Okay...this is for the power and the glory. I can last the summer. I mean, I know it's been a week. And I know that I already hate about half of the people in this building but...
"Lydia....Lydia! Hello? Do you not see that I need you to do something?"
...one day I'm going to be the boss of all of you. I swear it.
"Yes, Miranda. I'm sorry, Miranda."
She tossed the stack of manila folders onto my tiny, already cluttered desk. They slid down miserably, and along the top of each one, the names of our journalists were printed, carefully, in blue ink: Ezra S., Camille K., Ariel H., Vivian E..
"You'd better be," the evil, bottle-blonde Drill Sargent scolded, "your job, at this point, is disposable."
"I know, Miranda." I replied dumbly. I clumsily gathered up the folders into my sweating palms, and stood up from my desk. It was not easy to teeter around the office in heels. In fact, I wanted nothing more than to slip on my plain black Converses and my sweatpants. But, as Miranda so politely put it, "This is a place of business, not a hip-hop concert, or a rap video"
I was trying to decide whether or not she was being racist, but I wasn't sure. Regardless, the heels, black pencil skirt, and white blouse were my uniform clothing during the week. I fought hard for this internship, there was no backing down now.
"W-What exactly am I supposed to do with these?" I held the folders close to my chest, hoping Miranda wouldn't snatch them and then throw them at me. Instead, she rolled her eyes and gave a dramatic sigh.
"Where do they get these girls, the special ed schools?" she muttered under her breath. I opened my mouth to protest, but she cut me off, "Go give them to the journalists. You DO know their names, right?"
I honestly didn't, but I'm sure I could figure it out. I doubt the journalists were as mean as...well...everyone else.
"Very good, sunshine."
Sarcastic bitch. I turned on my heels and tottered away from the desk.
"Oh and, Lydia, dear?" Miranda called behind me.
I didn't bother to turn around, "What?"
"You might want to try some lunges or kickboxing." I raised an eyebrow, "Your butt's looking a little...cottage cheesy."
When I become the boss, you'll be the first one to go.
I gritted my teeth and forced a smile, "Thank you, Miranda. Have a BEAUTIFUL DAY, Miranda."
"Oh I will."
This abuse was a normal thing at Constance Magazine. To be honest, it wasn't much a surprise to me. I've seen The Devil Wears Prada about eight times. However, imagine my disappointment when there was no sarcastic gay assistant to take me into a ginormous closet filled with clothes, and I didn't get the Anne Hathaway treatment. I had to buy my own clothes and shoes. And imagine my disappointment when I wanted to meet the lead editor of Constance, but instead I got to meet this Scarlett Johanson wannabe of a b'itch, Miranda. She tries so hard to convince everyone that she's the H.B.I.C when in actuality, I'm the only one that shows her respect. And that's only because my job depends on it. I'm sure she's not much higher on the food chain than I am, and that's not high at all.
All of these thoughts ran through my head as I shuffled throughout the Journalism department of the office building, scoping out the name plates on the desks, and handing out the folders to the correct persons. Ezra's desk was a lot larger than mine, but just as messy. There were photos of suits, watches, ties, and jewelry scattered everywhere. After taking a peek in his folder, I found out that Ezra wrote about trends in men's fashion. No shocker there. He was the only straight guy in the entire staff, and there was no sports column. Unless he wanted to be seen sitting front row at the Marc Jacobs fashion show, next to a guy named Jean-Claude that was wearing a pair of heels, Men's wear was his best choice. I mean, what's more manly than Tiffany Cuff-links, Cartier watches, and Dolce suits? Nothing.
Camille's desk was well-organized. In fact, when I arrived at her desk, she was just finishing up with the organization of her pens.
"I have a slight case of O.C.D," She explained, as I stared, open mouthed, at her clean desk. If she was joking, I didn't laugh, because I figured that it was the truth.
Camille wrote about technology. She tied her long, dark hair in a neon pink ribbon as she told me about all of the free toys she gets to try out during the holiday season. She wasn't too much older than I was, maybe 24 at most. She had to be an incredible writer if she was able to score a spot in the writers' department. Although I wanted to stay and chat with her (she was the only nice person I'd met the entire time I was there), I had to get my job done, or else face the wrath of Miranda.
Ariel and Vivian were the last two, and they both shared a very large desk. They were the gossip columnists, and divided their job into twos. Ariel did teen gossip, and Vivian did adult gossip. I heard that gossip was possibly the most frowned upon type of journalism there is, "because it promotes the irresponsible behavior of the upper class. It also magnifies their mistakes and missteps, something they really don't need," as stated by Miranda (during one of her nice moments). Vivian's folder was a tad boring. Most of the papers were emails from different sources about who's getting married and who's supposedly pregnant. When I peeked into Ariel's folder, the very first letter caught my eye. It was brief, but interesting.
Where is the dirt on this kid? Is it really that hard to get an interview or inside source...something? He's seventeen, how hard can it be? You'd better figure it out quick, or your job is gone...
The subject read, "The JDB Project."
I quietly and quickly slipped the paper from the folder, folded it as small as I could, and stuck it in my bra.
I mean, it's not like Ariel would mind.
It's one less project she has to stress over.
I plopped the two folders on their desk, and rushed way from the scene of the crime as fast as I could.