The most intimidating office feature hangs literally over our heads in the bullpen. Projected on an always-on television set is something called the Leader Board. With real-time data updating every seven seconds, the Leader Board shows the ten best-performing articles on the Shift website. This is our key to the magazine feature.
“You want to make this board,” Granny Hair warns. “And this is how you get there.”
She points to a piece of paper hanging under the television screen that reads, THE NINE COMMANDMENTS OF CLICKINESS. It’s McKayla’s own religious doctrine.
Shift biblical law includes: “Thou shalt write only odd-numbered listicles” (readers don’t like clicking on even numbers), and “Thou shalt embrace puns” (the Internet loves puns). My personal favorite commandment, however, is the eighth:
Thou Shalt Not Pitch a Story If You Can’t Think of a Good Headline First
A headline is hands-down the most important part of an article. Yes, even more than the writing. Because if your headline is bad, who will even read the story? Sell your story and yourself, even if you have to embellish. Any click’s a good click.
I’m quick to memorize all the commandments—you never know when there’s going to be a quiz—but am slow to break into the Shift Girls’ social circle. They all laugh simultaneously several times a day at their computers, which makes me think they have an e-mail chain I’m not a part of.
So Friday, in hopes of speeding up the friendship process, I get to work extra early and leave a Sprinkles cupcake on each intern’s desk in celebration of a successful end of our first week. Buttering them up by means of buttery treats.
Jamie is already at her desk, chugging coffee and watching a YouTube video of a toddler twerking when I arrive. To the untrained eye, it would look like she’s goofing off. But watching crazy YouTubes is actually a big part of her job. Every day, Jamie and the rest of the viral team comb through Reddit boards and trending hashtags to round up a batch of “quick hits” to write up for the Shift website by ten minutes ago. One hundred fifty words tops.
“My goal for June is to publish at least two viral stories before they go up on BuzzSnap,” Jamie says. “I’ve gotta prove that I’m fast so McKayla will hire me.”
She puts out her hand to accept the cookies-and-cream-flavored cupcake without even looking at it. Her eyes never leave her computer monitor when she pops it into her mouth and starts to chew.
When nine o’clock rolls around and the rest of the interns begin trickling in with giant cups of coffee, they appear underwhelmed by the treat. I start worrying that I maybe shouldn’t have ignored Aunt Vee’s warning that I should “try to kill them with kindness, not carbohydrates, dear. They’re very different things.”
“What’s this?” Gigi asks in an accent as silky as her gorgeous dress.
“Cupcakes?”
“I see.”
“I thought it would be fun to—”
“Fun? Do you know what’s not fun, Harper? Debilitating stomach pains. Given how many people suffer from gluten intolerance, I find this action to be very insensitive.”
Crap.
“One in every one hundred thirty-three people has celiac disease,” Abigail, the trusty Health intern, pipes up. She’s chomping on sunflower seeds rather than cupcake.
“That doesn’t sound right,” Brie says. “In my sorority, like, one in every three girls can’t eat bread. My big, my big-big, and my big-big-big—”
“Well it is,” Abigail says, seriously and severely. “I’m pitching a listicle about gluten intolerance for the health section, and I’ve done my research.”
“Regardless,” Gigi cuts her off. “This is very rude, Harper.”
She drops the red velvet in the trash.
* * *
As promised, McKayla finally begins calling us individually into her office for our one-on-one meetings. Sunny is the first to go in. We look up from our various research and fact-checking assignments to watch her walk confidently into McKayla’s office, her sleek, asymmetrical black hair and a sleek, asymmetrical black dress swishing behind her as if she were hooked up to a portable wind machine.
During her twenty-minute meeting, we all pretend we have reasons to walk past McKayla’s glass door and get a surreptitious look at how it’s going. But stoic Sunny’s face reveals no leads, before, during, and after the meeting.
“It’s really not that bad,” Sunny says when she comes out. “But, Jesus, how many times can one person say the word ‘edgy’ in ten minutes?”
Sunny says she spent most of the time pitching McKayla an article idea she thinks is magazine worthy. “Don’t Call Us Lipstick Lesbians: The World of Lesbian Chic.”
Because she’s in a relationship nearing its second anniversary, Sunny is probably more qualified to be the dating blogger than I am. She and her girlfriend, Cassie, even have their own hashtag on Instagram. #Sussie. And based on the pictures, chic is the only way to describe them. The two met on the first day of Sunny’s freshman year at the Fashion Institute. Cassie was randomly assigned to be her “fit model.” Fitting, right? (Note: I don’t usually think in puns, but I’m practicing Shift’s biblical mandate to embrace them in our writing.) Anyway, it was love at first stitch. (Oh God, that one doesn’t even work. Let’s hope there’s a big learning curve for becoming a pun master.)
I get called into McKayla’s office last.
“Why do you look like your cat just died?” McKayla looks up from her phone to acknowledge my presence and then goes back to typing furiously. “You look more sullen than Sunny. Smile, Harper. You should be slightly pleased to have the opportunity to meet me one on one.”
“So sorry!”
“Shift Girls don’t say sorry. Maybe write that down this time.”
“Of course!” I underline the words NEVER SAY SORRY!!! three times in my flimsy spiral notebook from the supply closet. In spite of my best searching efforts, my beloved Moleskine was nowhere to be found in Aunt Vee’s apartment.
“Well, you know why you’re here.” McKayla puts down her phone dramatically. “Let’s talk about your blog.”
That’s all it takes to make me break into a completely natural, completely excited grin. She said “your” blog. As in my blog. This is real. I’m not about to wake up from this dream with remnants of acai berries under my fingernails.
“There are two reasons that you were picked to be our dating blogger,” she says. “And they are . . .”
Pause.
“Because your first choice got pregnant?” Oh God, did I just say that out loud?
“All right, there are three reasons why you were picked to be our dating blogger. The first is that the American public school system failed to teach Tammy proper sex ed. The second, however, is the fact that you have a voice. It’s arch, it’s funny, and it’s a little bit snarky, which the Internet loves. You’ll need to be our high school readership’s friend. Their gossip buddy. I want to build a brand here with a following of avid retweeters and Facebook posters.”
Am I hearing her correctly? Because it seems like this is going really well.
“Thank you!” My entire body untenses. This will all work out. Shift didn’t want me because of Kristina’s crazy dating experiences and the fact that I replaced the word “Kristina” with “I” in my application essay. They want me because of how I wrote about them.
“The last reason is because of the sample blog post in your application.” McKayla is now making direct eye contact with me instead of her phone. “I love a good sex scandal.”
Sex scandal?
Uh-oh.
Medieval minstrels could sing songs celebrating my virginity; Kristina, on the other hand . . .
“Of course I can’t post that on the site. Pity,” McKayla continues. “Just yesterday I had to go to all-out war with the oldies who are still in power upstairs to clear putting the words ‘dick pic’ in a headline. I’m still trying to convince them to let me run the word ‘sexcapades.’ ”
; “That’s probably for the best,” I say carefully. “I mean—”
“Yeah, whatever.” McKayla waves away my concern like she’s swatting at a gnat. She doesn’t like interruptions. “Still, your sample blog is the kind of stuff I want. Be real. Be gritty. Don’t sugarcoat things. No sugarcoating ever.”
Am I the only person in this whole office who likes both carbs and sugar?
“No problem.” I refuse to show any signs of self-doubt. I readjust my Peter Pan–collared shirt and ask if we can start talking about other ideas for real, edgy, “clicky” dating blog posts. (I’ve been preparing for this conversation all week and have taken note of McKayla’s favorite buzzwords to make sure this goes as well as possible.)
“Yes, let’s huddle on that.” McKayla begins rhythmically drumming her nails, now painted to look like Pop Art, on her desk, waiting for me to talk.
“People like horror stories, right? So I could write about my worst date ever and, like, have Shift readers tweet their bad dates too.”
“Well, at least there’s social media involvement.” She leans forward, yawning slightly. I take this as a threat; put her to sleep only if you plan to turn in your Shift intern badge before she wakes up. “But what was the date?”
I might have used Kristina’s story to get my foot in the door, but I’m going to try to make it at Shift being as honest as possible. Luckily my only “kind of” date was more than “kind of” terrible.
“Well, this fall I went to homecoming with this really cute guy,” I say. McKayla looks intrigued, like she’s about to hear a secret. Something tells me that McKayla loves knowing secrets.
“But it turns out that he only went with me because he wanted to hook up with my best friend, which totally isn’t a surprise because every guy wants to date her. Anyway, when I left for five minutes to get us punch, he even tried to kiss her—”
“Oh God, stop. Harper, this story is so boring and mopey and pathetic.”
It was pathetic.
I remember seeing Dave’s puckered lips descend upon Kristina’s angry mouth when her date and I came back from our expedition to get punch, and hearing his booming assertion that he was sure she liked him too carry across the dance floor.
“What are you talking about?” Kristina seethed, pushing him away. “You’re here with my best friend.”
“But not really,” he insisted. “C’mon, you knew I wouldn’t be into her. She’s not one of us. You only asked me to come along because you weren’t that into Shane, and I didn’t have the balls to ask you out before he did.”
Kristina responded by promptly kicking Dave in the groin before her date could get to him. As it turned out, Dave had those balls after all.
“I. Don’t. Like. Cheaters,” Kristina declared over his writhing body.
McKayla’s voice rips through my memory. “Harper, that’s not the kind of story that I’m looking for. Even if you’re writing about a bad date—which you will, horror stories click very well—you still need to be the kind of girl Shift readers want to be. The pinnacle of desirability. Give me a better bad date you’ve been on.”
I’m silent. There are no better bad dates. Or good dates. Or dates of any kind.
I feel another deep pang of loss for my missing Moleskine. The notebook is filled with funny quips and comments on Kristina’s numerous disaster dates. One flip through, and I’d be set with a juicy tidbit. Not to publish, of course. I just need a quick fix for this meeting.
“It truly baffles me, Harper, how you can be so sharp in your writing and so bumbling in person. You should really work on that.” Her phone starts buzzing.
She wraps up our meeting, telling me she’ll want a draft of my blog on her desk every Monday (starting this Monday), so that she can go through it with a hacksaw. That way it will be ready for its weekly Wednesday publication.
“For this week’s, you can just introduce yourself to readers, explain your dating mantra, and get everyone ready to read about your dating escapades. Easy.”
Yeah, right. Easy.
8
I CAN’T BREATHE.
And it’s not because the East Coast flora and fauna have unleashed allergies that my West Coast sinuses never knew existed. (Thank God for Mucinex.) And it’s not because I’m in over my head at Shift. (Although, let’s face it, I totally am.)
I can’t breathe because out of all the places in Aunt Vee’s gigantic penthouse that Princess could have chosen to lie—including her special-ordered, memory-foam dog bed—she has decided to sprawl out on my stomach, stubby limbs akimbo.
We’re in the living room, spread out by the window, soaking up the last patch of light like lizards before the sun dips down behind the buildings to our west and into the Hudson River.
“Princess, I think we’re bonding,” I say, petting her on the back.
I might be projecting, but I think Princess grunts in agreement.
Unfortunately, my interspecies friendships are faring better than my intern-to-intern ones. The Shift Girls are all bonding with one another. And I wasn’t invited. While McKayla was instructing me on how to conquer the dating blogosphere, I watched through her office’s glass doors as the girls turned off their computers and got ready to leave.
“The Arts & Culture editor gave Gigi a bunch of passes to a movie screening,” Brie explained. “Do you have another, Gigi?”
“Limited availability,” Gigi said. “Maybe next time.”
“Want me to take a red-eye and shank them for u?” Kristina offered when I texted her on my walk from the subway.
Harper:
SHANK them?
Kristina:
Been watching Orange Is the New Black. Alone. Bc u abandoned me. Is that a yes?
Harper:
NOPE. (But reserving the right to change my mind . . .)
I’m lucky. Kristina has always been the kind of friend who would shank someone on your behalf.
Our friendship origin story goes back to my second first day of preschool, after my parents unceremoniously moved us from Sacramento to Castalia in the middle of the year, in spite of my very compelling requests to stay put. Making new friends sounded scary. Besides, my old pre-K had an endless supply of Popsicle sticks and googly eyes I’d grown very attached to.
So there I was, a shy girl hiding behind my parents’ legs as a teacher showed us around Castalia Day, when a precocious four-and-three-quarters-year-old (apparently she was very specific when introducing herself to my parents) pushed her way through my dad’s knees and asked for my name.
Like that, Kristina plopped a newly arts-and-crafted pipe-cleaner-and-pom-pom tiara on top of my head and claimed me as her own, dragging me around the room to inform everyone from the Play-Doh clique to the Tonka truck crew: “Harper’s new. Be her friend.”
I’ve never had to fend for myself socially without Kristina by my side. And from the look of things on the Shift Girls’ Snapchat Stories from the movie screening, I don’t know if I can.
“Maybe the two of us can go out on the town sometime,” I tell Princess, flopping her ears up and down and up again, an activity so enthralling that I completely miss the approaching footsteps.
“Uh-oh, who let you near an animal?”
I jerk up and Princess tumbles off my stomach in one swift motion to a soft landing on the carpet. How do I know that voice? Who else is in the apartment?
“See, there you go again, knocking over dogs left and right. Should I be calling the Humane Society?”
The floppy-haired Neanderthal Dog Walker!
Is he stalking me? Is he back for retribution after our sidewalk scuffle? Am I about to be murdered before I even have a chance to go to the Guggenheim, get a frozen hot chocolate from Serendipity, and see a musical on Broadway?
“How’d you get in here?” I scramble in my bag for my iPhone. “Stay over there or I’m calling the cops?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. I think you have the wrong idea.” Dog Walker Stalker puts up his hands and backs toward the
front door. “I’m here for Princess.”
“How do you know her name?” I dial a nine, a one, and a one, and hover my finger dramatically over the call button.
“I’m her dog walker! I’m Princess’s dog walker! Vet’s orders.”
Princess, too lazy to get out of the awkward position she fell into after her spill from my lap, gives an annoyed harrumph.
“This is only our second session. You can’t tell me that that dog doesn’t look like she’s in serious need of some veterinarian-mandated exercise!”
His story is slightly credible. I’ve seen Princess plop her stomach into her monogrammed food bowl and drag it with her around the apartment so that she has easy access to food at all times. But of all the dog walkers in New York, couldn’t Aunt Vee have hired someone else? Or maybe sprung for a puppy elliptical machine instead?
“Okay, if that doesn’t help you chill, maybe this will,” Stranger Danger says as he reaches into his backpack to pull out . . . a knife? Chloroform?
My missing notebook!
“You dropped it the other day during our, you know.” He walks toward me like there are land mines embedded in Aunt Vee’s hardwood floor and hands me the black Moleskine in not-quite-mint condition. “Sorry it’s not in better shape. Atticus got to it before I did.”
I run my finger over the soft cover, but its signature smooth texture has been replaced with what feels like inverse Braille, courtesy of Atticus’s incisors. When I flip through the pages, I see that portions of dashed-off notes have been disrupted by chew marks. Sections of writing are lost to the smears of blue pen in areas that have been particularly affected by slobber. I feel its loss all over again, as if little pieces of me have been chewed up and obliterated, too.
Suddenly the land mine that Neanderthal Dog Walker was so carefully trying to avoid goes off and, through absolutely no will of my own, I just start crying.
Little Black Dresses, Little White Lies Page 5
