Summer Intern

by Carrie Karasyov

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “Hi, Matt, where are you?” I asked, walking along Seventy-second Street and Central Park West.

  “I’m in the park at Seventy-second Street,” he said. “Counting down ’til I can see you, beautiful. Where’re your coordinates?”

  “Oh, I’m a few blocks away,” I lied, fighting fire with fire. “I’ll meet you by the Bethesda Fountain.”

  I approached the park, catching him in my sights but always staying a few steps behind to spy on him. Turning the tables empowered me, and made me feel like he was the prey this time. Fine, he was cute, but now, after everything, I thought he looked almost too hot, like a fake soap star. I wanted to watch him for a few minutes to see him in action. Was he like a predator, looking at girls to see who his next victim would be? No, not so far.

  But then: There it was. When no one was looking, he casually bent down over the John Lennon memorial circle and picked up one of the many bouquets of flowers. And then I knew. Every time he brought roses for me, they’d been snatched from that monument for the dead Beatle. That little turd.

  I arrived at Bethesda Fountain, practically gagging that I’d let this scumbag, this manipulative centipede, burrow into my life so deeply. But with Meryl Streep’s aplomb, I brightened when I saw him and gave him a quick peck on the cheek.

  “These are for you,” he said, handing me the pilfered buds. “How’s my girl?”

  I could have said I was terrible, considering I had been fooled by a con artist, but I contained it. My roommates and I decided that if I called him out on his various falsehoods that he’d just walk off and do it again to some other unsuspecting fool. And why do that when we had a perfect one lined up for the taking?

  “Listen, Matt—” I said, knowing full well any sentence that began with “look” or “listen” meant the relationship was going the way of the Titanic. “I’ve been thinking—”

  “Is everything okay, sweetness?” he purred, stroking my cheek.

  “You know, this is all happening so fast and to be totally honest, while I think you’re great, I feel that I need to focus on work stuff. I’m not in a good place for a relationship right now. It’s not you—it’s me,” I said, almost stifling a cackle.

  Considering I’d just lobbed the most insulting breakup initiative ever—the “it’s not you, it’s me” refrain—he was taking it quite well. He didn’t seem to care at all, in fact.

  I continued. “I need to stay on my work path right now and I’m starting fresh at school next month—”

  “Hey, sweetheart, I totally understand,” he said soothingly, giving me a hug. Gee, that was easy. “I hope we can stay friends. No hard feelings.”

  “No.”

  A calmer breakup had never occurred in history, and as he walked off among the sunny crowds of park revelers, with his stolen “Imagine” flowers, I was happy to have him out of my life.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I tried to lay as low as humanly possible the next week at work for fear I would run into James. I know it’s silly; he couldn’t have been nicer, but I felt like such a complete nerd that I didn’t want his sad looks of pity. I had slipped into his office early one morning and returned his sweatshirt with a little thank-you note pinned to it, and now, instead of being my usual run-around-Sally-how-can-I-help-you gal at the office, I mostly stuck to CeCe’s lair. She had me doing totally boring stuff, like picking up plane tickets from the in-house travel agency and messengering them to the models, photographers, and makeup teams that were going on various shoots in Cabo, Paris, and Hawaii. She also had me create a master list of what models were affiliated with what cosmetic companies so we could pretend that we used only that makeup when we shot the girls. Ennui.

  Daphne, of course, couldn’t help but comment on my new low profile. She made a few disparaging remarks in that Daphne way, where it wasn’t quite bitchy, more seemingly innocuous, but the undercurrent was harsh. One day when she ran into me in the bathroom she said, “Oh my God, there you are! I thought you fell down a well or something! You used to be omni and now you’re like milk carton.” I just laughed it off. Another day, when I got into the elevator at five, Daphne looked at her posse and said, “I wish I could leave early, but work is so intense in the ed-in-chi’s office that I simply can’t. You gals are so lucky.”

  But what really bugged me was when Daphne pranced into the photo department one day when I was being subjected to a particularly embarrassing form of torture that befalls interns in the bookings office. The beauty department was doing a story called “Makeup Bag Disasters!” and they had forced me, along with some other low-level assistants, to dump out our cosmetic kits—without warning—and then a photographer immediately swooped in and took pictures while the editor criticized everything I had. (“Ewwww! That mascara must be like five years old?” she’d screamed, recoiling. “Do you get a lot of styes?” And then she picked up a smushed tampon and said, “You’re not blocking anything with this puppy. Don’t wear white pants!” I was humiliated.) I was thanking God that James was out of the office when I heard Daphne’s aristocratic snotty voice behind me say, “I heard from a little birdy that you and Matt are splitsville. I am so sorry if you are having a Jenny Ani moment.”

  I just looked up at her and smiled, knowing revenge would come soon enough. “Yeah, he dumped me. I was really bummed, but he was out of my league in a way. I can’t compete with all his private jets and flashy vacations.”

  It practically killed me that Daphne’s eyes lit up with a sparkle, but I knew that I had to plant seeds in order to pay them both back. Daphne drove me nuts. Little birdy? Who says that? Who are these little birdies and can we please call pest control?

  One night I had to stay late. CeCe was out in the Hamptons on vacation and kept calling me to change the model on the shoot the next morning. Her indecision was killing me. First she wanted an Icelandic beauty, then a Swiss Miss, and then an African Queen. I felt so guilty calling and booking these girls—seemingly giving them their first big shot—only to call back and cancel. Finally, at ten at night, the guy at the modeling agency said enough, that he would never let his big clients work with Skirt again if they kept jerking around his ingenues, and CeCe relented (“of course, he’s bluffing; everyone wants to work with us, but I have a dinner, so fine”), and I was released.

  As I was the last one there—even the maintenance crew had left—I walked alone down the darkened hallways toward the elevator. Most of the lights were out, except I noticed that the fashion closet was unlocked and the lights were on. That was odd. The editors were maniacs about closing up shop in the closet. All the stuff in there was worth, like, millions of dollars. Retail, anyway. There was fine jewelry, furs, designer clothes, shoes, everything. Maybe some editor was working late. I looked through the slit between the door and the wall and saw a shadowy figure trying on clothes. It was Cecilia.

  “Hey,” I said, popping into the closet.

  Cecilia jumped as if she had seen a ghost.

  “Oh my God, sorry to startle you!” I apologized. “I just thought I was the only one here.”

  “What are you doing here?” Cecilia snapped.

  I was taken aback. “I had to finish something up for CeCe. What are you doing here?”

  I glanced at the outfit she was wearing—a new Chanel suit that we had just gotten in—and then down at a pile of clothes that were stuffed into a T. Anthony suitcase with the monogrammed initials C.M.B. The closet was usually immaculate, so at first all I could think was that someone would be in deep doo-doo for leaving all those clothes scattered about. But then it all clicked, and I realized that the bag was Cecilia’s and she was taking the clothes. Daphne had said someone was stealing from the closet, but she didn’t know it was her best friend.

  “I’m just helping clean up this closet,” said Cecilia, pretending to be nonchalant. “Putting stuff away.”

  “Here, let me help you,” I said, putting down my bag and moving to hang up the gorgeous
Missoni dress that was draped on top of her bag.

  “That’s okay, I can do it,” said Cecilia, somewhat testily.

  “It’s really no problem.”

  “Do you have to be little-miss-do-everything all the time, Kira? I mean, I know your boyfriend dumped you, but get a life.”

  I stepped back as if I had been slapped. Cecilia’s perfectly sculpted nostrils were flaring and her eyes looked glazed.

  “What are you talking about?” was all I could come up with.

  “Just get lost. Go get a life or something and stop interfering. You’re always trying to one-up everyone!”

  That did it. “Cecilia, I would leave if I genuinely thought you were going to put these clothes back where they belong. But I have a feeling that you are going to steal them. I know we’ve had theft recently, and now I know it’s you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” she said, her eyes ice.

  It was a standoff, and a staredown.

  “If I’m so ridiculous, then put the clothes back.”

  “You are so lame! You put them back,” said Cecilia. She dumped the clothes out of her duffel. “I was just using my bag to gather the ones strewn around the room and then I was going to hang them up. But be my guest, Miss Goody Two-shoes.”

  She turned on her slingbacks and sauntered out. I stared at the mess she had made and, with a sigh, started to pick up the gorgeous handmade clothes one by one. Some of them were so beautiful that they were almost like artwork. I couldn’t believe that Cecilia, someone who had everything, would steal. I know kleptomania is a disease and has nothing to do with what you do or don’t have, but I think in her case it was more a case of spoiled-brat-itis. Nice friends, Daphne. Good job.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I was unprepared for what went down the next day. I had taken the subway with Gabe and Teagan as usual, and we spent most of the time brainstorming and rehearsing Gabe’s imminent confession to his parents. At first I didn’t notice anything was amiss when we got upstairs (although the petrified look of our bug-eyed receptionist should have alerted me), and it wasn’t until I got to CeCe’s office that I noticed the hallways were unusually quiet. As soon as CeCe saw me, she quickly hung up the phone, pressed the intercom buzzer, and said, “She’s here.” Then she reknotted her Hermès scarf, which I’d seen her do when she was nervous, and came out from behind the desk, barring my entrance into her office.

  “Genevieve wants to talk to you.”

  I was confused. Genevieve? The editor in chief? What was this about?

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you,” said CeCe, her cigarette breath whipping my face.

  “Okay,” I said. “Should I, um, go to her office?”

  CeCe nodded solemnly.

  This was so odd. Did Cecilia confess and Genevieve want to ask me about it? Or was this about the job that Alida promised I would get? I couldn’t imagine, but my mind raced. The way people looked at me when I walked by warned me that it wasn’t going to be a pleasant conversation. I nervously straightened my long-sleeve button-down shirt that I had tucked into my black skirt with the side bow, and was glad I had gone conservative today. I was wearing nice silver ballerina flats and simple jewelry, and knew I had to pass muster.

  When I entered Genevieve’s outer office, her two assistants—who I had never seen smile—gave me a look and one of them nodded. “She’s ready for you.”

  I walked through the glass door and saw Daphne sitting regally, legs crossed, on the first chocolate brown fauteuil. I glanced around the room and noticed Cecilia and Alida, who were both sitting on the sofa, and then turned my head to meet Genevieve’s gaze. For someone so tiny—I mean, literally, the woman was no bigger than half an Olsen twin—she was an incredibly imposing presence. I watched her eyes study my outfit from head to toe, slowly, as if she had all the time in the world and this was super important, before she met my gaze. She stared at me for what seemed like a full minute before speaking.

  “Kira, is it?”

  “Yes,” I said meekly. I felt like I was a model at a go-see.

  “So, what’s going on, Kira?” said Genevieve. She had the ability to speak without moving any other part of her body besides her lips. I usually talk with my hands, especially when I’m nervous, but she remained unmoved. No wonder she had burned up the corporate ladder. That was a skill.

  “I guess I’m not sure what you mean,” I said. I wanted to turn and look at Alida for support, but I would have had to contort my entire body to see her, and I figured that wasn’t a good idea.

  “Last night Cecilia saw you in the fashion closet stuffing clothes into your bag. Can you explain?” Genevieve said, again cool as a cucumber.

  This could not be happening! Cecilia was blaming me?

  “What? That is not what happened, Genevieve,” I said, quivering. But then I tried to summon the power of my voice. Confident! Be confident! I reminded myself. “I was working late on a project for CeCe and when I left I noticed the light on in the closet and I saw Cecilia trying on clothes and putting them into her duffel bag.”

  “I knew she would do this!” said Cecilia loudly, slapping her hand on her thigh. I turned to glare at her.

  “Don’t worry. Genevieve knows the truth,” said Daphne to Cecilia, reassuringly.

  “It was a T. Anthony monogrammed duffel with Cecilia’s initials,” I said, as if this information proved my point.

  “Genevieve, she’s clearly lying,” said Daphne smoothly. “Cecilia is a Barney. She has all the money in the world. There’s no way she needs to steal anything. She has an entire shop filled with everything.”

  “Kleptomania has nothing to do with need,” I said lamely. Oh my God! They all thought I did this.

  “Alida?” asked Genevieve coolly.

  I turned and looked at Alida imploringly. Please be my ally!

  “I have to be honest, Kira has been the best intern I think we’ve ever had. She always works late and pitches in, and I’ve never seen her take anything for herself. It seems out of character.”

  Thank you, Alida! I smiled nervously at her.

  “Of course, now it all makes sense why she worked late. She wanted the opportunity to take things,” interjected Daphne. Bitch!

  “Daphne, I don’t even know where the key to the closet is,” I said.

  “That’s a stupid excuse. You could have swiped it from someone,” said Daphne, seething. We both glared at each other.

  “Genevieve, you can come to my apartment and search everything. I promise you I didn’t take anything. Cecilia, will you let them come over to your apartment and check your closets?” I asked, turning to her. I saw Cecilia squirm.

  “Ridiculous! There’s no reason to do that,” said Daphne. “Kira probably already sold everything. There’s a big black market for this stuff.”

  “I would totally let you over to look at my stuff, but because of who my parents are and the fact that we live on Park Avenue, there’s all sorts of legal stuff that has to happen first,” said Cecilia. Lame excuse.

  “Someone’s lying,” said Genevieve evenly, glancing at me and then Cecilia.

  “Not me!” Cecilia and I both said in unison.

  “Kira, how did you come to us?” asked Genevieve, again motionless.

  “She’s a Cotton intern,” Alida interjected. “She won the position over hundreds of qualified applicants.”

  “Where are you from?” asked Genevieve.

  “Outside Philadelphia,” I said.

  “Hmmm…” said Genevieve. I could tell she was trying to process in her head how much money that meant I had. She was leaning toward me as the culprit!

  Suddenly there was a knock on the door.

  Everyone turned and saw James through the glass. He waved and Genevieve nodded to let him in.

  “Sorry to interrupt, but I think I can clear this up,” said James.

  “Really…” said Genevieve, more as a statement than a question.

  “Daphne told me about the theft a
few weeks ago, so I put one of the cameras from the photo department in the closet, you know, to record who is there after hours. I think if we look at it, we can see who is really telling the truth,” said James, glancing at me and winking.

  Yaaay. My knight in shining armor! My hero! I whipped my head around and looked at Cecilia, who had now melted into the sofa. She looked nauseous.

  “Does anyone want to say anything now?” asked Genevieve.

  “Bring it on,” I said confidently.

  “Let’s do it,” said Daphne, standing up.

  “Wait!” shouted Cecilia, holding out her arm to stop Daphne’s departure for the screening.

  Every head in the room whipped in her direction and could tell at once, from her guilty expression, what the outcome would be.

  “Do you have something to say?” asked Genevieve, her tone unreadable.

  “Okay, I was borrowing stuff from the closet, but I totally planned on giving it back. Daphne borrows all the time, and I just didn’t think it was a big deal. Daphne even gave me a key,” confessed Cecilia.

  “What?” screamed Daphne. “That key was not to be used recreationally. That was in case of emergency, for me, because I always lose my keys.” She addressed the last part to the entire room, but it fell flat.

  “Alida, did you tell your interns that nothing was ever to be borrowed from the closet without permission?” asked Genevieve.

  “Maybe one hundred times,” said Alida.

  “Come on, everyone borrows,” insisted Cecilia.

  “Not lately, not since the theft,” I said. “And besides, we all know you weren’t borrowing. When you borrow, you tell other people. You were stealing.”

  There was pin-drop silence as we all waited for Cecilia to respond. Finally she stood up and flipped her hair. “You know what? I don’t want to deal with this. It’s like a minor misunderstanding that you’re making into a big tragedy. I don’t need to work, and I don’t need to stand here accused of stuff. I’m going to go talk to my lawyer.”