The Knockoff

by Lucy Sykes

  Ashley let it slip that Eve was paying $10,000 and $20,000 to a handful of celebrity starlets to compel them to show up to her wedding and be photographed for just half an hour. She was also in negotiations to have her idol, the pop singer Clarice, serenade her as she walked down the aisle.

  Eve shrugged. “Whatever. It’s just a photo shoot. I would be just as happy with someone taking pics on their iPhone. It might even be better, right? More raw! Maybe we should think about that?”

  “We already put Alice on contract, remember?”

  “Well. Next time. Let’s see how much extra traffic we get from having ‘the famous Alice Hobbs,’ as you call her, taking pictures instead of, like, ‘Intern Number Two.’ ” And then as an aside, more to herself than to anyone else in the room, Eve muttered, “We should get some more interns in here. One more thing…let’s talk about creating some holiday GIFs.”

  “You’re so right,” Imogen said. “I’ve been so busy I forgot all about the holiday gift guide. I think we should think out of the box this year. We can still do some of the traditional mom gifts, dad gifts, boss gifts, but let’s get a little wild. Gifts for your gay best friend, gifts for the office frenemy. We could have a lot of fun with it.”

  Why was Eve laughing? She guffawed so hard a small snort came out of her mouth.

  “GIFs, Imogen. I want to create some viral GIFs, you know, those moving pictures Buzzfeed is always doing…gift guides. You crack me up. Can I tweet that? I’m going to tweet that.” Imogen felt like a fucking idiot and began backing toward her own office, not noticing the plastic brontosaurus still in her hand until Eve shouted to her.

  “Hey, give that back to me.” Flustered, Imogen looked down at her hands.

  “I’m so used to grabbing these toys when the kids leave them around. I wasn’t paying attention.” She twisted it around as she tried to return it to its rightful place on the desk. On the side she hadn’t looked at, very clearly written with a thick black marker, was her name, IMOGEN, in neat all-cap letters. Why was her name on this plastic toy?

  Eve noticed her confusion and for a moment she may have been at a loss for words. The moment, however, was brief. And she picked up the brontosaurus.

  “I named it Imogen.” She held it aloft in one hand and made it do a little jig. “Because you’re our office dinosaur.” Eve’s lips turned up at the corners in a cruel smile. How was Imogen meant to respond? There was no shame in Eve’s face. She kept her eyes locked on Imogen’s.

  Laugh it off. I have to laugh this off.

  “I’ve always thought of myself as more like the T. rex than a bronto,” Imogen said, walking away from Eve’s desk.

  —

  Eve didn’t want anyone walking her down the aisle. This was her day. If he’d been around her dad surely would have stolen the spotlight. He always did. It sucked being the unwanted daughter of the most popular man in town.

  Big John Morton had passed his willful stubbornness along to his daughter as surely as he passed on his lumpy earlobes and wide mouth. The man was the most successful failure in Kenosha, Wisconsin. That was Dad—the high school football coach with the best record in the state who had never been invited to move up the ladder because of an attitude problem so severe, no one in the upper echelon of academia wanted to work with him. It was no secret that Big John wanted a boy and he hadn’t even tried to mask his disappointment over Eve. It got worse around the house after Eve’s mom died. Their similar facial structure and red curls made Big John cringe when he saw his daughter, who he regularly referred to as “just the girl,” instead of by her name, despite her best efforts to do all the things a boy child could do.

  The girls at Ronald Reagan Memorial Elementary had been cruel to her. Her father had insisted on buying her asexual clothing, striped rugby shirts and baggy khaki shorts. He cut her hair off like a boy’s.

  Finally, in junior high she rebelled through fashion, dressing as girly as possible, growing out her hair and overdoing it with eye shadow, lipstick and mascara. Boys started to like her and when boys liked you other little girls liked you too, or at least they pretended they did.

  Making the varsity swim team in high school and getting a 4.0 still didn’t make up for her lack of a Y chromosome. Harvard was the first thing that made her dad proud. Now he was gone. Eve knew she was supposed to feel more, but at the funeral she had a hard time projecting the emotions people wanted to see. She’d almost stayed out East, but then she’d always be known as the girl who skipped her dad’s funeral, and that would look like hell all over Facebook.

  She’d gone and seen all the losers who didn’t think there was a life to live outside of Wisconsin. They really should have been more impressed with everything she had achieved in New York and then in Cambridge. But no one even mentioned Harvard or Glossy. It was like they didn’t follow her at all. Still, she had invited a group of them to her wedding. That way they would at least post pictures so people back in town would have to see that Eve Morton (soon-to-be Maxwell) was Winning-At-Life.

  The girl who Imogen had seen crying in the elevator had looked broken, but harmless, which was why it surprised Imogen when she saw the email from her that afternoon. It wasn’t addressed to her, but to Eve. Imogen was copied, not blindly, along with twenty other Glossy employees and journalists from outlets all over the city, ranging from newspapers including the Post, the New York Daily News and the snarky Observer to websites like Gawker, BuzzFeed, TechBlab and the Daily Beast. The email criticized the way that Eve treated her while she worked there and systematically fired her.

  From: Leslie Dawkins (Leslie.Dawkins@LeslieDawkins.com)

  To: Eve Morton (EMorton@Glossy.com)

  Hi, Eve,

  You might not remember me. You hired me two months ago as an assistant producer for Glossy.com. Last night you abruptly fired me. No explanation given. I had been working for days on end. I was tired, but I didn’t let that stop me from doing my job.

  You enjoyed firing me. You smiled the whole time.

  I know that I have what it takes to succeed at this job. I have a dual degree in computer science and English from UPenn. This job was MADE for me. You need bright young women like me in that office. Right now you are breeding a staff of robots, there just to do your bidding.

  It’s not normal to force your staffers to be your friends. It’s not normal to make us all stay late and play games. It was weird that you made us all play Truth or Dare.

  We’re not sisters. We’re not family.

  I wanted to be your employee.

  You made the wrong decision. I hope that my voice can speak for all the young women you have laid off.

  You can’t treat people like they are disposable.

  You can’t make people work 24 hours a day.

  You can’t call us dumb and retarded and lazy and expect us to want to work for you.

  You can’t shush someone when they ask you why they are being let go after they have worked their ass off for you.

  I don’t want to work for you anymore, but I did want to give you a piece of my mind about how poorly you are leading Glossy.com. I am fine with burning this bridge down all the way to the ashes because it is a bridge I never want to cross again.

  I deserve to have a last word.

  Leslie Dawkins

  Imogen felt a surge of embarrassment for the young woman. Was she drunk when she wrote the email?

  “What is this?” she messaged Ashley, copying and pasting the text.

  Ashley replied with a frowny face emoji. She appeared in Imogen’s office a minute later, sighing and looking less perky than usual.

  “I’m surprised this hasn’t happened yet. It’s like a kind of a trend these days. When people get fired or they don’t get a job, they shoot off these public rants. I’m sure it will get picked up on a website soon.”

  Imogen was horrified. Wouldn’t someone want to bury something like this, move on quietly? Ashley correctly read Imogen’s
expression.

  “My people overshare. I’m sure you’ve figured that out,” Ashley said, referring, Imogen assumed, to millennials as “her people,” not Upper East Side WASPs, who traditionally did not overshare. Imogen nodded, indicating she should go on. “People actually end up getting job offers from other places after they do something like this. It’s ballsy, but it can end up working in someone’s favor.”

  “How so?”

  “Some start-ups want to hire people who aren’t afraid to put themselves out there. It’s kind of like blasting your résumé out to a million people. You’re bound to hit someone who is hiring.”

  “But it is humiliating,” Imogen countered.

  “Humiliation is relative these days. Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. All she said was that Eve was a crappy boss and that was why she was let go. There are worse things that can happen to you on the Internet.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “Oh, we ignore it. If anyone calls for comment we say that we don’t discuss current or former employees. These things have a life cycle of about twenty-four hours…even if they get picked up by another website,” Ashley said casually.

  “Damn. I’m late for my lunch.” Imogen stood and grabbed her cashmere camel coat. “I hope people just delete this. Maybe no one will forward it or repost it? It’s silly.”

  —

  That morning, Imogen had scoured her closet for the perfect outfit to wear to Shoppit for lunch, finally settling on a copper-colored Chloé pencil skirt with a Peter Pilotto embroidered top paired with an oxblood Kensington Mulberry bag and Vera Wang black suede pumps. Chic and conservative without being stuffy or, as Eve would so kindly put it, “old-fashioned.” She ran a brush through her hair sitting at her desk, happy she’d had the roots touched up over the weekend. She swore the gray began creeping in faster over just the past six months. Gray made some women look sophisticated. Imogen didn’t think she would be one of those women. She would be a blonde until they shut the lid of her coffin.

  Shoppit had offices in a loft space downtown. Rashid informed her that the company had plans to move at the start of the new year into a new space in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, carved out of the old Domino Sugar Factory. For now, they had half of a building on Greenwich Street. Reception for Shoppit was on the ground floor.

  “Hi, Imogen,” a perky Asian girl with an egg-shaped head and large red glasses said as she walked through the door.

  “Hello,” Imogen replied with what must have been a look of utter surprise. Do we know each other? The girl giggled.

  “We take people off guard sometimes when we just blurt out their name,” she said. “It isn’t magic or anything. Your name is in our system to go see Aerin and it has an image of you that we pulled from Google. We just think it’s nice to greet guests by name when we have the time.” She lowered her voice. “It creeps some people out though.”

  Imogen moved back half a step as she laughed along with her. “It definitely creeped me out a little bit.”

  “Do you mind signing in on the screen there?” She motioned to a sleek white tablet on the desk in front of her. “It will print out your badge for you. It already has your name and stuff, but it wants to take a picture of your ID. Just hold your license under the little red light.” Imogen pulled out her New York State driver’s license and held it under the blinking red dot. A name badge slid out of the side of the tablet. The girl handed Imogen a small gray piece of plastic no bigger than her thumb that looked like the kind of key fob she used to enter the gym in the Robert Mannering Corp. building.

  “This will tell you where to go. It makes noise and vibrates a little. Do you want a water for your walk?” The girl gestured toward a refrigerator stacked with individual boxes of water similar to the one Rashid had given her at DISRUPTTECH!

  Imogen was a little bit freaked out as she ran her thumb over the smooth plastic shape, especially when the small gray object spoke to her with a perfect Oxford British accent. “Please proceed to the right elevator bank. You will be going to floor number four.” Behind the desk, the girl’s eyebrows bobbed in delight at the technology.

  “These are new. They’re programmed to know who you’re seeing and how to get you there. It also knows where you are. It has a GPS so it lets us know if you go anywhere you aren’t supposed to go. It will open any doors along the way. I just think they are the coolest.”

  “The coolest.” Imogen nodded.

  She walked to the right elevator bank and held the device up to her face. It looked entirely unremarkable, just a piece of plastic with three small holes on one side that must have been a speaker. Once she was in the elevator it politely reminded her to push the button for four. At the fourth floor she entered a brightly colored lobby-like space with a couple of low-sitting couches, but no reception area. The walls were covered in scribbled marker and there were glass doors to the left and to the right.

  “Please travel through the set of doors to your right.”

  Imogen did as she was told. The voice was soft, just loud enough that she could keep it in her hand and have her arm resting alongside her body and still hear it, but not so loud that it could be heard by anyone more than two feet away from her. As she approached the glass doors she heard a small beep and the click of a door unlocking, undoubtedly the magic of her little toy.

  “Please proceed straight.”

  Open and airy with battered concrete floors, the Shoppit offices confirmed every urban legend about start-up work spaces Imogen had ever heard. Eager young people sat at rows and rows of desks, not unlike the ones at Glossy.com, but also on couches and in beanbag chairs. Some stood at their desks, like Eve. Others took it a step further and appeared to be walking on treadmills right at their desks. In a completely clichéd moment someone zipped by on a scooter. No one paid Imogen much mind as she strolled among them. At the end of the floor was a wall of glass offices. “Turn right,” her device told her as she was about to reach the wall. She walked past four offices and was advised to stop as she came to the one at the corner.

  “You have arrived,” it informed her. The words felt heavy.

  Imogen looked up to see Aerin Chang sitting on a chair in the far right corner of the office. The back of the chair leaned against the glass, making it look as though she could topple, at any moment, into the river down below. The girl’s smile was bright and welcoming as she gestured to the table and a platter of macarons and then beckoned Imogen through the door. She stood and walked over, leaning in for a hug and then laughing.

  “I feel like I know you after looking at all your Instagrams and that made me feel like we should hug, but then I remembered we had never met in person.” Imogen laughed too, realizing that she felt exactly the same way.

  “I can’t even look at your Instagram. I get so jealous,” Aerin said.

  “No. Yours! So jealous.” Imogen laughed back.

  Aerin had a look of studied indifference. She wore a casual pair of waxed leggings with a graphic T-shirt and an Isabel Marant leather jacket with a pair of to-die-for high-heeled studded boots. Sitting on her shoulder-length black hair was a Rag & Bone fedora. She was petite. Despite her four-inch heels she barely reached Imogen’s shoulder. An amazing art deco emerald ring adorned the middle finger of her left hand. Her ring finger was bare except for a thin tan line.

  “I asked my assistant to stop by our macaron stand before you got here. I remembered that you liked my post about them.” Aerin fished a crumpled piece of paper out of her pocket. “She wrote down the flavors: Lemon Meringue, Pistachio Dream, Mocha Raspberry Frappé.” Imogen leaned over to grab a pale yellow cookie.

  “That one is Lemon Meringue.” Aerin clapped her hands in delight.

  Imogen bit into the cookie and sweetness tap-danced over her tongue as she felt all of the tension about this meeting melt through to the beautiful wood floor.

  “These came from your macaron stand?” Imogen said, confused.

  “Yes
. Isn’t that wild? We have an actual macaron shop right here in the Shoppit offices. We have nine floors in total with all sorts of amenities. The macarons aren’t free but they are very, very cheap. The barbecue joint and the taco stand are free, as are the cafeterias…obviously. We have a hair salon that does five-dollar shaves and ten-dollar haircuts. There is an arcade on the second floor and a gym in the solarium on the roof. We’re getting a noodle shop soon. Everyone is really excited about the noodle shop.”

  It was like Main Street, U.S.A., in Disney World.

  “Sit, sit,” Aerin said. “I’m happy you came by. I asked someone to grab us salads from the chopped salad bar in the cafeteria. We stole a chef from Facebook recently! He’s sooooo good. But we can go out if you want.”

  Imogen shook her head. “I’d love to stay here.”

  Aerin settled into the chair opposite her. “Good, good.” She tapped out a quick email on her iPhone. “The food should be up in a few minutes.”

  “So, I have to ask you.” Imogen cleared her throat. “Why did you want to meet me?”

  “I knew my invite was strange.” Aerin buried her head in her palms. “I feel like a weirdo.” Imogen could tell that Aerin didn’t really feel like a weirdo. She exuded a calm confidence in everything that she did. Her brown eyes were steady in their assessment of Imogen.

  “I love meeting new people.” Imogen flicked her hand downward to underscore the point. “In fact, my friend Rashid had meant to introduce the two of us. He just hadn’t gotten around to it yet.”

  “Rashid from Blast!?” Aerin’s eyes widened. “He rocks. He is like a weird super genius with the absolute best taste in clothes.”

  “He said the same thing about you.”

  “Noooooo.” Aerin waved her hand back and forth as if sweeping the compliment away. “He is the genius. He can take the smallest idea and turn it into a multibillion-dollar company. I swear it.”