Summer Intern (5 page)

“Y
ou're quite the little worker bee, aren't you?” asked Daphne. Her tone was friendly, but I sensed a more sinister undercurrent.

“I don't know, that's what we're here for, right?” I asked.

We were in the conference room, organizing samples from ten young and up-and-coming jewelry designers whom Alida wanted Genevieve to feature in the magazine. I had been typing up call sheets for the following week's Zebra Power shoot when Alida popped her head in CeCe's office to borrow me. I was so psyched when she explained the mission, and congratulated myself on all
my extra hard work that I was sure prompted me to be chosen. But all happy feelings deflated when I saw that Daphne was also assigned to the task. We'd been working together for an hour, lining up pendants, necklaces, and bracelets, mostly chitchatting about the fact that Jessica Simpson had been chosen for the next cover. We both agreed that it was a bad move on Genevieve's part. Jessica was
so
not
Skirt
. Everything was actually going well until Daphne decided she was done and plopped down on the couch.

“I like your attitude,” said Daphne. Her tone was definitely that of a boss talking down to an employee.

“Thanks,” I said.

As I lined up some jade earrings, I noticed Daphne playing with her Elsa Peretti heart pendant and eyeing me before glancing down at her watch.

“You know what, Kira?” she asked with grave importance. “I want you to come to lunch with me and my girls today.”

She announced this in such a way that she sounded as if she had just given her kidney to someone on dialysis. But regardless, I was kind of flattered. It was weird, because I knew in my heart of hearts that Daphne was a totally self-serving manipulative person, but I was intrigued to find out if there was more to her than that. Okay, I know it seems like that thing when the popular girl suddenly notices you and all reason goes out the window. But the popular girl is popular for a
reason.
Sure, Daphne's father owned the place, but was that really all there was to her? I'm sure Cecilia's and Jane's parents were something major also, and yet they were
like children of the corn, blindly following Daphne around. And what about James? There must be something he saw in her to date her. He hardly seemed superficial. Plus, I couldn't help but wonder why she was suddenly interested in
me
. This was my chance to figure her out.

“Um, okay, that sounds good,” I said, finally. I could only imagine what Gabe and Teagan would say.

“I'm very excited. This, I think, will be fun,” she said, giving me an appraising look as she stood up.

“Great,” I responded tepidly, and with that, Daphne tossed her Chanel bag over her shoulder and we headed to the restaurant.

 

My heart sank when I glanced at the prices on the menu. Thirty bucks for pasta? That was so decadent. I was kind of regretting this lunch. I barely liked the company, and to have to dole out that much cash? Daphne must have noticed my face because just as I was scanning for a salad and realizing the cheapest thing on the menu was a side order of boiled spinach, she leaned in and said:

“And lunch is on me, my treat.”

“No, it's okay,” I protested.

She waved her hand in the air. “No, no. I took you to a really nice place, and I insist on paying. So order what you want.”

“Thanks,” I said softly. Phew.

“So Kira, we hardly know you! Tell us about yourself,” said
Daphne, focusing her attention on me after we placed our order.

I looked across the table at Jane and Cecilia, who were nodding with serious faces, urging me on with the same intensity that Dr. Phil uses to urge child molesters to fess up.

“Well, um, what do you want to know?” I asked.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” asked Jane.

“Not right now,” I said. I didn't really want to get into
that
topic.

“Any love interest?” Daphne asked, her eyebrow arched. Yes, I wanted to say, I want
your
boyfriend.

“Not really. I'm kind of, you know, burying my head in right now, trying to work. But what about you guys?” I asked, turning my attention to Jane and Cecilia.

They were much more eager to talk about themselves (enough about me) and launched into a diatribe that lasted through our entrees. Cecilia was deciding between two guys, both really gorgeous and with private jets, she pointed out. Vasilis was a Greek shipping heir who once dated Brittany Murphy (she told me that three times, as if that gave him street cred) and he
adored
her, but she wasn't sure if he could be faithful. Then there was Max, who was so fun and owned a really cool club downtown, but he didn't have a country house, and what was she supposed to do on the weekends? Her parents had been incredibly foolish and bought their estate in the rolling hills of central Connecticut, which, although trendy now and worth millions more than they paid for it (she assured me), was super boring. She wanted to be by the beach.

Jane had been dating Percy Fairbanks, a British lord (second cousin to Prince William) for two years. He was the
sweetest
guy in the world but her parents couldn't stand him because he hadn't gone to college and had no future plans. He was thirteenth in line for the throne, so he'd have to off the twelve dudes in front to even get a crown. Her parents wondered what she would have to talk about with him in the years to come. Judging by how dim Jane seemed, I couldn't imagine it would be a problem.

Then Daphne took her turn. “Well, you know I'm going out with James. He's Victor Ledkovsky's stepson, which is so funny that we have the whole fashion thing in common.”

Right. Hilaaarious!

“But James's real dad is Matthew Carlson—you know,
the
Matthew Carlson.”

Of course I knew who
the
Matthew Carlson was. He founded Carlson Airlines and Carlson Movie Theaters. That was James's father? God, I never would have guessed. This was even more strange than the stepfather connection. He was so low-key, whereas his father was a total publicity whore.

“They're not close, but he's, like, his only son, so he's still his heir,” said Daphne, nodding her head as if Matthew Carlson might have some little bastard baby somewhere who was polishing a gold pacifier, readying for a fight for Daddy's dough.

“Right,” I said. “So what is it you like about James?”

“He's really sweet. Very caring, very thoughtful,” she stated, almost as though she were reciting the facts.

“He's such a doll! He gets her little gifts all the time,” squealed Jane.

“And those letters he writes you!” added Cecilia. “I would die if one of my men wrote those.”

Daphne nodded, pleased. “Yes, sweet.”

I nodded along with them, burning with jealousy. It struck me that Daphne wasn't swooning or giddy about James at all; it was more cold, like he was some trophy boyfriend thanks to his DNA, not his charms.

“You know what, Keerster?” asked Daphne. “We need to set you up. Girls, who do we have for Kira? She's so chic and pretty, we gotta find someone good.”

I suddenly felt flattered. Daphne thought I was chic and pretty? All along I had thought she considered me lame and beneath her.

“What about Michael Martone?” asked Jane.

“Michael Martone…” repeated Daphne, considering the suggestion with squinted eyes and a slow nod, as if imitating Rodin's “The Thinker.” “That could be good. He's cute, and his dad owns one of the big studios. Paramount? Universal? I forget. That's a good idea.”

Despite myself, I suddenly had images of me and this Michael Martone, hand in hand, walking into a premiere in Hollywood as the crowds parted for the son of the studio chief.

“Leo's single again,” said Jane, eyebrows raised.

Leo? As in DiCaprio?

“Oooh, good one,” said Daphne.

Oh my God, already I felt like my fortune was changing. What if I started dating a movie star? That would be too cool. Okay, my mind was racing. But I realized that it felt nice hanging out with Daphne, Jane, and Cecilia. If I was friends with them, I would have a whole different summer experience. Granted, they were self-involved and, for rich people, surprisingly obsessed with other rich people, but they were actually pretty nice. And even their vapid comments were more amusing and harmless than vicious. They called me pretty and wanted to set me up with Leonardo DiCaprio! That wasn't so bad. I had to be on my guard, of course, but what if I had been wrong about them? Maybe I was too judgmental. Maybe I was just jealous so I was being extra-critical. I mean, what could they be using
me
for? To get a good deal on a house in suburban Philly from my mom? Doubt that. It hardly made sense that Daphne would butter me up for something. Maybe she sensed I was competition for the intern in the editor in chief's office, but I doubt that she'd go to extremes to befriend me. Besides, I didn't want to overanalyze everything like I normally do. Sometimes, you just gotta say carpe diem.

“Okay, that's our summer mission, gals,” said Daphne. “Kira, you're not going to slave away at the office anymore. I refuse to let you work late. You're coming out on the town with us, and you're going to get yourself a hottie!”

I admit, I was tempted. Not that I wanted to sell my soul for a guy, but why
not
go for a hottie?

“Yes, and you'll have much more fun with us than those weird Cotton nerds you have to live with,” said Cecilia. I suddenly felt very uncomfortable.

“I know, that guy Gary?” asked Jane.

“Gabe,” I said quietly. Immediately I felt my enthusiasm diminish. I did not want to engage in a bash-fest.

“Yeah, him. He has that total hick thing going on, like he's popped out of the Midwest and decided he's gay and is just going for the total faggy thing. It's so over-the-top,” said Jane. Poor Gabe. I realized in that moment, although I hadn't known him long, that I really liked him.

“I know. Reign it in,” said Daphne.

“He's a really good guy,” I said firmly.

Daphne looked at me curiously, and I could sense that she was surprised I stood up for him. Finally she spoke. “Maybe we just don't know him.”

“And what's up with angry Goth girl?” asked Cecilia. “It's like she's seen too many movies. Give it up.” Now they were skewering Teagan. I looked down at my lap and shifted in my seat, wanting to press the “eject” button.

“Whatever,” said Daphne, again waving her hand in the air. I could tell she liked to do that when she didn't want to hear any conversation that annoyed her. She turned to me. “You don't have to worry about them. I mean, of course you can be friends with whomever you want, but hang with us if you want to have fun and see the real New York. We're your new posse now.”

I wasn't happy that they were so harsh on my roommates because I knew deep down that Gabe and Teagan were much more genuine people than my lunchmates. Then again, Gabe and Teagan weren't exactly going easy on the Trumpettes, either. It wasn't a crime if I hung out with them every now and then. So they're not the brightest bulbs on the porch. So maybe some ulterior motive will pop up and I'll realize why they singled me out. Until then, why not have some fun?

T
he next night, Daphne ‘n' company brought me to what they promised would be “the most amazing party ever” at their friend's parents' apartment. It was a stunning duplex on the Upper East Side, and although the décor was not exactly my style (I'm not into all that American folk art stuff, but I do appreciate it as an art form), the scale and views were breathtaking. I had been promised that there would be “a ton of hot guys there,” but there were only about four totally wasted frat-boy types—who were more interested in taking bong hits than talking—and about
ten nervous, completely decked-out girls who were vying for their attention. I bailed pretty quickly.

It was weird that Daphne never seemed to hang out with James. But Daphne said he wasn't crazy about her friends, and I could see why. So far they'd proven to be superficial and kind of vacant. I still had my doubts about Daphne, but of late she had been nothing except nice to me. Gabe and Teagan were totally giving me crap about hanging with “the Enemy.” They accused me of trying to suck up to the boss's daughter—even though I explained that I just wanted to see how the other half lived, they'd give me an eye roll. It was hard, because it felt so high school to have to choose sides.

On Wednesday, I hit the town with Gabe and Teagan. We went to Williamsburg, the hipster capital, to a club called Lux, where the Scissor Sisters were playing. We Cotton interns all established early on that we worshipped them, so when they announced an impromptu tiny show, we jumped at the chance to snag tix. After work, I mentioned it to Daphne, who had invited me to go out clubbing with them at Marquee, but when I told them I was Brooklyn-bound she was in shock.

“Huh? Like seven-one-eight-land?” Daphne marveled of the non-Manhattan area code. “I sooo don't do outer boroughs,” she said, laughing. “Be careful! Aren't there, like, bullets flying there?”

Anything outside the confines of Fifth Avenue was like
Deliverance
to her.

We got decked out in our glammest duds (including a newly
scored MAC glittery gray shadow for me pilfered from the beauty closet, my one job perk so far) and hit the L train. When we got to the club, the crowd was as sexy and cool as the people at
Skirt
but even edgier because instead of expensive designers, everyone wore an amalgam of vintage threads and duds from up-and-coming designers—like maybe their roommates. A lot of local bands had original costumes made by the other artists in their community, and the onstage look was finally getting exciting again. Like rock stars should be.

As the lights dimmed, the crowd roared, and the band took the stage, Gabe started screeching with glee. It truly was an amazing show. I loved how the music transported me, and I danced along.
This is what it's all about
. Here I was in New York, going to a concert, working at
Skirt
. Could life get any better? As the band played on, Teagan and I screamed and danced until I thought I would pass out. And just as I felt I couldn't be more into the night, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

“Kira? What are you doing here?”

It was James! He looked gorgeous. His black boots, dark blue painter's pants, and cool gray long-sleeve T-shirt with a Japanese rock band on the front made him look so kissable.

“I'm here with Gabe and Teagan,” I said, grabbing them mid-dance and pulling them over to join me. “How 'bout you?”

“I knew Ana—the guitarist—back in San Francisco when I worked there.”

All three of us screamed in unison:
“No way!”

James laughed. “Way. Want to meet her after?”

Is the Pope Catholic?
Yes!

Cut to us all backstage in the greenroom, jaws on the floor. We met the band and had the best time. They couldn't have been more gracious with the effusive compliment-fest that we bestowed upon them. But the best part was just hanging with James and watching him with his friends. He was way more relaxed than he was at work, which I suppose is understandable. It's not like he's uptight, but he is kind of businessy, which is how you should be.

Finally it was Cinderella pumpkin time for me. Naturally, Gabe (who literally had a Niagara Falls of drool talking to Jake, the lead singer) refused to depart at such a tender hour (one o'clock
A.M
.) and Teagan wanted to stay, too.

I told James that while this was the best night ever, I needed to go back and get some z's for another big day toiling away at
Skirt
.

“That's okay,” he said. “I'm actually exhausted. Come on, I'll drive you back.” Wheels? Score.

Gabe gave me a very unsubtle smirk as I left, and James held the door for me as we walked out. The mild summer air amplified by the East River's current blew over us.

“This breeze is such a nice relief from that sweaty club!” I gushed, pushing the hair out of my face.

“Yeah, it's pretty cool you guys could deal with that mosh pit,” James said with a grin. “Daph would probably have freaked. I
don't blame her, though. It gets tight for sure. You just have to surrender to the crowd, I guess.”

“I think she said she's at Marquee. Doesn't that place get crowded?” I asked.

“Not the way she does it. Table service, a bottle of Dom—it's pretty spacious at that level.” He smiled. I noticed he wasn't reverent of the VIP booth but rather semiscoffing.

We got to his car—a Ford hybrid (he was green; so hot!)—and as we drove, I drank in the blinking lights of the majestic skyline in front of us.

“This is so beautiful,” I said. “What a New York moment.”

“Yeah, it's a bummer how many New Yorkers never get to see it, though,” he said wistfully. “You know, they get kind of stuck in their patterns—never leave their little pod and just get out and breathe. Or get to see a view like this…”

We rode in silence for a second, and I couldn't help but wonder if that was a remark about Daphne.

“It's cool you're willing to explore, that you don't feel bound to one small zip code,” he said, looking over at me.

“Well, I think some people from here take it for granted. I just want to gobble it all up. It sounds so cheese but I have dreamed about living here,” I admitted.

“It's not cheese!” he said, looking at me, smiling. “It's great. People like you are the ones who keep New York fresh and edgy and exciting.”

I didn't know how to respond, though I feared my pink cheeks
were doing the talking.

“It's funny to me that you work at
Skirt
,” I said, breaking the quiet.

“Really? Why?” he asked, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye as we crossed the bridge.

“Well, I know you're into photography, and it's, like, in your step-blood, but it seems like you have a lot of other interests.”

“You're right. I do love photography, and obviously
Skirt
is a great magazine for that, despite the critics who disparage fashion magazines, but I don't know. It was just something that I had done; it came easily to me, I know a lot about it, and it was a job out of college. I don't really see working there as a career, though.”

“So you want to branch out, do something totally different?” I asked, amazed at how comfortable I felt with him to be giving him the third degree.

“Maybe,” he said, pausing for a second before blurting out, “I'd secretly love to be a musician.” I swear, his face reddened. “Don't tell anyone,” he added hastily.

“A musician? That's cool.”

“I know, pipe dream, but that's how I got to be such good friends with Ana. We took guitar lessons from the same teacher in San Fran. But I don't think it will happen,” he said, shrugging.

“Why not?” I asked, the image of him strumming a guitar burning in my mind.

“How many people are actually successful at that?” he said. “At least with photography I know I can make a living.”

“You gotta follow your passion. I mean, hello, you're not like fifty with a mortgage and kids' tuitions. No better time than the present to try something that you've always wanted to do.”

“I don't know,” he said, clearly wanting to change the subject, so I dropped it.

I wonder if he had ever fessed up to Daphne about this. Probably. And most likely she shot him down. I would never if he was mine. How hot would it be to have your guy singing up on stage? Tingles.

We rode in silence for a little while until I directed him to my abode. I watched his arm guide the stick shift and almost melted. I couldn't help it—something about him, his warmth, his smile, his cute dorky envirocar, made me swoon.

“This is it,” I said, pointing to the graffitied wall of my building. “Hovel sweet hovel.”

He smiled. “Kira,” he said, and I pictured the letters of my name melting as if made of chocolate, “you have a great way with words.”

Goosebumps.

“I appreciate the lift,” I said, getting out. “Sure beat the train. Thanks for keeping my evening rat free.”

James's eyes widened suddenly as his face registered shock.

“Look out behind you! There's one!”

I shrieked, instantly picturing a pack of canine-size rodents devouring me alive. James started laughing.

“I'm kidding, Kira,” he said, hopping out of the car. “I'm
sorry, I couldn't resist.”

I made a fake-angry face and crossed my arms. “Jerk.”

“Here, I'll walk you to the door and make it up to you.”

We walked up to my crack house slash residence as I fumbled for my keys. “I promise to slay any rodents that cross your path, milady,” he vowed.

“Thanks, Sir Lancelot,” I said, looking at him bathed in the light of the street lantern. “Seriously. For everything. That was so much fun.”

“The pleasure was mine,” he said, turning back down the stairs. “Sweet dreams, Guinevere.”