Summer Intern

by Carrie Karasyov

  Then she walked across the office, opened the door, and sauntered out.

  Silence.

  “Sorry, Kira!” said Alida, coming up and giving me a big hug.

  Daphne looked confounded but quickly recovered. “How horrible this must have been for you!” she said, embracing me. “Cecilia had us all duped. Now we know her true colors! Let’s have lunch and do a rehash and regroup. I’m so shaken.”

  “Um, raincheck maybe,” I said. I turned and looked at Genevieve to await her response.

  “Well, that’s settled. I have a nine o’clock, so if you’ll all excuse me,” she said coolly.

  I couldn’t believe that was all she said, after my frigging life was on the line. But, whatever. I wanted to get the hell out of there and get this over with.

  I left the office, arm in arm with Alida, but not before turning to James and thanking him. Profusely.

  “No prob,” he said with a wink.

  God, he was hot.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  After an Oscar-worthy reenactment of the war zone that was Genevieve’s office, I had Gabe and Teagan drooling. I thought Teagan would literally go out and bash in Cecilia’s face with a polo mallet, but I mollified her with the parting image of the humiliated Trumpette leaving red-faced and stammering about her lawyers.

  “Rock on, girlfriend!” exclaimed Gabe, high-fiving me dramatically. He saluted me so loudly that everyone sitting near us in the Lower East Side dive bar Crush turned around to see the owner of the larynx that had projected so far across the room.

  And speaking of crushes: Not to be so 1950s, but something about James’s saving my ass made me feel very much the damsel in distress who was rescued. Big time. But the still-lingering embarrassment over slumming with Matt clouded my confidence with him. When I’d spied James a couple times later in the day, he was busy bolting around and could barely spare a sec to chitchat. Gabe and Teagan looked at each other slyly as I described James’s foresight and Mission: Impossible–style gadgetry with full unprompted camera installation.

  “That’s hot,” Gabe agreed. “Almost as delish as Tom Cruise in that harness. Yummy.”

  “I mean, he totally helped me dodge a bullet,” I mused aloud. “I could have been arrested, not just canned. I feel like I owe him majorly.”

  “Aren’t you glad you saved the V-pass?” Gabe teased. Teagan snorted out her Diet Coke.

  “Shut up!” I said, feeling my pale cheeks blush again.

  “Oooooh! Kira and James sittin’ in a tree—” Gabe sang.

  “You guys, I’m serious—how do I thank him—not in a horizontal way, Gabe. He would never be into me in that way, anyway….”

  “Hmmm…What do you both love?” asked Teagan, hand on chin as she perused the pages of Time Out New York, the city’s “obsessive guide to impulsive entertainment” with everything to do, eat, watch, and visit under the New York sun.

  “How about buying him a cool photograph?” Gabe offered.

  “Reminder: I’m broke,” I offered.

  “I got it!” Teagan said, wide-eyed. “Check it out! Look at this ad. In teeny letters it says the Damguards are playing Monday at The Mercury Lounge!”

  Gabe and I looked at each other. I suddenly felt very uncool to ask my next question.

  “Who are they?” I asked sheepishly. “I’ve never heard of them.”

  Teagan laughed. “Kira, it’s Radiohead. They do sneak shows under a code name for die-hard fans. James would die and go to heaven,” she said, eyes ablaze. “And the tickets are el-cheapo ’cause it’s at such a tiny venue that the ticket cartels can’t screw you. It’s perfect!”

  As the corners of my mouth turned up for a smile, I heard the group’s music in my head. I couldn’t think of a better thank-you-for-saving-my-hide present.

  “A surprise?” James asked, cocking his head to one side. “What kind of surprise?”

  “How could I tell you? It would ruin it,” I said knowingly. The tickets were burning a hole in my pocket, and I could not have been more revved up.

  “You don’t have to do anything for me, Kira. The only reward I need is the sweet taste of justice,” he said with a laugh.

  “Well, Spider-Man, that’s very bold, but I still feel the need to thank you, so Monday night consider yourself booked.”

  One thing I did know as he waved good-bye to enter his staff meeting: The crush from June that had withered on the vine was now back in bloom.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Luckily I didn’t have too much time during the weekend to dwell on my impending sorta-date (at least in my mind) with James because Gabe’s parents had come to town and it was time for a Dr. Phil–style sit-down. I was nauseous for him, but I was also nauseous for myself and Teagan because Gabe insisted that we be there to serve as cheerleaders. It seemed totally inappropriate for me to be caught in the middle of a major family revelation, but Gabe said he really needed our strength and support to get through it.

  It’s funny, because the way I had envisioned his parents was nothing like the reality. Yes, okay, I subscribe to stereotypes (guilty!), but instead of a plump, frosted-blonde, matronly midwestern woman clad in Talbots, Gabe’s mother was petite and totally chic with her Sally Hershberger–style tousled haircut, Bottega Veneta handbag, and miniskirt. I suppose due to Gabe’s description I had expected his father to come into the apartment toting a football and clad in all sorts of University of Wisconsin paraphernalia, but instead the guy was wearing a fairly innocuous Lacoste shirt and jeans.

  And they were nice. I mean, super nice. Which makes sense because Gabe was super nice. But I had pictured characters from Desperate Housewives ready to do all sorts of evil deeds from Gabe’s description. It’s not like he bashed them—I guess his giant fear about telling them he was gay made me think they’d be satanic.

  “It is so nice to finally meet you,” said Gabe’s mom (“Call me Meg!”), who greeted me with a kiss.

  Gabe’s father, Mitch, was less affectionate but pumped my hand several times with enthusiasm.

  “Can we get you anything to drink?” asked Teagan.

  “We bought champagne at that cute store on the corner!” said Meg. “We wanted to have a celebration.”

  “Thanks for looking after our boy,” said Mitch. “His mother was so worried sending him off to the big bad city.”

  “You’re embarrassing him,” said Meg, tousling Gabe’s hair. He indeed looked embarrassed.

  “Shall I open it?” asked Mitch, pulling the champagne out of a paper bag.

  After pouring the drinks and chitchatting for a while, Gabe’s parents started to throw out a few feelers about going back to their hotel to shower before dinner. Teagan and I nervously glanced at Gabe, wondering if he would go through with it. It was starting to look like he might bail out, but we knew that we couldn’t let him.

  “So, Mitch, Meg, are your other children living close to home?” asked Teagan, giving Gabe a look.

  “Yes, we’re so lucky. Mary-Elizabeth is married with two children, lives just down the street, and Patricia teaches second grade at Sacred Heart; Chad is a senior at Madison. He wants to be a physical therapist, or maybe do something with sports medicine, that’s his passion, and J.P. will be a sophomore, as obsessed with football as the rest of my boys. Well, except Gabe.”

  “We were surprised Gabe even worked at Sports Today,” said Mitch.

  “I don’t,” Gabe blurted out.

  He had been so silent that his words took everyone by surprise.

  “What do you mean?” asked Meg, confused.

  Teagan and I watched as he shot us a look before taking a slow, deep breath. “I told you I was working there but I’m not. I work at Skirt magazine. You know, the fashion magazine.”

  His parents paused. “Why wouldn’t you tell us that?” asked Mitch, perplexed.

  “Maybe we should go,” I said, rising.

  “Please stay,” pleaded Gabe.

  I felt so awkward in the middle of
the Jerry Springer moment but I had to honor my friend’s wishes.

  “Mom, Dad, I’m gay,” said Gabe, finally looking at his parents.

  I stared at them, waiting for the screams and the cries, but they didn’t say anything. Gabe spoke again.

  “And I’m going to the Parsons School of Design, which is a fashion school, because I want to be a designer, not a football player.”

  Meg seemed to inhale slowly, and then she looked at Mitch, whose face I couldn’t read.

  You could cut the tension with a seam ripper.

  “Sweetie, we’re so happy for you,” said Meg.

  I was stunned. What? Did she just say, “happy for him”?

  Gabe looked up at her. “You are?”

  “Sweetie, your father and I had sort of thought for a long time that you might be, you know, gay, but we didn’t think you knew it, so we didn’t want to say anything.”

  “We went to a therapist, you know, at, what’s it called, Meggie?”

  “Gay and Lesbian Support Network,” said Meg, nodding.

  “Right,” said Mitch. “And we asked them what to do—you know, we think our son is gay and he doesn’t know it….”

  “And they said not to do anything, that you’ll figure it out in your own time,” interjected Meg.

  “But we were worried that you had your heart set on football at Madison, wanted to follow in your big brother’s footsteps, and maybe that wouldn’t be the right place for you and you’d get frustrated,” said Mitch softly.

  Suddenly Gabe burst into tears. Heaving, sobbing tears. His mother went to him and gave him a big giant hug.

  “So you’re not mad at me?” asked Gabe.

  “Of course not, sweetie,” said Meg. “We want you to be happy.”

  “What about you, Dad?” asked Gabe.

  “I’m not used to it, I admit. But I know it’s genetic, it can’t be helped, and it’s who you are, and I love who you are. Jesus tells us to love everyone without judgment,” said Mitch.

  “Oh my God! I should have told you years ago!” said Gabe, still crying but also laughing.

  Tears were streaming down my cheeks also. And I stole a glance at the impenetrable Teagan, who was also sobbing.

  “But honey, I think you need to apply to Parsons,” said Meg gently.

  “I did. I’m in!” said Gabe.

  “Well, then this calls for a celebration!” said his father, pouring more champagne.

  We spent the next hour laughing and crying while Gabe filled in his parents on his summer at Skirt and how nervous he was about telling them and everything else. Finally Gabe and his parents left for dinner, and Teagan and I, emotionally wrecked from the day’s events, rented The Princess Bride and ordered in Chinese before retiring to bed at ten o’clock. If only everything had happy endings like that.

  Chapter Thirty

  After a night of full MSG binging, I returned to work, ready to begin my final two weeks as a summer intern at Skirt. While Gabe was having a good-bye breakfast with his parents, Teagan and I boarded the packed Hughes elevators as usual.

  But when they opened on our floor, the mood was most certainly out of the ordinary. A pall had been cast over the normally bustling office. As I was having acid flashbacks of Charlie Sheen’s final scene in Wall Street when he meandered through the maze of cubicles, I noticed not one but two grim-faced staffers carrying boxes of belongings. Teagan and I looked at each other as if to say huh? And then we saw Richard.

  “Girls! In here!” he whispered. We obediently darted into the conference room.

  He was fanning himself with our last issue, sweating. “You’re gonna die!” he exclaimed breathlessly. “Heads are rolling!”

  “What’s going on?” Teagan asked.

  “Over the weekend, we all got calls for an emergency staff meeting at eight A.M. this morning. We haven’t had that since Genevieve’s predecessor, Miranda DuChoix, was fired on Saturday’s Page Six in the Post!” he said, eyes ablaze. “So we all gather around this morning, and who shows up but Mr. Hughes, who said he sold the magazine to Sly Oldshack after an offer even he couldn’t refuse!”

  No. Way. We were too stunned to respond. The rug had been totally ripped out from the staff’s Louboutin-covered feet—not a soul knew about the sale and the whole crew was totally blindsided.

  “And get this: Genevieve’s out,” whispered Richard. “Alida’s in. She’s the new editor in chief! Apparently, she’s been having secret meetings for months with Sly Oldshack, presenting her ideas.”

  Suddenly Richard’s words triggered the memory of seeing Alida in that out-of-the-way restaurant. So that was who I saw Alida with that time near the studio! It wasn’t a secret affair behind her boyfriend’s back; it was a clandestine job meeting behind Genevieve’s back!

  “Oh my God!” Teagan squealed giddily. I loved how my Goth comrade was suddenly alive with the spark of scandal.

  “First order of bidniss,” said Richard, looking both ways. “Firings galore. CeCe was the first to get canned. She called Alida a bitch and stormed out!”

  My jaw hit the table. So there was justice in the world.

  “Half the staff is Audi 5000,” he said, listing the sackings, which obviously included the dispatching of Daphne to Tinsel Monthly, which Daddy still owned. “But luckily you are looking at the nuevo senior editor!”

  Teagan and I jumped up and hugged him, but our congratulatory embrace was interrupted by a rapping on the conference room window. Oops, busted. We turned to find Alida herself looking in. She signaled to me to come outside. Uh oh, was I in trouble? Maybe I shouldn’t have been so publicly gleeful when there was a job guillotine snapping down on half the editors’ skinny necks.

  I followed her outside into the hallway, gulping.

  “So, Kira,” she said, smiling calmly. “I know you start Columbia this fall—”

  “Mmm-hmm,” I responded, wondering why she wanted to talk to me.

  “So it’s a good thing our new offices are on the Upper West Side,” she said, eyebrow arched as she smiled, awaiting my response—which was simply utter confusion.

  “What do you mean?” I probed.

  Alida laughed and put a hand on my shoulder. “What I mean,” she said, “is that you were one of the best interns I have ever seen in my tenure here. You have your ear to the ground, you’re a killer trendspotter, you have guts, soul, and”—she looked me in the eye—“heart.”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “I want you on our team,” she said, to my disbelief. “We need a girl on the street, a college editor. I want you to helm your own section of the magazine, like a hip shopper’s index in the back of the book. You’re dedicated, chic, and I know you have a really bright future in this business. You think you can handle it on top of schoolwork?”

  Yes! Yes! A thousand times yes! “Alida, I’d be honored!” I gushed, hand on heart. It was literally the greatest thing that could happen. And screw stamping books in the library or some menial go-nowhere job, the Skirt money would help fund my student life and be a humongous resume builder! I was reeling.

  “All along I watched you work late, stay focused, and even deal with Daphne with total grace,” she said. “It wasn’t fair. And life’s not fair. But your work did not go unnoticed. I for one was very impressed. And your diligence and perseverance really reminded me of someone,” she said with a grin.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Me.”

  I only hoped my future would be half as major, as Alida would now flank the front of every runway from here to Milan. Instead of being cold and demanding, she was a true leader who would actually teach her staff instead of berate them.

  “I can’t thank you enough,” I said, hugging her. “This is literally my dream come true!”

  And it was. And now there was only one more reverie left to conquer.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “Ready?”

  I turned around and saw James leaning against the wall by the door. He
looked H.O.T. in his white T-shirt, khakis, and scuffed-up Vans—so hot that I had to exhale slowly and tell myself to keep it together. Sometimes simple is best. More people should understand that. Maybe that would be my first column, called “Miniskirt,” for the new Skirt. My mind was meandering because I was nervous.

  “Sure,” I said. “Let me just get my stuff.”

  I grabbed my bag and felt myself blush for no apparent reason. It was odd. I see James day in, day out, but it was like there was this new shift; we were both swingin’ single and now he could potentially be mine. I could be on an episode of Maury: “When Friends Become Lovers.” Although I was getting ahead of myself.

  We barely spoke to each other as we exited the office because there were so many people around, so it wasn’t until we got in the taxi (I was planning on taking the subway but James wanted to splurge) that we had a chance to chat.

  “Congratulations on your new gig,” I said to James. Alida had made him senior photo editor.

  “To you as well,” said James.

  The leather seats felt hot on the back of my legs, and I just prayed when we got out that I wouldn’t have all those weird markings and red lines smashed on my thighs. Maybe it was a bad idea to wear a short frock.

  “Cute dress,” said James. I blushed, but then realized he must have seen me adjust it over and over again.

  “Thanks.”

  Why was I so mute and fidgety? I was acting like a mime in Central Park. So much had transpired but I didn’t know what to say.

  “And thanks again for, you know, saving me the other day. It was just my luck that you had cameras in there and caught Cecilia on tape.”

  “I have a confession to make,” said James with a smile. “I didn’t have cameras in there,” he said. “I was bluffing.”

  Shock. “What?”

  James crossed his ankles, put his hands behind his head, and stretched like a cat who’d just chowed a canary. “I knew you didn’t steal, and I knew that you’d go down for it, and I couldn’t let that happen.”