Slashing Mona Lisa

by D. M. Barr

  Elegant and he owns a magazine? Camarin’s heart skipped a beat.

  “That’s such a coincidence. I’m just coming from an interview with a magazine.”

  “Some might call it a coincidence. I call it kismet,” the man said as he held out his hand. “Lyle Fletcher, fledgling publisher.”

  Chapter 2

  As the train rolled down the tracks toward Manhattan, Camarin sensed her future suddenly lurching ahead as well. “Camarin Torres, journalism and prelaw major. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  She reached out to shake his hand, eager to see if his grip would be as firm as she imagined, but the conductor interrupted, asking to punch their tickets. There was no way to try again without looking awkward, so she swallowed her disappointment and returned her hand to her side.

  Fletcher broke the pregnant pause. “So, there must be many professions out there for someone as bold and beautiful as you. Why journalism and law?”

  Camarin’s face grew warm. Had anyone else handed her that line, she would have regarded it as a come-on. But he seemed sincere, so she felt comfortable opening up. “All my life I’ve seen bullying and discrimination. As a child, I felt helpless to stop it. But as an adult, I can make a difference.”

  “Bullying because of your ethnicity? You’re...”

  “My mother’s side of the family comes from Guam. But no, fortunately, I’ve encountered very little bias because of my roots. Maybe it’s because we live just outside Los Angeles, where I’m part of a large Chamorro community who share an intense sense of cultural pride. In fact, I think my background may have worked in my favor, that push for diversity in colleges and all.”

  “So, discriminated against as a woman?”

  “No again,” she said, reluctant to share too much of her past with a stranger, no matter how charming. “Let’s just say I’ve seen how cruel people can be to those who don’t quite fit in, no matter how hard they try. I’m going to make sure that doesn’t happen to anyone else ever again.”

  “You’re going to personally end intolerance?” Fletcher seemed both dubious and amused.

  “Well, at least make a sizeable dent in it,” she said with a smile. It wasn’t the first time that people had appeared incredulous at her idealism. “You’re speaking to the world’s first female Chamorro anti-discrimination crusader. After graduation anyway. And eventually law school, when I can afford it.”

  “Lofty ambitions. You’ll need them in a world that doesn’t always cooperate with people’s dreams. Again, I’m impressed.”

  “Thank you,” she said, her face growing even hotter. A charismatic publisher thought she was impressive. A once-disappointing day was rapidly metamorphosing into something magical, like a child’s giant, colorful carnival balloon.

  “Have you interviewed at my magazine, Trend?”

  Pop! Camarin did her best not to cringe with contempt. Trend represented everything in the world she’d come to hate: the brainwashing of women to fit into narrow, permissible roles dictated by fashion designers and greedy advertisers. And this man, appealing or not, was one of their leaders. Camarin paused, trying to formulate a polite and diplomatic response.

  “You have heard of it, right?”

  “Yes, of course. But no, I didn’t interview there. No offense, but as you said, it’s failing. As a matter of fact, I turned down an unsolicited offer from one of your competitors, Drift. I’m just interested in more…serious publications.”

  “No offense taken,” he said with a grin. “I realize that up to now Trend has just covered style and gossip—total fluff. That’s what I’m planning to change. In your words, go in a more serious direction.”

  She wondered if the comment was authentic or if he was just another jerk and this was an excuse that allowed him to live with himself. They remained quiet for a bit, and then curiosity got the better of her.

  “I didn’t realize Trend is based in Westchester.”

  Fletcher’s face clouded over. “No, it’s in Manhattan. I was out here today because…my late wife owned a condo in White Plains that we’d been renting out. I was just meeting with the real estate agent I might hire to sell it for me.”

  Cam looked down at her pumps, annoyed at herself for bringing up such a sensitive subject. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “Of my wife or the condo?”

  She glanced back, astonished. He started to laugh, and she felt the earlier harshness of her judgment soften by a smidgen. He really was quite charming—for a body shamer.

  “Are you ever serious?” she asked.

  “Oh, when I am, you’ll definitely know it. Like now. How many years of college do you have left?”

  His tone switched from whimsical to all business, and something about the way he commanded control sent a shiver up her spine. Hot as hell. Dammit. “About a month. Then I’m done.”

  The conductor announced that they would soon be arriving at Grand Central Station, their final destination, and the windows grew dark as they entered the tunnel.

  He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a business card. It read Trend Magazine, with a fashionable NoHo address, close to her own apartment.

  She held up her hand. “That’s kind of you, but I really don’t think—”

  “Hey, I can see you’re not enamored with our current format. Nevertheless, I’d still like you to come in, show us your work. Allow us to describe the magazine’s revamped editorial direction. I think it may surprise you. I can use someone with your guts and ambition to develop our investigative-reporting beat. That is, if you have any interest.”

  She took the card, slipping it into her jacket pocket. “If you’re really serious about moving away from your current focus, I’ll try to keep an open mind.” After all, a job was a job, and up to now, no one else but Drift had made an offer.

  “Call tomorrow and speak to Rachel. She’ll set everything up. You’re going to be a superstar. Of that, I’m already certain.” He reached out to shake her hand. It felt as forceful as Camarin had imagined earlier. She didn’t try to read anything into the almost imperceptible squeeze he added at the end. Until proven otherwise, he was still the enemy.

  As he rose and headed for the exit, she waited a few beats longer before also joining the crowd jostling toward the platform. By the stairs a newsstand featured the latest issue of Trend. Hating herself, she slapped down her $3.50 for a copy. Magazines like this were part of what had driven her sister over the edge, but she needed to see if there was anything redeemable within its pages. The jury was still out until Lyle Fletcher had proven himself a reformer, and not an enabler.

  Chapter 3

  Trend’s corporate offices were located on Bond Street, about a mile’s walk from Camarin’s East Village apartment. Despite the gathering storm clouds on the morning of her interview, she decided to walk. She was crouched down, rummaging through the front hall closet for an umbrella, when a bleary-eyed Annalise wandered in, dressed in an oversized t-shirt that read What doesn’t kill you disappoints me.

  “A little early for all this noise, isn’t it?” asked Annalise.

  “I’m sorry. I’ve got that thing this morning.”

  “Wearing that?”

  Camarin strode over to the one full-length mirror in the cramped, fourth-floor walk-up that they shared with a third roommate, DeAndre. Staring back was a shapely figure shrouded by a gray tweed, oversized suit, a markdown she’d found at the local consignment shop.

  “What’s wrong with this?”

  “Didn’t you say it was a fashion magazine?”

  “Yeah, but they’re trying to get more serious.”

  “Are they planning to reopen as Morgue Monthly?”

  “Oh, please. Is it that bad?”

  “Worse.”

  “Why can’t this interview just be about the way I write? Why does it have to be an indictment of my appearance?”

  Annalise ignored her plea. “People may talk a big game about skills, but when it’s between yo
u and some other bitch? It’s gonna all come down to looks. And if you’ll join me in my closet, I think I’ve got something that would be perfect.”

  “It’ll be too short on me,” Camarin moaned. At five-eight, she was three inches taller than her roommate.

  “Showing a little thigh never hurt anyone, especially when there’s—ahem—someone you want to get to know better.”

  Not a surprising comment, thought Cam, especially from someone who interpreted an innocuous “Hello” from a stranger as an invitation to a weekend in Acapulco. “I knew I shouldn’t have mentioned anything to you, that you’d bend it all out of shape. What I said was that he was attractive. I also said he’s on the front lines of objectification. This is about paying my third of the rent and saving for law school. Nothing more.”

  “Words, words, words.” Annalise waved Cam off. “You say one thing, but that blushing face of yours just let the pussy out of the bag. Hopefully, it will soon be bagging something of its own. So, let’s dress accordingly, shall we?”

  Outrageousness, in both word and deed, was what had initially attracted Cam to move in with Annalise after responding to her ‘Roommates Wanted’ ad on Craigslist. Older by a few years and far more daring, the native New Yorker perpetually yanked Camarin from her more sedate and sheltered lifestyle, thrusting her into all the possibilities life in Manhattan had to offer. Most days Cam enjoyed the journey, but today, with the anxiety of the interview hanging over her head, she wasn’t so sure.

  Annalise dragged her roommate back into their shared bedroom. She pulled out a tight-fitting fuchsia number that she sometimes wore while waitressing at Benji’s. The dueling-piano bar was where all three of them spent their nights, with DeAndre working the keyboards and Camarin mixing drinks to earn the rent money her scholarship didn’t cover.

  “Ugh. Trend may not be Morgue Monthly, but it isn’t Skank World either. But that might work,” she said, pointing to a more subdued black Chanel knockoff.

  Annalise snatched the stylish suit off its hanger. “Sure, why not? Anything’s better than that Salvation Army tent you’ve currently got on.”

  Cam reluctantly disrobed. “Let’s hope it fits, because if not, the tweed’s going to have to do. I have to get there by nine.”

  Annalise glanced at the clock. “And it’s only eight. You’ve got plenty of time. Meanwhile, I do believe I hear caffeine calling my name.”

  Annalise ambled off toward the kitchen. She was stirring in artificial sweetener when Camarin reemerged in the black suit, pulling at the skirt, which fell four inches shy of corporate.

  “Stop fidgeting and relax,” said Annalise, setting down her spoon. “Now you’re ready to—ahem—interview.”

  “You can ‘ahem’ all day long, but assuming that Trend really is on a different trajectory, all I expect to get today is a fair shake. That would be a nice departure from every other publication I’ve met with.” She reached out and grabbed Annalise’s coffee cup before her roommate could take her first sip.

  “Almost every one. Are we going to talk about the elephant in the room?”

  “You mean DeAndre?”

  “Uh, yeah. After his parents offered you the Drift gig, how are you going to explain snagging a job with their archrival?”

  “I know. Carl and Diana have been so good to me. But they know better than anyone where my priorities lie. I want to publish serious stories at a magazine where I didn’t get the job because my best friend’s parents were the owners. I’ll…I’ll worry about breaking the news to them if and when I actually get an offer. And who knows? Maybe they wouldn’t even care. A little journalistic competition never hurt anyone.”

  “Journalistic? That’s being overly generous, don’t you think? I’ve thumbed through both magazines at the check-out counter. Nothing but a collection of ads with some gossip thrown in for good measure.”

  Cam recalled a health club ad from her recently purchased copy of Trend featuring a topless model riding atop a giraffe. The legend read Achieve a level of fitness that’s easy to spot! It certainly proved Annalise’s point.

  “Lyle says he wants to change all that. If it’s true, I’m going to help him.” She blew away the steam drifting up from the mug, as if wafting away her own apprehensions.

  “Lyle, is it now?” said Annalise with a chuckle. “What is it with you and older men anyway?”

  She reflected for a minute. “Well, I suppose the Psychology Today explanation is that whenever my dad came home on leave, which was rare, he always accepted Monaeka and me for who we were. No demands to look different, act different. There was something very comforting about that. And then…”

  “Ooh, here comes the juicy part.”

  “I’m not sure it’s all that juicy, especially since at this point it’s all speculation,” she scoffed, “but I’ve always imagined that—unlike Brad—when you’re with an older man, he’ll know what to do when he takes you in his arms.”

  “Maybe Brad’s learned something since sophomore year, and that’s why he keeps calling, trying to get back together.”

  “Ever google Peter Pan Complex? Up pops a photo of Brad, smoking weed and drinking beer directly from the keg. He has no interest in transitioning into adulthood, and I have no interest in repeating bad mistakes.” And he told me I’d look better with a few more pounds on my body. Who am I, Monaeka? Jerk.

  “Right. Well, when you’re at your interview, not concentrating on the sexy, older man across the desk, try not to do that thing you always do with your handbag.”

  Camarin set down the mug. “What thing?”

  “You know, when you keep the bag on your lap.”

  Camarin squinted and thought back. “It’s to hide my tummy bulge,” she admitted.

  “What tummy bulge? You’re flat as a board, probably because you never eat. Promise you’ll keep the damn thing on the floor.”

  Camarin held up two fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

  “I’d take that more seriously if you’d ever been a scout. But fine,” she said, snatching back her coffee cup. “Just come back employed, ’kay? It would be nice to not have to move.”

  “I’m going to do my best,” she said. “But just in case, hold off buying anything too expensive.”

  “You mean those dream purchases I’ve been saving for, like brand-name cereal and toilet paper?”

  “Exactly.”

  Camarin ventured over to the window and peeked through the blinds. The sun was asserting itself through some breaks in the clouds, negating her need for an umbrella after all. She grabbed her black-leather briefcase, containing copies of articles she hoped would dazzle Lyle, called out her goodbyes, and headed out to seize the day.

  Despite the humidity, she didn’t mind the longish, muggy walk from Avenue C to Bond Street, her satchel occasionally banging against her calf. She loved the area’s vibe, especially where the East Village blended into NoHo, short for ‘North of Houston Street.’ It was a stylistic jumble, where chic cafes coexisted next to former warehouses, and decaying brownstones cowered in the shadow of nineteenth-century Greek revival–style lofts. Today, most of the tenements were under renovation, swathed in scaffolding as investors sought to cash in on the area’s growing popularity.

  Against her best judgment, as she hit Lafayette Street, she trembled with excitement over the prospect of again verbally sparring with the handsome Lyle Fletcher. Then she caught herself and banished the memory of his sparkling blue eyes and wicked sense of humor from her thoughts. Whatever happened today could have serious repercussions, she reminded herself. Trend could end up as the first major, full-time entry on her resume. If she didn’t reverse the magazine’s focus and raise the body-acceptance consciousness of millions of its propagandized readers, she’d not only have failed her own expectations, but the memory of her sister as well.

  Yes, you owe me at least that much, Camarin, especially after what you did.

  The offices were three flights up in a nondescript building of indetermin
ate age and style, serviced by a tiny elevator barely large enough for three adults. Thinking optimistically, she decided it was more cozy than rickety. On the third floor, she was greeted by two massive oak doors bearing the gold-engraved legend Trend Magazine. She fought to pull open the oversized portal, wondering if its purpose was to intimidate visitors or just to test the strength of aspiring journalists before their actual interview commenced. Either way, the plan succeeded.

  A Godzilla of a desk dwarfed the reception area, filling almost every inch. Behind it sat a slip of a girl in her twenties, sporting a red, boyish haircut circa 1960s Twiggy, reading a copy of the New York Post. The headline blared Blubber Be Goner: Weight Loss Clinic Owner Reduced to Shreds. She lifted her eyes as Camarin entered.

  “Bloody well about time,” she said, in a clipped British accent.

  Camarin balked. “I-I’m sorry. I thought I was early.”

  “Hello, Early. I’m Rachel,” she said, her stern face brightening. “Sorry to sound like such a tosser. It’s so bleeding dull around here, I thought it would be fun to take the mick out of you.”

  “The what?”

  “Take the mick. It means to have some fun with you. I mean, I’m so bloody bored, I’m actually reading the paper.” She pointed to the cover photo. “What do you think about this chav in Chicago, the one who owned the fatty rehab center?”

  This woman is bonkers.

  “I think Mr. Fletcher is expecting me?” she said through a forced smile.

  “You didn’t hear? It’s all over the internet. Butchered right in her office, her butt and thighs made…err…smaller. My guess is that someone woke up that morning, seriously missing their French fries and Flake bars. Anyway, imagine what those women were thinking when they showed up for their morning weigh-in. Quite the shock, eh?”