Game Changer

by Stewart, Sylvie

  I’m at a bit of a loss. Athena Lennox, badass publisher-at-large, sits across the conference room table waiting for an answer to her question about a color story I proposed. It’s not that I don’t have a response at the ready—I’m confident the vibrant violet theme is on the nose. No. The problem is the huge mouthful of what I was told was iced tea pooling in my mouth like a partially dissolved aspirin on my tongue. In a word, it’s revolting.

  I put up a finger in the universal gesture for “give me one frickin’ minute while I try not to spit my drink on your flawless silk blouse” and breathe through my nose. But there’s nothing I can do but force the vile concoction down my throat in one painful gulp. So I do, setting off a violent coughing fit that has me sounding like a chain smoker sucking on his last cigarette.

  “Are you okay?” Athena shifts back the tiniest bit in her chair—not that I can blame her.

  My finger goes up again, this time communicating I need a minute to either continue dying or get control of myself. A good thump to my chest helps out and I’m finally able to speak. Or, more accurately, croak.

  “Sorry.” I just know my fair skin is red enough to match my damn hair. “I thought this was iced tea. It surprised me.” I push the plastic cup as far away as possible.

  Athena’s eyebrows spike. “It is.” From what I’ve learned so far, my new sort-of boss has that thing every woman wants. And I’m not talking about the posh job, the killer boobs, or the devoted husband. Athena Lennox has her shit together. I’ve decided she’s my new idol.

  And, as I have no desire to look any more idiotic in front of her than I already do, I bring the conversation back to topics I’ve got a firm grasp of.

  “Ultraviolet is the unofficial color of the year, so we’d be crazy not to take advantage of it for the first issue. With our own spin, of course. We don’t want to trend too young.” I slide another page layout in front of her with a stunning mix of violets and grays. “The combination is appealing to both men and women.”

  Athena nods as she leans forward, bringing her reading glasses to rest on her nose before examining the page design. I want to bite my nails, but I promised myself I wouldn’t do that anymore, and I’m actually to the point where I might be able to get a manicure one day. We’re waiting for photography and copy, but I’m hoping Athena can still envision the design as being right in line with the brand identity we’ve worked out over the past couple weeks.

  “I love it. Get the latest copy from Katlyn and Naveed and let’s take it for a test drive.” She removes the glasses and leans back again, holding the temples between her fingers. Her every movement is so natural and confident.

  I remember to straighten my back and check my accent.

  “Terrific! We’ll get it finalized, then.”

  I’ve been working with everyone remotely from Savannah for the last few weeks, so I’m up to speed on the project and I’m familiar with most team members—as much as you can be over email and the occasional FaceTime call. But it’s always different in person. Back there, I’d be wearing my jeans or shorts and bare feet while I video-conferenced at my desk. From the waist up, I was a slick, Iris-approved executive. From the waist down, I was Daisy-freakin’-Duke. But now that I’m in New York, shit is getting real.

  Let me repeat that. I’m in New York. I’m in New York! The Big Apple. Gotham. Empire City. The place where Moonstruck was filmed and toilet paper was invented (you don’t believe me, look it up). The city that never sleeps—a fact I know to be true from the drunk person belting out “Dancing with a Stranger” last night on the sidewalk outside Katelyn’s apartment.

  But finally being here means I feel like I’m “on” all the time. I was brought in for this exceptional opportunity and I need to get it right. Iris’s voice constantly echoes in my head. Don’t even think about putting on those flip flops, Poppy. Throw away that ponytail holder, Poppy. Stop saying y’all, Poppy. Try the green juice, Poppy. It’s supposed to be chewy, Poppy. It’s exhausting trying to hold up this high-class persona. Not to mention I’ve almost bitten a hole straight through my tongue keeping myself from responding, “Yes, ma’am” and “Yes, sir” to every person who speaks to me.

  Except when it’s just me and Katelyn, that is.

  The first time she heard my new “Northern” accent on a video call, I thought she was gonna fall out of her chair. Luckily, she’s an excellent friend and didn’t call me out in front of everybody. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t hear all about it later on.

  “What the hell was that all about? ‘I don’t believe so, Athena, but I’ll verify.’” Her imitation of me was spot on, I hate to say.

  “Hush up, will you?” I had half a mind to hang up on her.

  Katelyn laughed. “The Poppy I know would have thrown at least a couple ‘I reckon’s and a good-old-fashioned ‘Later, y’all!’ in there somewhere. It’s not like they don’t know you’re from Georgia.”

  I stood and padded to the door to make sure Cookie wasn’t anywhere in earshot. The coast was clear, but I still closed my door. “Look, I’ll already be the new girl, not to mention one of the youngest people at this level. The last thing I need is for people to have any reason to not take me seriously.”

  The first time I was made project leader on a rebrand for a regional publication, I dealt with a few designers who didn’t appreciate reporting to a woman half their age. I worked my ass off and eventually won the grudging respect of two of them, but some people will just never accept anything but what their own outdated thinking dictates. And now that I’m entering the piranha-infested jungle swamp that is New York’s magazine publishing industry, I’ll need all the armor I can wear.

  “Oh, come on. Your work speaks for itself. And you forget Athena and Natalie already met the real you.”

  I bit my lip. “I was kinda banking on them maybe being too drunk to remember.”

  She snickered and I couldn’t help but laugh at myself.

  Kate and I have an interesting relationship. It’s one of those where we don’t see or talk to each other for ages but when we finally do, we fall right back into conversation like we’d never been apart. We met in college when we both decided to do summer internships in the Appalachian Mountains working in disadvantaged communities. We clicked from day one and have stayed in touch on and off since, despite living eight hundred miles apart. It was pure chance that had me looking her up in New York last month when I decided to escape there on a whim.

  “All right. I’ll keep your dirty little secret for now, but I happen to love your accent.”

  “Aw, shucks, Kate.” I purposely drew out the drawl. “I reckon I ain’t never had a compliment so dang sweet.”

  The sound of her laugh hit my ears just before the dial tone. The bitch hung up on me!

  But I’ve stuck to my guns and I’m working this new, improved Poppy. My New York Poppy. Kind of like Clark Kent and Superman. Nobody ever gives Superman a hard time, but plenty of people treat Clark like a nobody from Smallville. And I can’t afford to be a nobody.

  I still can’t believe I got this gig at Warbey. It’s the stuff of dreams for a design junkie like me. Okay, so maybe it’s not official, but I’m getting paid so that counts for something. Now we just have to finish the research and this prototype so Athena can present it to the board of directors at Warbey. With any luck, they’ll approve the transition from stale homemaker’s magazine (that gives women crazy-ass ideas like cross-stitching flags on perfectly good luggage) to a fresh, stylish guide for women and men looking to strike a balance in their lives and do it with a flourish. Goodbye to Warbey’s Home Living and hello to Work.Home.Life. WHL.

  It’s not like they don’t have other publications at Warbey, but Warbey’s Home Living used to be their flagship magazine. Every woman in twentieth-century America had a subscription to the damn thing. But it’s been the twenty-first century for going on twenty years now and it’s high time for an overhaul before the circulation numbers finish circling the drain. There
are only so many Bunnys in this world who still consider greeting your husband at the door with a cocktail and his favorite slippers as the way to please a man. From what I can tell, today’s man would much rather come home to a nice blow job. The cocktail is optional.

  Not that the new, improved WHL will be giving out that kind of advice, but it’s downright naïve to ignore sex in this day and age. Athena’s team has been busting their asses to come up with a winning variety of content. We’ve all offered our own suggestions, of course—you know, since it’s fun—but the look of the new magazine is my job. If we pull this off, I’ll be the creative director of a real live national publication. I’ve been pinching myself so often I’m likely to have a nice collection of bruises.

  “Honey, I’m home!” I close the door behind me and crane my neck to see if Katelyn’s home yet. As far as New York apartments go, hers is huge, I’m told. But it still feels a bit like a shoebox to me. She’s lucky because her grandma lived here for ages so it’s one of the few rent-controlled apartments in the neighborhood. There’s hardly room for a kitchen table, and the kitchen itself is about half the size of my old one in Savannah, but I can’t complain.

  Kate has been nice enough to let me stay here as long as I need, and her guest bed is a pillowy heaven. I’m dreading shopping for my own place, but I need to do it soon. As in, tomorrow. Ugh. I’m not taking advantage of Kate’s hospitality any longer than strictly necessary. You know what they say about houseguests: they’re like fish. After three days they start to stink.

  I can hear the shower running, so I wander to the kitchen to grab a snack while I wait for Kate to finish. It took me forever to get back to her place from work because the sidewalks and subway were jammed like you’d expect on a Friday at rush hour. I didn’t dare descend to the 7th Avenue station until seven o’clock or I’d have likely been crushed to death or had a panic attack from the swarm of warm bodies.

  But I’m here now and it’s my first Friday in New York. I secretly hope Katelyn has plans for us tonight. The last time I was here, we had a blast, but I know that was just because I was on a short vacation of sorts. I have to assume tequila shots aren’t Kate’s norm on a Thursday night. But I still want to go out. I want to see the city at night again and go dancing or something. Anything to celebrate my new life—my new freedom!

  I shove a handful of raisins in my mouth just as Katelyn emerges from the bathroom—in her pajamas. Now, I’ve watched Sex and the City so I know there are plenty of night clubs here with weird-ass themes. Yet I’m guessing none of them call for sleep attire. Sigh.

  “How old are you?”

  Katelyn gasps and brings a hand to her boobs.

  “Crap! You scared me.”

  “You’re really not helping your case by clutching your pearls, Kate.” I grin at her and throw a few more raisins in my mouth.

  She scowls at me. “Give me a break. I’m still not used to having anybody here.”

  I feel guilty for a hot second before I remember I’ll probably be living in my own shoebox with six roommates come next week. I was warned everybody here has roommates and lives in a hellhole. But I still know it’s time for me to find a place of my own.

  But, more importantly, it’s time to go dancing.

  “Tell me you’re not going to bed.” I gesture up and down her frame, indicating her matching cotton shorts and cami. “It’s like seven thirty.”

  She strides past me and I don’t miss her slight chin raise as she grabs her laptop from the counter. “I have work to do. The story assignments aren’t going to make themselves. And if I have any hope of catching up with you or Zach—” Her words skid to a stop before she stalks past me again on her way to the couch. “Anyway, I need to buckle down and catch up this weekend.”

  My grin is huge now, and I suppress the urge to sing a version of “Kate and Zach Sittin’ in a Tree.” She’s got a new boyfriend, but she’s staying pretty tight-lipped about it.

  I watch her again as her brow furrows at something on her laptop and she chews on her lip. I guess I hadn’t realized just how stressed she was, but it shouldn’t surprise me. She’s got a gazillion people under her at Warbey and she ditched her old job to take a chance on this new magazine. I set down my box of raisins and go over to the couch.

  “Can I do anything to help?” I plop down beside Kate and rest my head on her shoulder.

  She turns, one corner of her mouth lifting. “No. But thanks.” She sighs and rests her head against mine, her straight blond bob getting caught up in my crazy red mess of hair. “Sorry to flake on you your first weekend here.”

  “It’s okay. I should probably spend tonight calling everyone back home to assure them I haven’t been murdered or kidnapped yet.”

  “Has Bobby Lee called?”

  I cough out a laugh and straighten to look at her. “Surprisingly, no.”

  “Wow. I think I underestimated him. Of course, you know, he could be on his way here right now to throw you over his shoulder and drag you back to Savannah.”

  I straighten and fake a shudder, but I don’t have to work too hard at it.

  “Okay, that settles it. I’m going out. I can’t be here when he comes knockin’.” I jump up from the couch.

  “I’ll just tell him you found your own place when he shows up at the door.” She grins at me. “If he asks for the address I’ll say cardboard boxes don’t get house numbers around here.”

  It’s my turn to laugh, but I’m not joking about going out. It’s my first Friday in the Big Apple and I’m not spending it in my pjs reassuring Cookie and Mama that I’m following their advice and walking around double-fisting pepper spray. I mean, really, how much trouble can a girl get into going dancing?

  * * *

  “Here you go.” One of those mini glass bottles of Coke appears on the speckled countertop before me with a thud, the condensation beading and dripping down the slim container.

  I grasp it and bring it to my lips where I greedily suck the contents down my dry throat, not stopping to thank the waitress or caring that I just paid four dollars for the lousy thing. Cookie would be utterly appalled by every aspect of my behavior, but she’s not here. Here being the broiler pit of Satan that is New York City in midsummer. Who knew?

  Dropping the empty bottle back to the counter, I gasp in a breath and pull at my top for the eightieth time in the last hour and a half. It must be all the tall buildings; they don’t allow for any breeze. Combine that with the congested traffic and the sidewalks that absorb the sun’s rays by day only to spit them back out at night, and I’m beginning to feel like Georgia might not be the hottest spot on earth anymore.

  I know I should have been drinking water all night, but it’s not as easy as it sounds. The lines are long and there’s not a drinking fountain or vending machine in sight. I guess I should have stopped at the bodega down the street from Kate’s apartment, but it was hard enough getting out of there in the first place.

  It seems Katelyn thought I was kidding when I said I was going out on my own for a night on the town. So, when I emerged from the bathroom with fresh makeup and my favorite sparkly top, I got her panic eyes.

  “You can’t go out by yourself.” Kate’s hands dropped from her laptop to the couch cushions.

  I smiled and continued to the kitchen to grab my purse. “Uh, why not, Mama? I swear I finished my homework.”

  “Not funny.”

  Not wanting to make her feel bad, I reined in my sarcasm. “I won’t go far, and I promise I’ll take a taxi home.”

  She scoffed. “Yeah, Poppy. Be sure to tell the guy who roofies you to tip well.”

  I zipped my purse and leaned against the counter to face her. “I’ll be fine. I’m not even planning on drinking. I just want to go out.”

  Kate bit her lip and looked down to her laptop again before setting it aside and standing. “Haven’t you ever heard of the buddy system? It was invented for single women in New York.” She scurries toward her room. “I’m coming wi
th you.”

  She was like a mama bear protecting her cub from the poachers—and the sleazy dudes of Midtown.

  “Kate, no.” I moved to cut her off. “You said yourself you need to catch up on work. I refuse to be an inconvenience or get in the way of your badass-ness.”

  The corner of her mouth lifted. “Is that a technical term?”

  “Yeah.”

  She tilted her head. “You know you could never be an inconvenience, right?”

  I smiled and smushed her in a hug, further cementing my resolve to find my own place before I got Kate fired or gave her an ulcer.

  “And you know I’ve got two cans of pepper spray in my purse and dead-to-nuts aim with these boots, right?”

  It took a bit of convincing, but she finally relented once I downloaded a locator app on my phone and promised not to talk to any boys.

  And I’ve kept my promise, not that it’s been too hard. For one, I haven’t found a single place that might have a dance floor—apart from a small jazz club I’d need a week’s rent to pay cover entry for. Second, there’s something seriously wrong with the men here. Or, at least the men I’ve encountered tonight. Half of them are prettier than me and the other half look directly through me. It’s a whole lotta weird.

  The only attention I’ve gotten was from a homeless guy who called me Daphne and asked if he could see my underwear. I politely declined and got my ass out of there.

  Despite the heat, I’ve noticed everyone is dressed like they’re on their way to the office, making me wonder exactly how late things get started around here. As far as I can tell, it might be past my bedtime.

  So, I’ve been walking. Past the clusters of narrow restaurants and newsstands, past the slick suits drinking at the whiskey bar with their two-hundred-dollar haircuts and freshly-shaved chins. And right on by the twenty-somethings dressed in black pants and ponytails hoofing their way down to the subway for their shifts at one restaurant or another. The city is alive. And it’s frenetic.

  I swear, the sidewalks are a perpetual starting line of the Boston Marathon, people on all sides trying to push their way to the front of the pack for a breakaway. And I’m that racer who forgot to train and chugged a bottle of wine the night before the big race. It’s enough to make a girl downright claustrophobic.