets. Apparently some ship with sailors just pulled in and they want to use them with the models. I don't know where the hell to get berets. I hoped maybe you guys had some beret connection?”

“Not unless there's a huge logo on them. I mean, we have a few in the hat room from fall and winter,” Trixie said. “But they're kind of for women. Not sailory at all—”

“The props warehouse is closed,” said Lilly, looking at her watch.

James looked defeated.

“What about that place Weiss & Mahoney?” I ventured. “I
read about it in
Time Out New York
once. Army surplus? I think they're open late. I can call.”

“Didn't I tell you? This gal rocks,” said Trixie.

I called the store and it was indeed open until eight o'clock.

“Great, that is so excellent. Thank you, Kira,” he said, relieved. “Gotta run, good night, guys.” He took off down the hall. Then I heard him stop and turn around, returning to our clothes-covered haven. “Hey, Kira?”

I turned from my piles of files.

“Ever been to a feature photo shoot before?”