Is a perfectly timed train a good omen?
I get to work early and go to the open kitchen to grab food to fuel up for the day ahead in the hope I won’t be out of an internship and escorted out of the building before I have time to eat it. Two editors are huddled by the espresso machine, and when they see me come in the room, the volume of their conversation lowers to a whisper. But my eavesdropping skills have been fine-tuned for these kinds of situations, and I inch closer to inspect a basket of minimuffins on the counter. I can’t make out what the editors are saying in terms of full sentences. But the words I parse out are scary enough to make me drop the blueberry muffin. “Intern.” “She has to go.”
Bad omen.
Absolutely terrible, horrible omen.
Come to think of it, not even an omen. A direct message from above. I am totally about to get fired.
I don’t bother picking the minimuffin back up. Instead I head directly for McKayla’s office, going over the list of defenses I spouted off to my parents that I can regurgitate to my boss.
I push through McKayla’s glass doors without even knocking. “Before you fire me—”
“Trenton, I’m going to have to call you back. It appears that one of my interns is having a psychotic break.” McKayla waits a beat before continuing. “No, a different one. I’ll tell BuzzSnap we’ll have a statement for them by noon.”
If McKayla is fielding calls from reporters and has to bring Trenton Bosh in for damage control, then things are worse than I thought. If that’s even possible.
“Now, what the hell are you blubbering on about?” McKayla asks.
I can’t even look her in the eyes, and stare intensely at my wedge sandals. If looks could crack toenail polish . . .
“Listen, McKayla, I understand if you want to fire me, but I truly didn’t realize—”
“Fire you? Harper, I’m not allowed to tell you this, but you’re practically a shoo-in for the intern magazine feature.”
My eyes snap up from my feet to her face so quickly that I get whiplash.
“What?” I’m searching her expression to see if she’s being serious. “But everyone wants me fired or arrested. Or worse.”
“Oh my God, Harper.” She slaps her forehead with the palm of her hand and makes an are-you-clueless face. “What have I been saying since day one? Any click is a good click! People might hate your article, but they sure as hell are reading it. Now that you have an audience, I think you should push the limit even more. Take advantage of a good thing.”
“Oh.”
McKayla rolls her eyes. “Yeah, oh.”
“So editors saying I was getting fired in the kitchen, and your phone call with—”
“Harper, why are we still having this conversation?” She stands up and makes scooting gestures to get me out of her office. “Get back to work! Think of something for next week’s blog that will really get people’s panties in a twist. All buzz is good buzz. All clicks are good clicks. All scandal is . . . well, almost all scandal is . . .”
Her phone starts to buzz, and McKayla allows her tangent to trail off. She nods at the door as she reaches for her phone.
I take my cue and go.
Still employed.
MatchBook Bingo doesn’t budge from the number one spot on the Leader Board for the rest of the day.
“I’ll bet Jamie doesn’t even really have a summer cold,” Gigi says. “I’ll bet she just called in sick because she’s jealous.”
Jamie is always the first of the interns to arrive and the last to leave, so it’s strange not seeing her at her desk. I don’t know if I should feel guilty that she’s so upset or annoyed that she’s so bitter. Just like I don’t know if I should be freaked out by the fact that hundreds of strangers hate me, or proud that McKayla doesn’t.
I know you aren’t supposed to read comments or listen to trolls, but I can’t help going through my inbox and reading the hate mail. But not all my messages are bad. Like the e-mail from my dad.
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected];
[email protected]
SUBJECT: Checking in
Hey, kiddo:
Sending something over to Aunt Vee’s to help you feel better. It should be there on Friday when you get back from work. Love you, HunBun.
* * *
Brie passes me her Clinique concealer when I get in Friday morning. “For the bags under your eyes.”
“It looks like someone had a fun last night,” Gigi says. “What did you do and why weren’t we invited?”
“Reading the hate mail.” It’s still coming in, and I can’t stop reading it. McKayla says it’s a good thing. Carter thinks it’s funny and that people with thin skin don’t belong in journalism. Even though Ben and I still haven’t talked, I can see on Twitter that he is defending me against the trolls.
“I feel sick.” I put my head down on my desk.
Abigail pushes her roller chair away from her desk in panic. “You don’t have what Jamie has, do you?”
“Harper’s probably just hungover. Wouldn’t be the first time,” Sunny says, before asking advice on which cowl-neck sweater she should buy online. Cowl-necks are going to be everything next season.
“I’m not hungover.” Although the fact that my head is still facedown on my desk isn’t helping my case.
“See!” Abigail stretches her arm out as far as it goes so that she can open her desk drawer without moving her body closer in my direction. “Here, take this.”
Something lands next to my right cheek. I lift my head and see it’s a blue medical mask. The kind you see on dentists when they are filling cavities or germophobic tourists on the subway.
“You keep those in your desk?” Gigi asks.
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“No.”
“Well, everyone should.” She puts another mask on her own face instead to escape my nonexistent germs. “If disease is spreading around the office, you can count me out, thank you very much.”
Before Abigail can start in on her familiar rant about how the end of the world won’t be caused by nuclear fallout or global warming but by uncontrolled contagion, someone approaches our desk cluster. Skirt Suit from our first day heads our way, an empty cardboard box in hand.
“Is this Jamie Sullivan’s?” She motions the box toward the only empty seat at our electric-blue table.
“Is she okay?” Abigail asks in a muffled voice. Skirt Suit starts dumping everything in Jamie’s drawers into the box. “Oh my God, has that all been contaminated?”
“It’s against policy to discuss why I’m here,” Skirt Suit says, before placing spirals of reporters’ notebooks into the crate. “But you’re safe taking off the mask.”
“You guys,” Brie says, “this reminds me of what happens on The Bachelor when someone goes on a one-on-one date and doesn’t get a rose.”
“Come again?” asks Sunny.
Brie explains like we’re idiots. “A contestant has to pack her bags before a one-on-one so if the bachelor doesn’t ask her to stay, producers can go back to the bachelor mansion to remove her bags and send them back to Arkansas or wherever she’s from so she can’t make a scene. It’s all very dramatic.”
“And I’m lost,” Sunny says.
“Wait.” I’m now sitting up ballerina-straight. “Is Skirt Suit a producer in this scenario? Are you saying that Jamie is getting sent home?”
McKayla’s assistant brings our speculation to a halt. “Didn’t you see the e-mail?” she asks. “All-hands meeting. Now.”
Reporters are getting up from their seats and heading to the conference room.
I catch Gigi’s gaze. We never have all-hands meetings on Fridays. We walk over as a unit and go to our usual standing room only spots in the back of the conference room.
“No, no, girls,” McKayla says, holding court. “Interns up front.”
We never sit at the long table. That’s reserved for permanent staff only, and they�
�re more territorial than Atticus when he finds an abandoned water bottle on a walk. (Do not get in between him and a Dasani bottle.)
But lo and behold, there are five empty chairs.
“You’re probably wondering why we’ve called you here.” McKayla remains standing over us all, towering above in her red-bottomed Louboutins. She passes the baton to a gray-haired (due to age rather than fashion) woman in a pantsuit who introduces herself as Ms. DeMille from the fiftieth floor. One of the “dinosaurs from upstairs,” I presume. From the business end of things. The lawyer end.
“It has come to our attention that one of Shift’s now-former interns has been guilty of plagiarism.”
There’s a sudden atmospheric shift in the room. The air becomes thinner. It’s harder to breathe. A low hum of whispers erupts into hushed pandemonium. A few people reach for their phones.
McKayla slams her fists on the table. “Shut up and phones down. There will be no tweeting, no texting, no talking about this whatsoever.”
The only sound is the clatter of iPhones falling back down on the table.
“The only reason we’re addressing this in person rather than via e-mail is because e-mails get leaked. And you don’t know how many favors I had to call in to stop this from turning into a story.”
McKayla gives a brief rundown about what happened. Two days ago, a BuzzSnap reporter was reading one of Jamie’s stories about Curmudgeon Cat’s new Disney Channel original series when he recognized a familiar sentence. Familiar because he had just written it in his own piece about Curmudgeon Cat’s six-figure “Got Milk?” endorsement deal.
A sweep through Jamie’s author page led the reporter to another cut-and-paste job in Jamie’s article about a Jumbotron proposal gone wrong. Red flags waving, the reporter ran a bunch of Jamie’s articles through scanning software Castalia High keeps threatening to buy whenever a teacher gets handed an essay copied from SparkNotes. He found twelve instances of plagiarism from various other news sources.
My stomach pitches like I’m on the Castalia County Fair’s famous pirate-ship ride, which swings from side to side in a dizzying arc. I never would have suspected that the BuzzSnap statement and the editor gossip was about Jamie.
“I appealed to their compassion for an intern whose career would be ruined if this became a permanent part of her Google history.” But then McKayla’s voice lowers to a scary tremor. “If anyone’s going to ruin her career, it’s going to be me. An article about plagiarism or Jamie’s boo-hoo sob story about how she was overwhelmed and under pressure would have done irrevocable harm to Shift’s digital progress. And to me. This was lazy, unacceptable, and un-freaking-believable. I will destroy any of you—”
Ms. DeMille cuts McKayla off before she has the chance to threaten us with bodily harm and informs us that for the rest of the day, we’ll be having refresher courses on ethical standards and practices. I think we skipped that bit during our orientation sessions about how to write quickly for clicks.
“What a shit show,” Sunny says when we’re released for a coffee break. “I can’t believe Jamie would be that stupid.”
“You saw how she was acting the past few weeks,” Abigail says. “People under pressure do crazy things.”
“She deserves what she gets for passing off someone else’s work as her own,” Gigi declares.
The pirate-ship ride swings to the left. I didn’t plagiarize. I tell myself that Jamie’s situation is a completely different beast from mine. I would never plagiarize. It’s the biggest writing sin there is. I yell that loudly inside, overpowering any nagging “but.”
“Do you wanna grab dinner with her tonight to hear about what went down?” Brie is looking at her phone.
“I mean, obviously,” Gigi says. “Just because I think she deserves it doesn’t mean that I don’t want the gossip.”
“Cool. How many people should I make a reservation for?”
“I don’t think I can,” I say. “My dad sent me something I have to pick up at my aunt’s after work.”
“That’s probably for the best,” Sunny says midtext. “Jamie’s bitching to me about how unfair it is that she’s gone but you got to stay after your MatchBook fiasco.”
The pirate ship swings right.
“Don’t worry, I’ll fill you in,” Gigi says. “Mani pedis before brunch Sunday? I looked up Bacchanal, and it’s supposed to be brilliant.”
“Sure.”
I make a few stops before going back to the apartment after work, killing time in case Ben is back, and get a million texts from Aunt Vee.
“Harper, where have you been?” Aunt Vee asks, when I finally walk in with a Barnes & Noble bag in one hand and takeout from Shake Shack in the other. I don’t care if it’s not allowed in the house; it’s definitely a burger and fries kind of night.
“Weird day at work,” I say. “So what’s this surprise that’s so important?”
Aunt Vee is too excited to register that trans fats have breached her foyer. “It’s in your room!”
When I open my bedroom door, I see that the “it” is actually a “she.”
33
AT FIRST I THINK THAT the combination of stress and exhaustion has produced a full-blown hallucination.
“Is this real life?” I ask the mirage.
But as soon as Kristina pops off my bed like a jack-in-the-box, her extra-long, tan legs allowing her to pounce on me from across the room in one fell swoop, I’m convinced that she isn’t a figment of my imagination.
“You’re back!” she shouts as our bodies collide. The velocity of our reunion, captured in an all-consuming hug, causes me to stumble back out the bedroom doorway and into the living room. The momentum of friendship. “I was so tempted to call and tell you to get your ass home, but I knew that this would be better. Are you surprised?”
Kristina’s smile takes up half her face, and I return it.
“Considering that you’re supposed to be working at Skinny B’s for another two hours, like, three thousand miles away, I’m gonna go with yes. I’m so happy! How’d you get here?”
“This fabulous invention called a plane,” she says. “Or, planes. Since I got the ticket so last minute I had two layovers. Totally worth it, though.”
“How last minute?”
Kristina started stalking CheapOair for deals the day I left, but stopped a couple of weeks ago since I “seemed pretty busy.” Which is a nice way for her to say that I dropped the friendship ball.
“But after we FaceTimed, I figured you could use the company. So I talked to your parents.”
“So you’re, like, here to save me?” I ask like it’s a joke as I lead her back into my room. I don’t want to be the kind of person who needs saving, but having Kristina here makes me feel lighter.
“Duh! And it better happen by Wednesday because that’s when the cheapest return ticket was. Wait, why are you eye level right now?”
“Stilettos, dah-ling.”
I bend my knee and raise my heel to show off the shoes. Kristina, who is the queen of flip-flops, stares in awe.
“Since when are you wearing heels?”
“You’ve seen me in wedge sandals.”
“Those aren’t wedges; they’re weapons.” She touches the point of a stiletto like it’s a needle and asks in disbelief, “Who are you and what have you done with my uncoordinated friend?”
Sometimes I feel like I’ve turned into someone else, but I don’t hypothesize with her about my transformation. Instead I become paralyzed by the sound of dogs barking in the apartment.
“Ohhh yes, bring on the first New York friend!” Kristina rubs her hands together in anticipation. “I’m excited to meet Dog Walker!”
I grab her arm before she has a chance to leave the bedroom. “No,” I whisper very loudly.
“What’s—”
“Shh!”
Kristina plays along and freezes. It’s only when we hear the door close and Princess trots into the room, skeptically checking out this new intru
der, that she asks me what the hell all that was about.
And so I start to explain.
“Dog Walker liked you? How is this the first time I’m hearing that you’re in a love triangle? Leave out anything and I’m going after you with that stiletto.”
She crosses her arms while I go over every detail, making my debrief anything but brief. Every bit of tension that takes over my body when I explain the Ben situation is released when I talk about Carter. Pretty soon Kristina knows everything from his freshman year Halloween costume to how insanely soft his lips are. And as I get more swoony, any hint of annoyance about being kept out of the loop is wiped completely from Kristina’s face.
“I’m really happy for you, Harper. I’ve never seen you like this before about anybody. I mean, maybe Adam Lockler, but that’s different because—”
“This guy knows I exist?”
“You said it, not me.”
That doesn’t stop me from whacking her with a pillow.
“Don’t be a baby; the pillows are made out of goose down,” I say as Kristina squeals and tries to duck under the covers.
Not one to be left out, Princess backs up to get a running start so that her stubby legs can catapult her onto the bed. It’s the first time I’ve seen her jump or run. Her remaining rolls of fat, which Ben and I have decided should never be walked off because they give her too much adorable character, jiggle as she basks in her own accomplishment. I stop hitting Kristina and scoop the pug up into a hug.
“I want in on this lovefest!” Kristina emerges from under the covers.
Considering how long it took Princess to adjust to living with a roommate, I half expect her to throw a complete, wheezy hissy fit upon realizing that she has to cohabit with a second talkative, Taylor Swift–blasting human. I was expecting the pug to use her roly-poly body as a way to barricade Kristina outside the bedroom door, like she did to me.
But Princess is a changed canine, and soon we are all snuggled up in the bed, binge watching the last season of Gossip Girl.
I fall asleep under the glow of Netflix, the laptop still propped up on my stomach.
Little Black Dresses, Little White Lies Page 20