Little Black Dresses, Little White Lies

by Laura Stampler

  “Well then, my work here is done. Have Lothar downstairs call you a car and charge it to my account. The subway gets so hot and crowded during the morning rush that the humidity and body heat will completely ruin your fresh aesthetic.”

  Even though I studied the intimidating subway maps and have memorized my route, I don’t argue. I have a lot to process, and my day hasn’t really even started yet.

  I had hoped to get to work a good half hour early so that I could grab a real New York bagel and drink an iced coffee on the edge of the office building’s iconic fountain while mentally preparing for my first day, but after my fashion show for Aunt Vee, that clearly isn’t going to happen. I’ll be lucky if I get there with thirty seconds to spare.

  I fly out of the Fifth Avenue apartment’s foyer as soon as the car arrives.

  I fly out the door.

  I fly down the stairs.

  And then I’m literally flying through the air. That is, until I’m not. There’s a loud thunk on the ground (me) and a high-pitched yelp (not me).

  “What the hell ?” When I try to get up, I realize that my legs are tangled up in . . . leashes? A Pomeranian scampers over my fallen body and a yelping Goldendoodle inspects my (now-bare) foot with his wet nose. Towering above us all is a tall figure with a messy flop of brown hair—his face obscured by the sun. His hand descends and I stretch mine out, getting ready to be helped up. But his diverts to scoop his dog-walking wards away from me as quickly as possible. As if I’m toxic.

  “What the hell ? You bulldozed directly into Atticus. You almost impaled him with your shoe!”

  The very pissed-off dog walker points accusatorially at the Golden, who, yelp aside, shows no sign of damage from the alleged bulldozing. Thank God.

  Unscathed, the puppy is enthusiastically chewing on my right shoe, which must have flown off upon impact. But Dog Walker doesn’t care. He turns his finger from Atticus to me (note: I’m still lying on the ground, injured for all he knows), ranting, “This is what happens when idiots text and walk.”

  Excuse me?

  “I think you’re kind of mischaracterizing what happened.” I unwrap a leash from around my calf. “Besides, I was not texting and walking. I was . . . okay, I was Google Mapping and walking.”

  Totally different.

  “Well, there’s an alternative to, ‘I’m so sorry for my recklessness and animal endangerment,’ ” he says.

  “As opposed to your gentlemanly, ‘Are you hurt? Here, let me help you up and extricate your sandal from my dog’s slobbery mouth.’ ”

  I stand, lopsided. Even in my single heel, I come up only to his chest, putting me at direct eye level with the words “Varsity Lacrosse” written across his T-shirt. Well, that makes sense. Some might call him cute, what with the height and the freckles, but I know better. That endearingly crooked nose is probably a result of one too many lacrosse sticks to the head. Total Neanderthal Jock. The kind who would never talk to me in the halls at school unless I came as a package deal with Kristina.

  I hobble over and try to pull my shoe away from the Goldendoodle.

  “You do not get to call him slobbery right now.” Neanderthal Dog Walker takes the now-dripping-wet footwear away from Atticus.

  Under completely different circumstances, I would take this one-on-one, male-female interaction as an opportunity to practice bantering—a true dating master needs to master the art of banter . . . I read it online—about how my name and the dog’s name were both inspired by To Kill a Mockingbird, but instead I wave my shoe in his direction and shout, “If the salivary gland fits!”

  I shoo the Pomeranian away from the spilled-out contents of my bag—“Now you’re attacking Poncho!” Neanderthal Dog Walker shouts—and pick up my compact mirror to try to assess the damage to my, as Aunt Vee put it, “fresh aesthetic.” Ugh, make that my slightly wilted aesthetic.

  “You are not checking out your hair right now!”

  I unleash my best withering side eye. “You know, just before right now I thought that the rumors about New Yorkers being giant assholes was a lie. Thanks for proving me wrong.”

  Jerk.

  I dramatically fling my bag over my shoulder, teeter to the car Lothar the doorman called, and slam the door. I put my shoe back on.

  “You all right, miss?” the driver asks as I scoot in.

  My shoe is somewhat damp.

  “Yeah, I’m good. I’ll be good.”

  Maybe if I say it loudly enough, that will make it true.

  4

  KRISTINA AND I SHARE THE secret shame that it took both of us three—that’s right, three—tries each before we passed our driver’s license tests. The failure bonds us, like a friendship bracelet.

  But after my car ride from the Upper East Side to Shift in Lower Manhattan, I realize that we just took our road tests in the wrong city. Because based on how nutso the drivers here are, I think that we would have been the freaking star students at the New York City DMV.

  “Oh my God, watch out!” I shout from the backseat of the black car as it careens down Broadway, weaving between taxis. And to think that I was worried he would be going too slowly.

  The driver responds to my concerned cry by cutting off a bicyclist who really shouldn’t have opted out of wearing his helmet today. Just as I cover my eyes, the car makes an abrupt stop.

  “We’re here.”

  I look between my fingers and see a very pissed-off (but very alive) Citi Biker flip us off as he races past the exterior of a building I’ve studied relentlessly in Google Image Search.

  The Bosh Media Building.

  In Castalia, a four-story office is considered a high-rise. But in Manhattan the high-rises are high. So high, in fact, that from my vantage point in the back of the car, I can’t see even halfway up the architectural marvel that is Bosh Media.

  It literally glimmers.

  These walls, which are made out of reflective glass, house all the Bosh Media publications, which range from Gilded Putter (for golfers) to Disrupting (for techies) to Shift (for teen fashion slaves) to Iconic (for adult fashion slaves). Pretty soon, five days a week, between the hours of nine and six, it will house me, too. That is, if I can make it up to HR in the next, oh God, I only have three minutes!

  I thank the driver and get out of the car as quickly and carefully as humanly possible. I definitely don’t want to flash all my potential new coworkers before I even get into the building. (Like the Birkin, that kind of behavior might be more “second-week appropriate.”) I maneuver myself out of the vehicle with my dignity intact, walk past clusters of “I ♥ New York” tourists saying “cheese” to their selfie sticks in front of the Bosh Media fountain, and check my white dress for paw prints in the building’s mirrorlike windows. Phew.

  I give my reflection a quasi-confident smile as I walk toward and then through the rotating doors, into the—oh my God. There’s an actual waterfall right smack in the middle of the lobby. A waterfall of skyscraper proportions. There are gigantic koi swimming in a large pond under the streaming water.

  Where the hell am I?

  I ask a hulking security guard as much, although in politer terms. He points me toward a front desk, where I show a receptionist my driver’s license in exchange for a day pass. I hand my purse over to get x-rayed as I walk through a metal detector, and am then directed to take the first elevator on my right to HR, which is located on the thirteenth floor. My slightly unstable heels click to the first elevator bay.

  Shit.

  Everyone is wearing a suit.

  I squeeze into an elevator and notice an older woman in beige and very sensible work flats giving me a not-so-subtle head-to-toe. Her eyes linger and widen when they get to my bag.

  Might I repeat? Shit.

  When the elevator dings, I can’t get out fast enough, almost tripping over my heels as I exit. A stabilizing hand grabs on to my elbow.

  “New intern?” a smiling lady (in a skirt suit!  ) asks.

  I nod, pullin
g down on my dress to create the illusion of modesty.

  Skirt Suit gives me a far kinder head-to-toe. “Let me guess. Based on the outfit you’re either working for Shift or Icon?”

  “Shift.”

  “All right, hon, the other girls are waiting in Huddle Room B to start orientation.”

  She steers me down the hall toward whatever the heck the huddle room is and pauses in front of the door. I’m semi-scared to open it and see what’s going on on the other side.

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome, dear.” And then, before she leaves me to fend for myself, “Nice scarf.”

  I take a breath before I push the door open to—OH, THANK GOD. I have never been happier to see leather short-shorts in my entire life. A group of five extremely well-dressed Amazons with perfect hair and gravity-defying heels towers over a snack table with coffee, an untouched basket of pastries, and . . . a bowl of cantaloupe. No way. I have to Snapchat a picture of the orange melon to Kristina. I start giggling, which very quickly turns into awkward laughter as soon as I notice that all five pairs of eyes—framed by impeccably applied colorful liner—are staring at me like I’m a crazy person.

  “Sorry,” I say. “It was just the cantaloupe. . . .” Um, how do I even begin to finish this sentence?

  “Do you want some?” A girl who put her printed-out “Gigi, Arts & Culture Intern” name tag on the bottom of her white leather short-shorts motions to the bowl of fruit. With hair swept into voluminous black curls and a light brown complexion that contrasts starkly with her all-white ensemble, Gigi looks like she shouldn’t only be writing for Shift—the girl should be on the damn cover.

  “I take that as a no?” she asks in an unidentifiable but very sophisticated-sounding accent.

  Oh no, I’m being awkwardly silent.

  “Yes! I mean, no. No, thanks!” Nervous laughter. “I actually kind of hate cantaloupe. Such a filler fruit, am I right?”

  It turns out the only thing worse than awkward silence is awkward rambling. Jesus, Harper, get it together.

  Gigi pops a piece of the melon into her mouth and raises her eyebrow toward Sun-Hi, Fashion Intern; Abigail, Health Intern; and Brie, Beauty Intern.

  Brie, like the cheese.

  Which makes me realize that I haven’t had any breakfast yet and could so go for some cheese right now. Or maybe one of those untouched doughnuts. But I don’t know how my anxiously unsettled stomach will react to food, so I reach for a Diet Coke instead. Maybe the carbonation will be settling. So what if it’s only nine in the morning?

  “Starting early, huh?” Jamie, Viral Content Intern, asks as she grabs a water bottle. “Don’t worry, you definitely won’t be the only Diet Coke–head at Shift. I interned here last year and people drank it like it was coffee.”

  That was nice. Quick, say something funny back. Anything.

  “I’m an addict too,” I reply. “Hopefully HR won’t make us start going to Aspartame Anonymous meetings.”

  Yes, she’s laughing. I’m getting back in my groove. I pop open the tab on my Diet Coke and hear an ominous fizz.

  “Watch out! It’s exploding!” I hold the erupting can of Diet Coke as far from my body as possible and swivel so that it misses Jamie, Viral Content.

  “Are . . . you . . . joking?” The accent makes the accusation sound even scarier.

  I take it back. The only thing worse than awkward silence and awkward blabbering is awkwardly spilling your drink all over your new coworker’s cute, probably really expensive, all-white outfit. Swiveling away from new friend Jamie meant swiveling toward newly anointed-with-Diet-Coke enemy Gigi, whose once-pristine clothes are now absolutely covered in sticky, brown, sugar-free soda.

  “No, I’m serious.” Her voice is almost at a whisper. “Is this a joke? Because I’m not laughing.”

  “I’m so, so sor—”

  “Get me a napkin, maybe? Help me, maybe?”

  Oh God, where are they? I put my bag down on the wet table and start scrambling to find napkins.

  The other interns gasp audibly.

  “Careful!” Brie, Beauty, sputters out in a Southern drawl. “The soda’s going to get on your scarf.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about it,” I reply, still searching for that damn napkin. “Seriously, not a big deal.”

  “Isn’t that vintage Hermès?” Sun-Hi, Fashion, asks.

  Oh?

  “You can’t ruin the Hermès,” Brie says. “That would be, like, murder.”

  “I can’t watch this.” Sun-Hi snatches the bag away and starts dousing my scarf in fizzy seltzer water. Brie then unties the scarf and dabs the silk material with paper towels—where did she find those?—to prevent any possible stain. She clutches it to her chest . . . which, unlike mine, is the opposite of minimalistic. Sun-Hi, whose face has looked sullen since I entered the room, is now wearing a scowl.

  At least if I had said yes to the Birkin, I would have known that I was carrying precious cargo. I really have to start studying designers when I get back to the apartment.

  “Seriously?” Gigi looks from the interns cooing around my scarf to the dark splotches seeping into her once-white high-waisted shorts and lacy white crop top. “You think that menace”—I’m the menace—“deserves help more than me? The innocent victim?”

  I stop myself from correcting her “me” to “I” on the assumption that my copyediting would result in my murder.

  Well, this day is off to a fan-freaking-tastic start.

  I’m a naturally clumsy person, but this is just ridiculous. I blame Neanderthal Dog Walker. He totally got me frazzled this morning and threw me off my game.

  Before I have the chance to apologize profusely, we’re interrupted by the nice Skirt Suit I met in the hall.

  “Change of plans, ladies. We’re going to have to do orientation later. Request from the forty-second floor is that we get you all upstairs ASAP. McKayla is ready for you now.”

  “Wait, we’re meeting McKayla now? I can’t go in looking like this.” Gigi motions to her outfit, which now resembles a Rorschach splatter test. “Can I quickly buy a jacket from one of the shops downstairs?”

  “That is an . . . unfortunate situation,” Skirt Suit says after looking at Gigi’s outfit, “but no can do. Request from the forty-second floor is that we get you all upstairs ASAP.”

  “I’m a really fast shopper.”

  “I’m sure you are.”

  “Can I run to the loo to try to wash off?”

  “Sorry, hon, but I’m not in the mood to get fired today. In McKayla-speak, ASAP means five minutes ago. Or else. So let’s move it, ladies.” She snaps her fingers and we shuffle to the door.

  If I thought my side eye to Neanderthal Dog Walker was threatening, Gigi’s is deadly. It could be the subject of an entire chapter in The Art of War.

  5

  THE ELEVATOR DOORS OPEN TO a wall that has the Shift logo written on it over and over again in big bubble letters.

  “Welcome to Shift,” Skirt Suit says, just in case we missed the literal writing on the wall. She swipes her Bosh Media ID card in front of a sensor, which unlocks a large glass door. “Come this way.”

  The office’s main entryway is decorated with blown-up magazine covers signed by that month’s celebrity and leads into an open office space filled with electric-blue tables, beanbag chairs, and a variety of desk setups.

  “So cool,” says Abigail, Health, hypnotized by a woman in wedge sneakers who’s typing furiously while power walking on a treadmill desk. “Sitting kills, you know.”

  Luckily I see staffers who are more my speed. Which is stationary.

  Some are hunched in an ergonomically unfriendly manner over their giant computer screens, others at their standing desks, and there’s a group of them gossiping by a watercooler that reads “Evian.” No one so much as turns her Technicolor ombré-highlighted head when we file past in a neat row.

  McKayla Rae is facing us when we enter her corner office, staring down each intern
as we walk through the plate-glass door, one by one. Her arms are crossed as she leans against a large window that overlooks the Hudson River.

  The décor is chic and austere. The walls are gray; the furniture is gray; the accent pieces around the room, metallic silver. McKayla, on the other hand, stands out against her surroundings. Her emerald-green wrap dress. Her dramatic red hair.

  The message is clear: In here, you pay attention to McKayla and McKayla only.

  While Gigi shrinks to the back of the intern cluster, trying to strategically place her big bag in front of her even bigger Diet Coke stains, Jamie beelines directly toward McKayla to shake her hand.

  “It’s such an honor to meet you,” she says, arm outstretched. “I’m Jamie Sullivan. I interned here last summer and am so excited to be part of the website’s viral team.”

  McKayla doesn’t extend her hand.

  “Can we . . . not?” she says. Jamie opens and then closes her mouth. She puts her rejected hand into the pocket of her dress and slouches back to the group. “If you can all manage to control yourselves, let’s keep the ass-kissing to a minimum, ’kay? My sit-down with Taylor and Karlie got moved up, so I really don’t have time for hugs and braiding each other’s hair.”

  I don’t know what’s more terrifying, the ease with which she totally shut down Jamie, just for being polite, or the fact that she’s on a first-name basis with Taylor Swift and Karlie Kloss.

  She gestures toward the charcoal couches and stares until we take our spots. She remains standing. Only when we’re quietly seated under framed photos of McKayla posing with celebrities ranging from Miley Cyrus to Hillary Clinton does she continue, slowly drumming her fingernails, decorated with Mondrian-inspired nail art, on her crossed arms. McKayla demands complete focus, deference, and a touch—no, a slap—of fear.

  “Trenton Bosh hired me six months ago to take Shift from its current status as the biggest teen magazine in the country to the most clicked-on website,” McKayla says.