Magnolia's Violet

by Rachael K Hannah

  “Gross, I hate them all!” I sprung up from the bed and raced over to my laptop, which I’d left half dangling off the side of my dresser—I really needed to stop doing that. “I’m not defending anybody—it’s just that there’s more red ink than black on those papers!”

  “You don’t hate those girls,” he said knowingly. “I know you. It’s all talk behind a stormy façade.”

  Throwing my arms across my chest, I glared at him for a couple of seconds, before refocusing on my laptop. Propping the top up, I quickly scrolled through my portfolio, double and triple checking to make sure that I had selected my best files.

  “No, seriously. I hate them all. I don’t understand how you can even work there. Be that as it may, I still think that’s way too much red. What are you trying to do? Stifle the little bit of creativity they might have?”

  “Creativity? Spoken like a true liberal arts grad. Naw, this crew just needs the grades and SAT scores to go Ivy. Creativity is an afterthought—something to experiment in senior year when all of that’s settled.”

  I must have looked absolutely horrified.

  “I’m kidding!” he exclaimed defensively. “Sage, of course, I want to encourage their creativity. How can you even act like that’s not a priority for me?”

  “Meh.”

  My eyes never left the computer screen. Had I picked the right photos this time? Each one, despite all the attention to detail and seemingly unimportant minutia that went along with developing it, suddenly seemed boring, uninspired, trite. My hatred for each picture grew more and more as I picked every detail apart, fighting with myself to erase each and every file and start all over from scratch.

  I couldn’t though. I had a job interview that very afternoon.

  After spending most of October interviewing for random freelance gigs and emailing a human resource rep from a party planning startup in Park Slope, called Main Star, I finally got an invite when their favored photographer bailed for a month-long project in San Fransisco—just days before Regina Matley’s (teen pop diva extraordinaire) mega Halloween extravaganza.

  Just how lavish could a thirteen-year old’s party be (not counting a super awesome bat mitzvah)? Well, apparently, a kid’s Halloween party could include three tents, an arcade section, haunted laser tag, and a guest list that included over four hundred people!

  “You’re thinking about deleting all those pictures, aren’t you?” Jake perceptively asked. Although, the way he said it was more of a statement than a question.

  “They’re just not good enough,” I grumbled as I slumped down onto the floor next to him. As much as I abhorred playing the role of damsel in distress, I could really, really go for one of Jake’s magical hugs at that moment. It was bad enough, though, admitting that I was disappointed with my portfolio.

  “Not good enough? That doesn’t sound like the portfolio you shared with me the other day. That portfolio was filled with amazing photos taken by a very, very special, and very, very talented woman that I am proud to know.”

  “It doesn’t feel that way.”

  Jake dropped everything to the floor and took my hands in his, squeezing them gently.

  “Oh yeah? Describe one to me,” I challenged, unable to let down my guard.

  “My favorite one, was the tree, right when the sun had almost completely settled down. The branches were each very distinct, and the sky was this bluish purple.”

  Meanwhile, teeny, tiny butterflies fluttered about my tummy.

  “Sage, everyone who’s good at their craft has second thoughts. You wouldn’t be an artist if you didn’t constantly seek new ways to push yourself and break through.”

  “You think?”

  “I know. I mean, unless you’re a narcissist and believe you’re perfect—which you’re not!”

  “I suppose not.”

  We both grew silent and sat there for a while, not saying another word. It was the type of silence that could only feel completely right between two special people. So, I did what I knew how to do best—and bolted.

  “I need to head out,” I blurted, throwing my keys and wallet into an oversized tote bag. Finding my backpack, I tossed in my laptop and camera, then zipped it up so fast I nearly caught the skin of my left index finger. “You can lock up when finished in here.”

  “Sage… wait.”

  “No worries! Gotta go! Bye!”

  Before Jake could get another word in, I flew out the front door and slammed it behind me, refusing to look back.

  *

  The commute to Main Star was somewhat of an ordeal in itself! I had managed to walk past it a couple of times, confused when the GPS on my phone clearly showed that I had reached my destination. However, all I saw was a row of what looked like abandoned warehouses. The block north was filled with small little shops, from ones that sold chic baby clothing to those that slung banana pudding, and just about everything else in between. A block south, I saw row after row of apartment buildings.

  And so, I had become thoroughly convinced that my phone—and the internet itself—had been lying to me.

  That was until I spotted two women, who were about my age, exit one of the warehouses. Both of their faces were partially covered by matching violet and blue oversized plaid scarves and ruby red heart-framed sunglasses. Deducing by their appearance that they weren’t, in fact, squatters, I realized that I had found the right place all along.

  “Excuse me!” I called out to them. “Hey! I’m looking for—”

  “Main Star?” the one with dark brown hair asked. “Go right in. Second floor. You must be here for the photographer interview.”

  Geez, was I that obvious?

  “Oh, that’s right. You’re the one Molly wanted to call in. Huge fan of HEDZ. Something about having worked with your dad on a project a couple of months ago. Recognized the name. Said you looked enough like him,” said the one who was blond. “Don’t be caught off guard by the first floor—it looks a little creepy. It’s being renovated.”

  Dad? Dammit! So much for finding my way. Well, at least I hadn’t intentionally name dropped? That had to count for something.

  “Thanks,” I mumbled, somewhat disappointed, as I clumsily hurried past.

  When I reached the second floor, it was a little off-putting at first; the blond had been right. First of all, the entire hallway had been gutted, for the exception of a single lit bulb, on a chain, that hung low from the ceiling. Stubbing my toe against something—I couldn’t tell what, because it was too dark—I flew forward and bumped up against bulb. It swung back and forth like a pendulum. It felt like I had stumbled onto the backdrop of a TV crime drama—one of the terrifying ones where some lone wolf psychopath keeps girls that happen to look just like me stashed away in an abandoned building. As I walked forward, I kept looking over my shoulder, half-waiting for the killer to pop out!

  Once I reached the second floor and opened the main door, however, the ambiance drastically changed and seemed a bit more promising. It was a vast open space, white, with lots and lots of bright light that was still easy on the eyes. All the main party planning action seemed to be going down in the exact same spot, for the exception of a few rooms to the side where I could gather the more senior staff members had their personal offices.

  The space had the usual highlights one might expect to see at a party planning startup—not that I was that well versed in the world of planning party, but I imagined as such. The place offered flexible seating arrangements, including stand up desks, bouncy exercise balls, and a huge, plush sofa with the coziest looking throw pillows I’d ever seen — strewn up photography, from previous venues, tastefully decorated the walls. Vision boards and ginormous canvas art, filled with various motivational sayings, were abound.

  “Hello? Hellllo, over there? Hi. Good God, I don’t think she realizes I’m speaking to her! Helllloooooooo!”

  Realizing that the someone being spoken to was me, I quickly snapped out of it and looked ahead to find an oddly familiar sig
ht. Black pants… purple button down shirt… a dark purple blazer strikingly reminiscent of Sherlock Holmes… an oversized plaid scarf… thick, boxy-shaped glasses…

  And hair that reached so very, very high.

  The only difference was that this dude had light brown hair, and was about four full inches taller than Dane.

  He was Other Dane. And I had found him.

  “Me?” I pointed to myself, even though I was almost one hundred percent certain as to how the rest of the conversation would go.

  Other Dane exaggeratingly looked over both shoulders, then cocked his head to the side like he was thinking. “Do you see anyone else who looks beyond clueless around here? Yes, sweetie. I’m talking to you. Come here.”

  It was like some unwritten rule that every company run by an eccentric entrepreneur under the age of forty had to have someone with that exact… charming… personality running the show.

  “Let me guess,” I said, confidently holding out my hand to firmly shake his. “You’re Reina Santiago’s assistant?” Thoroughly prepping for my introduction to the company, I had read every bit of info, no matter how seemingly insignificant, that I could search engine about Reina Santiago, Main Star’s founder, and CEO. Whatever this kid thought he knew, I knew more. He had nothing on me.

  I knew that Ms. Santiago was a Brooklyn native—born to Puerto Rican, Bronx born and raised parents—and had lived in the same apartment complex for the first half of her life. I knew that she was a product of the city’s Catholic school system and that she had majored in communications while attending CUNY. I knew that she had dropped out before graduation when her father passed away so that she could help her mother and younger brother pay the bills. I knew she did this by waitressing, and picking up extra bartending shifts in the city.

  And I knew that, through sheer talent and unrelenting determination, Reina had wrangled her way into a job as a personal assistant for Melanie Brookfield, Chief Strategist of Social Media at FineTune, which was one of the most successful music apps to date.

  And most importantly, above all, I knew that Reina didn’t take crap from anybody.

  “How did you know I’m her personal assistant? Is it written all over my face?” Other Dane demanded, looking both hurt and impressed at the same time.

  “I’ve grown up around places like this. Believe me; I have an eye and ear for what goes around.”

  “Well, you’re right. My name is Rory, and I’m Reina’s most important personal assistant—she has two, Darcy’s the other one, but my opinion matters more. Don’t ever forget that. You must be Sage.” He looked me up and down, sizing me up quickly.

  Fortunately, I had taken a page out of the Farrah Ansari handbook and had arrived at the interview looking more professional-meets-style than ever before. Wearing black skinny pants, a flowing silk blouse, ankle boots, and a tasteful silver pendant with a teeny bean-shaped charm that I’d borrowed from Kat, I knew Other Dane—Rory—would be impressed.

  “You look enough like Mike Sloane, whom I respect,” Rory said. “So that’s a point in your basket, or two. I don’t follow basketball, so that metaphor doesn’t work.”

  It was really, really hard not to tell Rory that I would, from that moment forward, call him Other Dane (mostly behind his back), but figured that was a conversation best saved for another day. Preferably, after I scored the job.

  “Well, that’s good,” I replied. “So, should I—”

  “I don’t have time for this. ANNABELLA!” Rory hollered over at a petite woman rockin’ a lavender pixie cut. “Annabella, show Ms. Sloane to Reina’s office.” He turned to me and in one swift motion, grabbed me by the arm and push/scooted me over toward Annabelle. “You go that way,” he commanded. “I have things to do. Five hundred bouquets of black roses aren’t going to order themselves!”

  Bouquets of black roses? He must have been referring to the Regina Matley Halloween party.

  “Five hundred?” I asked, a tad bewildered, as I was being shooed away like some uninvited pesky fly. “I didn’t know there were that many people attending. I thought it was four—”

  “Extra bouquets. Hellloooooo. What if some of them arrive with a deformity— like a wilted petal? Or, at the last minute, Regina decides to invite an extra fifty guests? It’s happened before.” Rory smacked the side of his forehead and let out a gasp mirroring the sound my mother would make if I tossed a bright red towel into a washer full of white laundry. “Annabella, make sure she doesn’t get lost.”

  Annabella rolled her eyes at him, but then winked at me. “Don’t worry,” she whispered, assuring me. “Rory can get a tad dramatic. You’re going to do just fine.” She quietly walked me over to Ms. Santiago’s office and knocked. “Wait right here. Reina will be right with you.”

  “Thank you.”

  I straightened myself up and took a deep breath, prepping myself to exude nothing less than absolute confidence. Did I know anything about party planning? No… I mean, I liked to go to parties, but I wasn’t exactly what you would call hostess of the year. I did, however, know a thing or two about what it takes to launch a startup, brand build, work fourteen-hour work days, assist clients who demanded perfection beyond perfection, navigate backhanded office politics… and of course, my knowledge of photography served as a little icing on the cake.

  Reina’s door swung wide open.

  “Sage Sloane? Come on in!”

  Taking another deep breath, I slowly let it out as I entered.

  As I entered Reina’s office, the first thing I noticed was that she was definitely the polar opposite of every corporate dragon queen lady I had ever encountered; yet, wielded the same fiery force and was every bit as magnificent and fierce.

  Reina Santiago couldn’t have been more than five-foot-two, five-foot-three, tops. Also, unlike every other fem powerhouse I knew, she had ditched the five-inch-plus designer heels for, from where I was standing, looked like very hip, but also very comfortable sneakers.

  Reina had adopted the whole millennial uniform of a simple black t-shirt and jeans that a lot of the Silicon Valley guys and girls sported, and her only accessories were two tiny gold triangle-shaped studs and a man’s watch that hung loosely from her wrist. She wore her shoulder-length hair down, natural, a series of frizzy black waves with one single graying streak framing the left side of her heart-shaped face. I knew she had just turned thirty the previous spring, but her eyes were as wide and playful as a ten-year-old kid’s.

  “Have a seat,” Reina invited, motioning toward a super cozy-looking hot pink couch that sat across from her desk. On it lay a throw pillow that read: Don’t Stop Until You’re Proud!

  I quietly obliged, moving the pillow to the side.

  “So here’s the deal,” she began, and I could already sense that I was in for her signature candor. “It shouldn’t come as a surprise that I’ve seen your work. We all have. Because here, we work as a team. We’ve found that rule by consensus has gotten us to where we are and will get us to where we’re going because every voice matters.”

  I nodded my head solemnly. For the first time, in a very long time, I didn’t feel compelled to hold back a snarky comment or think of several different ways to punch holes in what someone was trying to communicate with me. All I wanted to do was sit back and listen.

  “Long story short, we love your work. No one gets a call back if the resume and portfolio are nothing extra. Adam, from photography over at HEDZ, had nothing but great things to say about you.”

  Adam? The same Adam who did everything possible to make sure that my work never reached the hands of the office key players? Biting my lip, I tried my best not to allow my face to give away my surprise.

  “This is all about fit,” Reina continued, looking thoughtfully off to the side. “Molly, whom you’ll meet, had an opportunity to work with your father on a project not too long ago—don’t worry. I’m not like one of those teachers from grade school that’s going to compare you to an older, successful relative that wa
lked through the same doors. Your dad’s a writer. You’re not. In fact, looking at your resume, we can see you’re quite the math person. Economics and Visual Arts double major? Unusual combo—but that’s fine. We’re not looking for the next Mike Sloane. What we need, in approximately one week, is a photographer who’s not only got an eye for capturing Regina Matley’s essence and brand on film, but someone whom Regina Matley will look at and think, I respect her. I like her style. Not as easy as it sounds. Believe me. The kid’s brutal.”

  Never in my life had I so wanted the approval of a thirteen-year-old girl. I’d seen a few of Regina’s movies and read up a bit about her personal life. With dozens of famous ex-partners and a stint in rehab, I could only imagine that she wasn’t the easiest person to impress.

  “I completely get it,” I said. “My time at HEDZ was well spent. I can deliver what you’re looking for, and more.”

  “We’ll be taking you on as a freelancer for this gig. Flat rate. Do well, which I suspect you will, and we can talk about full time. This is a small startup, but the money’s good, and we have the right investors. Tallulah is essentially the photography department. Her partner left for San Francisco—just let us know today that the move’s permanent. However, Tallulah is whom you’re working for. Rory will introduce you two now.”

  “Wait… that’s it?” I asked, hardly able to mask my disbelief. What happened to all the questions? Why didn’t she want to know where I see myself in five years? When was she going to listen to all my well-rehearsed responses? I had Farrah videotape me practicing, and play it over and over to offer her critique, dammit!

  “Again, I rule by consensus. Anyone can say anything on an interview and land the job—it’s what happens afterward that matters. Tallulah will be watching your every move. She’ll tell me what’s what. You’ll be fine. See you around.”

  With that, Reina spun in her swivel chair, toward her desktop computer, and began typing away at lightning speed.

  “But… but what if I screw up the Matley party?!?!” I asked, trying my best not to sound too edgy. I didn’t want Reina to think that I lacked confidence.