Summer Intern (7 page)

“I
t's okay,” Gabe cooed, holding my hair back as I leaned over the chipped porcelain toilet in our bathroom. “Do you want some more water?”

He handed me a cup and I gulped down the remaining liquid.

“Here're more towels,” said Teagan, entering the bathroom. “You okay?”

I sat up. “I just can't believe it,” I said for probably the two-hundredth time that night.

“We know,” said Gabe, rubbing my back.

After Alida had said Daphne's name, it was as if time stood still. All I knew is that Daphne and her gang squealed and ran up to Genevieve, and I sat there dumbstruck. As it was near the end of the day, Gabe and Teagan quickly ushered me out of the building before the heaving sobs could come and brought me straight to our apartment, where I proceeded to get drunker than I ever have been in my life, thanks to a bottle of tequila Gabe had managed to buy from a shady liquor store nearby. I am not a big drinker; I'm not even legal. My parents let me have a glass of wine every now and then, but tonight I didn't care. I just did shot after shot (which is disgusting, by the way). And now I was paying the price.

“I think she's done barfing,” Gabe said to Teagan.

“Let's get her up,” said Teagan.

The next thing I knew they each had an arm around me and were practically carrying me into my bed. Teagan had put towels along the floor and squeezed a trash can into the minuscule space between my bed and the wall. Gabe pulled the cover over me and even kissed me good night.

As I lay there, the room spinning, I couldn't stop thinking about the afternoon's turn of events. I wasn't like Veruca Salt from
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
, but my parents had always said work hard and you will get your rewards. It had proven true. Until now. I worked hard and got into Columbia, my dream school. I worked hard and got to be editor in chief of the school newspaper. I worked hard on my essay and got the Cotton internship for
Skirt.
And I worked hard and
didn't
get the internship in
Genevieve's office. It would be one thing if I had had a real competitor. But Daphne totally got the job just because of who she is or, more importantly, who her father is.

Okay, okay, I know I was warned. Gabe and Teagan told me countless times that Daphne had it in the bag. But I was naive. My problem is that I have too much faith in rules and regulations, you know, a strong sense of justice. I believe in taking turns, I believe in democracy. But that's not what the world is like, and I really learned that the hard way today.

I still couldn't get over their flagrant nepotism. “Welcome to the world,” Gabe and Teagan had both said. So I guess this was growing up—learning that if you bust your butt, it's all for naught. I was pretty discouraged. I was also embarrassed. I had told everyone that I wanted the job. James knew, Richard knew, Alida knew, and Daphne knew. And now they all knew that I had failed. It was mortifying.

Why the hell did Daphne even need the internship? She was guaranteed a job there anyway. She was probably just that type of girl who needed to always get that golden ticket. Veruca Salt. Why couldn't she realize she didn't need this position to get where she needed to be? She could have just stepped aside and let me get it. I knew that wasn't realistic, but I wasn't feeling rational. My confidence was totally shaken. I just wanted to quit. The more I thought about it, the more that seemed like the right decision. Tomorrow morning I was going to tell Alida and leave. Sorry to disappoint the people at Cotton, but this girl was going Wool.

 

“I'm really sorry about this,” Alida said, her voice extremely serious.

I had planned to go marching dramatically into her office and hand her a resignation letter, but before I could, she grabbed me and pulled me into the Xerox room.

“I am, too,” I said, preparing to make my speech. Gabe and Teagan had been pleading with me all morning to change my mind, telling me it would be the stupidest thing I would ever do, that I was just being stubborn and defensive, get over it and forget the whole thing, and start having some fun this summer. But I was planning on ignoring their advice.

“Kira, everyone here knows you deserved that internship. I shouldn't be telling you this, so please don't repeat it, but we all know why Daphne got it,” she said, pushing her hair behind her ear. “It's ridiculous, but our hands were tied. Let's face it: Her dad's our boss, and what she wants, he wants. It was a huge, huge scandal a few summers back when her stepsister didn't get it. This time, there was nothing we could do.”

“I'm sorry to hear that, but it doesn't make it better for me,” I said, feeling brave. “I worked really hard and I feel like I was robbed. So I have no choice—” But before I could finish, Alida cut me off.

“I know, and everyone here loooves you. So what I want to say is that even though this sucks, please don't leave or do anything silly, because we all totally want to recommend you for a job as
soon as you graduate from college.”

A job? I blinked a few times, just to see clearly.
They loved me?
Suddenly, my shoulders collapsed and I felt as if I could breathe. “Really? Wow, I don't know what to say.”

“It's true. So please, just stay the course, and keep doing what you're doing. I'm sure you feel the world is so unfair—and it can be, as you've seen—but it's the last battle that counts, and in the long haul, hard work is rewarded.”

“Thanks, Alida. Thanks so much.”

I was psyched. Okay, so good can come out of bad. Things can happen in a different order. When I exited the Xerox room, Gabe and Teagan were lingering, pretending to fax something so that they could find out what went down. I waited for Alida to be out of earshot before whispering, “It's all cool.”

“Yay! So you'll stay?” asked Gabe.

“Totally.”

We group hugged, but when we split apart I spotted Daphne waltzing in with a cup of Starbucks.

“Hey!” she said with a wave, before turning left toward Genevieve's office.

Although Alida had quelled my desire to bolt, I still felt that tingle of rage inside me.

B
ack slaving in CeCe-land, my newly empowered ego was just beginning to wither again (amid her cries of “You idiot! You
know
we don't use redheads for beauty stories!”) when Richard entered in a frenzy and announced in high-dramatic fashion that he was dyyyying and needed me “desperately” due to an unforeseen “crisis of epic proportions.”

There wasn't much to say to that, especially with Richard's flailing limbs and woe-is-me stressface, so CeCe ceded possession of me. I nervously gathered my things and followed Richard
obediently around the corner to the elevator. As the doors closed, he launched into an explanation.

“I have to go to this stupid accessories shoot called the Forensic Files—Genevieve wanted all the models to be like dead people in chalk outlines. Raymond Meier's shooting, he's a genius. He'll make it great. We got Marilyn Manson's makeup artist to do it. It should be cool,” Richard rambled a mile a minute.

Huh? “But what was the crisis?”

“Nothing! I just wanted some company. If I'm gonna sit on my ass for six hours, I want a buddy with me. Oh, but you do have one duty: I'm giving you strict instructions to keep my fat ass away from the catering table!”

I smiled, exhaling, feeling so lucky to have bonded with Richard. “Thank you so much,” I said, hugging him.

“Hon, like those McDonald's people say, you deserve a break today,” he said, patting my head sweetly. “And speaking of cows, don't you dare let that Daddy's girl get you down, 'k?”

“Okay.”

We hopped in a cab to the glamorous Industria Superstudio, a series of skylit lofts where some of the most famous fashion campaigns and magazine editorials are shot. In the hallway were mobs of people—models all in peacock feathers, little kids on a children's clothing modeling audition, and Jessica Alba, with her entourage, getting ready for a
Cosmo
shoot.

In the
Skirt
studio, I watched intently as the models lay cadaver-like on the floor with the pedicurist attaching toe tags while hair stylists tended to their locks. It was darkly fascinating, and I
was kind of obsessed watching everything unfold.

One of the photographer's assistants saw me standing by and asked if I'd “be a dear” and run to the nearby Tortilla Flats to score some chips for the gang. Apparently the catering table was way too fancy-pants, with lobster salad on endive, lemon sea bass, and frisée salad. I nodded and obediently headed out on my errand.

As I walked around the corner, the warm breeze from the Hudson hit me and I suddenly felt happy I decided to stay. What the hell would I have done in Philly, anyway? It was too late in the summer to get a job. Just then, I saw a massive limousine pull up to a small restaurant about halfway down the block. I wondered if some actress was going to get out. Or a rock star. But I couldn't believe it when I saw Alida. With an older man. He looked familiar to me, but I didn't quite recognize him. He was short but powerful looking, with a gray suit and leather briefcase.

She followed him to the café door. Wait, was she seeing this older guy behind her boyfriend's back? I saw her look both ways before entering, and luckily she didn't catch me staring from the opposite corner. It definitely seemed like she didn't want anyone to see her. A sugar daddy? Hmmm…I was curious. But I decided to keep it to myself, since I knew how gossip lit up the fashion live wire with wagging tongues and stealthy whispers. It was none of my business.

I turned to enter Tortilla Flats after my streetside spy-fest and heard my name. It was James. I hadn't seen him since the big announcement. And though I knew he was well aware of the
politics involved, I somehow felt embarrassed that I hadn't won the gig.

“Hey you,” he said, breathless. “I just got to the shoot and they told me where you'd gone. Listen, Kira—” he said, following me to the ordering counter. We stood face-to-face under the bedecked ceiling crammed with Mexican streamers, tinsel, and trinkets. “Sorry. About that internship—” he continued, shrugging, “I know how hard you've worked.”

“I'm over it,” I said, shrugging away his concern. Sure, I was a big liar and still bitter, but Alida's words continued to be a soothing balm on the wound of rejection.

“That's good,” said James, not quite believing me. He hesitated a second before saying, “You know, I'd be furious if I were you.”

“You would?”

“Of course. The whole situation sucks. So transparent. Really lame.”

“Thanks. It's good to know I'm not the only one who thinks so.”

We placed our orders and a smug smile crept across my face. Daphne may have gotten the internship, but she'd succeeded in making some enemies along the way and lost a boyfriend—all because of me.

“Ready?” James said, opening the door for me.

“Ready,” I nodded. And I was. As always, just talking to James made me feel better.

“H
ow about this? It would look awesome on you with your cute little butt,” said Gabe, holding up a gold lamé micro-mini.

“Um, I don't think so,” I said, and continued to plunder through the racks of clothes.

“These are so genius,” said Teagan, pulling brown leather sandals with a cork heel out of the shoe bin and trying them on for size. “Perfect fit!”

It was five o'clock on Teagan's birthday, and in a few hours we were planning to rage and blow off some serious steam. We were
in the fashion closet at
Skirt
, scanning through all the clothes that had already been photographed and trying to find cool outfits to wear to our first trip to Melt, a hot new club in the Meatpacking District. While technically it was against the rules to borrow from the closet,
everyone
did it, including all of the top editors and Genevieve herself. Very little fashion was ever returned to the clothing designers who lent them out for shoots, and usually at the end of the season, people were permitted to take what “swag” they wanted. (There was a hierarchy, of course—more senior editors got to go first, then associates, assistants, and what was left went to the interns.)

“Oh my God, I have to have these!” squealed Gabe, trying on some strappy sandals. “They are just too sweet to pass up.”

“Come on, you can't wear those,” I said.

“Why? Because I'm a guy? Why do the girls get all the good stuff?”

“Here's a cool leather bracelet—this is unisex. Check it out,” I said, tossing it to him.

“Fits like a charm,” said Gabe. “
J'adore
Dior.”

“What are you doing?” a voice from the doorway demanded.

We all turned around. It was Daphne.

“Oh, hey, Daph, we're just messing around, trying on some stuff,” I said casually.

Daphne's mouth contorted into a frown and she crossed her arms sternly. “You know you're not supposed to be in here without any editors.”

Gabe and Teagan glanced at each other with looks of disgust, then shrugged.

“Come on, Daph, you know everyone checks out the closet,” I said.

“I certainly hope you weren't planning on borrowing anything. That's against the rules and I would have to report you,” she said, staring at me coldly.

I couldn't believe her. She had no idea that I overheard her bashing me in the closet, and nothing had been said between us about the internship. I'd played it cool and let her glory in her new status, content in the knowledge that the people who mattered to me knew the real situation.

“What's the deal, Daphne? Is something wrong?” Treat bees with honey, treat bees with honey.

I watched her flex her calf muscles, which she often did when she was wearing really high heels, and then saw her eyes move from me to Gabe to Teagan.

“There's been some theft of late. Genevieve is
really
concerned, and she asked me to look into it. In fact, she put me in charge of finding out who it is, and I'm working with management now, trying to crack the case. I would
really
hate to find out that one of you had something to do with it.”

Oh. My. God. What a raging beeyotch. She'd hinted at something like this that day I'd overheard her, when she and James split up. Was she really going to sink so low?

Teagan and Gabe were too astonished to speak, so I had to.

“Daphne, of course we have nothing to do with it. We're merely trying on clothes, like you and Jane and Cecilia do
all the time
,” I said, kind of losing my cool. “So if it's a problem for you, since you've essentially been assigned to be hall monitor, we will leave.”

Teagan and Gabe followed me out. We brushed past her and left her standing on the threshold, arms folded, expression sour.

When we got downstairs we all burst out laughing.

“She is evil!” said Teagan. “What a diva whip cracker!”

“Can you deal with how she said she had to ‘crack the case'? Is she Hercule Poirot now?” I asked.

“She's a total clam!” pronounced Gabe. “Actually, she's a
quahog
.”

“A
what
?” laughed Teagan between guffaws.

“A quahog is a giant North Atlantic clam. With Daphne Hughes's spoiled face on it.”

We giggled, picturing the heiress as a bottom-feeding mollusk.

 

Later that night we all put Daphne out of our mind and went to Melt, which was amazing. I was so nervous about using my fake ID. My cousin Charlotte had given me her driver's license, and she looked a lot like me, but I wasn't sure it was going to work. Gabe told me I was being
ridiculous
and that Charlotte and I were as similar as the Olsen twins, but my heart was pounding as Teagan and I followed a confident Gabe past the crowds of “201's and 516's,” as Daphne would say, referring to the New Jersey and Long Island area codes. As we approached the velvet
ropes, my hand shook as I retrieved Char, my drink-pounding, 2-D alter ego.

“We work for
Skirt
,” said Teagan. Trixie and Lilly, the market editors, had alerted us to the fact that it worked magic if we ever wanted to cut a line. Clubs liked to be associated with the hippest publications on the planet, which made sense. It also usually worked for getting reservations at new restaurants and tickets for premieres.

The humongous bald bouncer barely even looked at Teagan or me, stopping only to inspect Gabe's butt, then shrugging and letting him in.

The club was cool, not like one of those thumping techno music places where you can't see or hear anyone, but more like a 1940s swanky lounge. The walls were wood-paneled, and leather booths featured on each table cute little lamps with covered lamp shades. I felt like I was in a speakeasy, but I guess that was the point.

While I was disappointed I hadn't been able to snag a cool outfit from the closet, I had made do in a very thin white leather shirt slash jacket and a diaphanous layered lilac skirt that was from agnès b. like twenty years ago. I had also splurged on cool dangling earrings from an up-and-coming designer in NoLita.

Gabe and I had just finished singing “Happy Birthday” to Teagan over the DJ's remixes when Gabe's jaw dropped as he grabbed my arm.

“Okay, ten o'clock there is the hottest guy!” squealed Gabe.

“
Ten o'clock
? Where the hell is that?” asked Teagan, who was already a bit tipsy from the mojitos.

“Over there,” said Gabe, abandoning his code and flagrantly pointing to a guy at the bar.

He
was
hot. He looked like Brad Pitt when he was still with Jennifer Aniston but right before their divorce, when he had that short cropped blondish haircut pre-
Troy
, but not as blond as it was when he was with Gwyneth Paltrow, and also about twenty years younger. And his clothes were cool, kind of black on black (shirt, pants) that were more thrown on than contrived to be a badass. Just as I was staring at him he turned and caught my eye and smiled, holding up his beer bottle as if to say “cheers.”

“He just smiled at me! Oh my God, heart palpitations,” said Gabe, fanning himself.

Wait, wasn't he smiling at me?

“Really?” I asked, confused.

“Go talk to him! Go talk to him!” commanded Teagan, waving her mini-drink-straw in the air. I stayed out of it.

“Should I?” asked Gabe, turning and stealing a glance at the guy again.

“Totally!” urged Teagan.

Gabe took a swig of his drink and got up, emboldened. I watched him walk over to the Brad Pitt guy and say something. God, this was either going to be amazing for Gabe or really mortifying. I saw Gabe throw his head back and laugh, then point to our table, put his hand on Brad Pitt's, really flirty, then guide him
toward us. So I was wrong. He
had
smiled at Gabe. But as Gabe sat down, his eyes widened.

“Guys, this is Matt,” said Gabe.

“Hey,” said Matt, staring at me as I greeted him. Up close he looked less like Brad but was still
gorgissimo
. He had amazing hazel eyes, with brown and green flecks. “Mind if I join you?”

He slid into the booth without waiting for our response.

“So Matt here is drowning his sorrows cause he just broke up with his
girlfriend
,” said Gabe, enunciating the last word.

Girlfriend? So I was right! Ha.

“So I told him he had to come over to our table right away if he wanted to be cheered up. He thought I was hitting on him, silly boy, but I told him I was sitting with two very lovely ladies,” said Gabe quickly.

“And he was right,” said Matt, again staring at me.

“Great, well, nice to meet you,” I said.

“So what's your number, Matt?” asked Teagan bluntly.

Instead of being put off by her brusque manner, Matt smiled. “My number? Eleven.”

I laughed and Gabe giggled.

“Seriously, I just graduated from Georgetown, headed to law school in the fall, and am taking the summer off. I did some traveling for two months, and now I'm just hanging.”

“Where are you going to law school?” I asked. Columbia, please!

“Harvard?” he said, as if he wasn't sure I'd heard of it.

“Why is it that people who go to Harvard always say it like it's a question? Harvard? Do you know it?” said Teagan, mocking him.

But Matt laughed in agreement. “You're right, so lame.” Then he deepened his voice dramatically. “I'm going to Harvard.”

I liked a guy who had a sense of humor about himself.

“That's better,” said Teagan.

“Now tit for tat. Tell me who you guys are and what you're doing here,” he said, looking at me again.

We spent the next forty-five minutes downloading our lives and filling him in on
Skirt
and the recent Daphne debacle. Matt listened intently and laughed at all the right places. He even offered relationship advice to Gabe, who was bemoaning the lack of male attention. That was cool. So often straight guys are totally squeamish and immature when it comes to gay men. But Matt seemed not to care that Gabe was gay, earning bonus points in my book. By the end of the conversation, Matt was even pointing out potential suitors to Gabe, which had us all in fits of laughter.

Later, Teagan and Gabe got up to dance, and Matt and I were left alone.

“Your friends are funny,” he said.

“I know,” I said. I had
really
lucked out with these roomies.

“Do you want to dance?” he asked. Wow. Bold! I got a wave of that nervous excitement when you know someone seems into you. Too bad I sucked at dancing.

“I'd love to, but I'm inept,” I said.

“Come on,” he said. “No one is worse than me.”

“Alright,” I said, finally agreeing.

He was right about being a pretty bad dancer, but actually I didn't care, because before long we weren't really dancing, just kind of swaying closely for what seemed like hours. When Gabe and Teagan decided they'd had enough, we all left together. It was kind of a shock to be out on the street after so many hours in the dark club. Teagan and Gabe walked a bit ahead of us toward the subway, and Matt put his arm around me.

“So can I call you?” asked Matt at the subway steps.

“Sure,” I said, scribbling my number on a scrap piece of paper. Butterflies!

“Great,” he said, leaning in to give me a small kiss on my lips. A perfect kiss, not too long, not too short, but lip to lip. I slept very well.