Thread: Unwritten

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.

Ariel-
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...
-G.R.C

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.

Do I even have to go into detail?
Please write more!!!

This is so cool!
Update!!!

"I seriously cannot believe I hired you. What do you think this is? J-14? Do you think this is M magazine or Teen Bop...Huh?"
Gracie was furious. I pressed my ear up against the glass door, listening in on Ariel's meeting. Poor Ariel. But this was a competitive business, and I guess she didn't have the nuts to survive. I felt the folded paper pressed up against my breast, and I grinned. This was probably going to get me fired. Or maybe it was going to get me noticed. Either way, it was a risk I was willing to take.
I knocked gingerly on Gracie's door.
"I'M IN A MEETING CAN YOU TAKE A MESSAGE?" She shouted behind the door.
The secretary was actually on a lunch break. Okay, so I paid her 40 bucks to go out to lunch, sue me. I needed this. The door opened with a soft click, and I walked in to find Ariel sitting in a very protective stance, arms crossed. She reached up to tug at some of her short, pink hair, and bit her lip nervously. Behind the desk, was a women around forty, with a jet black page boy haircut. Her black sunglasses sat on her head, she wore brown leather gloves under a black leather jacket. She twisted her silver hoop earring around her index finger and directed a very dirty look at me. I was too much in awe to care. I was finally face to face with Gracie Craven, lead editor of Constance Magazine. I felt my heart beat within my chest and I smiled.
"Hello I-"
Gracie held up her hand.
"What is this?" She spoke to no one in particular, "When did we start hiring children from Jamboree? Get out."
Ariel turned and gave me a pitiful look that read, "Help me!"
Lydia to the rescue!
"Actually, Mrs.-"
"Ms. Craven. And I don't remember asking for an explanation. Where's Miranda? I need her to collect this child." She pressed a button on her phone, but I kept my cool. Miranda wasn't here either. I convinced the secretary to pretend to make friends with Miranda. So she was out to lunch with her. I also stole Miranda's phone for the hour, and it was tucked away, safely, in my desk drawer.
I was prepared for this.
I strutted into the room with my head held high, even as Gracie pressed the button over and over, hoping to get Miranda in the room.
"Ms. Craven, I'm here because Ariel asked me to be here."
Ariel raised her eyebrows, as did Gracie.
"Is this true, Ariel?"
She tugged, once again, at her pink hair and messed with her lip piercing, "Um...yeah. No doubt."
I locked eyes with her, hoping that she understood my mental message, "I got this, Ari. Don't you worry."
I got right down to business.
"Ms. Craven, I have a proposal for you, on behalf of Ms. Ariel."
Gracie rolled her eyes, and stood up, "I don't know who you are, and who you think you're talking to, but how dare you come into MY office, and interrupt this meeting."
The vein in her neck was throbbing. Better make this quick.
"Ms. Craven, I assure you, there is no disrespect whatsoever on my side. I've actually come here to help you out." She opened her mouth to protest, once more, but I continued. I was on a roll, "Ms. Craven, it's come to my attention that you're trying to get information about a certain teenage popstar?"
She sat back down and folded her arms across her chest, ready to argue any minute, "I'm listening."
"Well...I know two things about this certain popstar. One, he's seventeen. Two, your staff consists of adults."
"And your point?" She scoffed.
"Well," I sat down in the cushioned chair next to Ariel, and crossed one leg over the other, "I know that he won't trust anyone over the age of 25. He knows that most adults mean business. They're not trying to make friends. So the minute he meets an adult, his game face comes on. It's all business, and it's all serious. Unless it's someone he really trusts, no one will ever get to know him."
Gracie sat back in the chair and raised a single eyebrow. Score.
"What is it that you suggest?" She asked.
"I think that, you need someone to be able to get on the inside. Perhaps, maybe someone to gain his trust. That gives you an edge. All the other magazines just interview him," I quickly glanced over at Ariel, and she gave me a small, guilty smile, "and it's common knowledge that he basically gives the same answer to every magazine. They're rehearsed answers. What we need, Ms. Craven, is something no one else knows. We need something to put us on top-"
"Cut to the chase, I don't have all day."
"I'm sorry," I cleared my throat so that my voice wouldn't crack from stress, "I was merely suggesting that maybe I could volunteer myself-"
"Absolutely not." She rested her elbows on her gilded desk, and rested her chin in her hands, "I will not allow you to live out some fan-girl fantasies, and let you talk to this Bieber fellow. No."
I chuckled, "Ms. Craven, you've got me all wrong. I'm not, at all, interested in Justin Bieber," it was a bit of a lie. I thought he was hot. But business always comes before boys, "My main goal is to get in with him...become friends at most, and then give all the information I receive to Ariel. She, in turn, will report it."
"I-I think it's a good idea." Ariel nervously squeaked.
"No one asked you what you think, Ariel." Gracie barked at her, and she shrank away. I wanted to reach over and pat Ariel's hand. The poor girl was freaking out.
Didn't she understand that I had this in the bag? I wouldn't take no for an answer.
"Ms. Craven," Gracie turned to me, clearly irritated by my presence. But, honestly, I didn't care, "hear me out. Do you want to be the best, or do you want to be 3rd best behind Vogue and Nylon?"
She cringed at the names. I just threw out two different mags, but apparently I hit a nerve. She remained silent for a few moments. I felt Ariel's eyes on me, but I kept my eyes locked on Gracie's face. I was not letting her turn me away.
"One month," She finally said, "Starting tomorrow."
She opened her datebook and fingered down the page, stopping at one particular spot.
"Tomorrow, there will be a charity gala held at the Met. He's on the guest list with his girlfriend, that red headed girl."
"Ariana." I corrected.
"Whatever," Gracie waved her hand, "you'll need to get fitted for a dress, and you'll need to get yourself," she paused and looked up at me with extreme disgust, "done over. You'll need to keep an eye on him at all times. DO NOT let him know that you're associated with us. You'll have a mic on you and we'll be telling you things to say in your ear the entire night. You're going to have a different name and background. He can't be able to google search you. Alright?"
I nodded excitedly. She scribbled some things down on the paper and closed the book.
"Any reason why you're still here?"
I shot up from my chair, and left the room. I felt like I could take over the world if I wanted. Ariel touched my arm and I turned. I'd almost forgotten that she was in the room with me.
"Hey, um, thanks for saving my ass back there." She bit her lip again, nervously, and hugged herself.
"You're welcome. We couldn't have you get fired." I playfully hit her.
"Uh, yeah...no doubt." She looked me in the eyes and I felt a bit uncomfortable.
"I gotta go. I don't want Miranda to come back and spaz at me for not being at my post."
"Yeah," she looked away from me, "totally. Okay. Bye."
I turned away and walked from the awkward situation that just unfolded. I felt a bit bad for playing Ariel like that. I mean, if she wanted to believe that I did what I did, for her, then kudos. All I knew was that I was on my way to the top of the pyramid, starting with the Met Gala.

ok, i officially love this story

As I pulled up to the front of my house in my beat up blue mustang, I heard music blasting from the inside. It could only mean one thing...
"Mom..."
I crossed my eyes, and rolled them. As soon as I stepped through the front door, I heard the heavy bass and the floor shook under my feet.
"Comere rude boy boy can you get it up?" My mom thrust her pregnant stomach out with emphasis, "comere rude boy boy is you big enough? TAKE IT, TAKE IT, BABY, BABY," she shook her hips to the music and I covered my face with my hands.
"MOM!" She continued to thrust her hips and wiggle them suggestively.
You know, for someone 9 months pregnant, you'd think she'd be more sedentary. Hip thrusting and loud music are not beneficial for my poor little brother. I switched off the iPod dock and she spun around, surprised.
"Hey, baby doll. What's up?" My mom had the biggest smile on her face, and she rested her hands on her bulging stomach, innocently.
"Are you trying to flip the baby head first or something?"
"Don't be ridiculous," she said, shifty eyed.
"You heard what daddy said," I took her by the hand and led her to the couch, "You need to be comfortable and sitting. If you hurt yourself-"
"I'm BORED though," She whined.
It was sometimes hard to believe that I was her daughter. I wrapped one of her chestnut ringlets around my finger and gently pulled it off.
"I don't care," I plopped on the couch next to her and crossed my legs, "and anyway, how can you even dance? Aren't your feet swollen?"
"Let's see," she raised two hands as if they were on a balance beam, "Swollen feet and fun, or not swollen feet and boredom? Hmm."
"It doesn't matter what you want."
She crossed her arms over her chest, or at least, she tried to.
"See, I'm the only one in this house that ever wants to have fun. You and your dad are boring, y tú sabes que quiero disfruto mi vida aquí-"
"Whoa, whoa," I waved my arms to stop her, "Lady, me no speaky the español."
She pursed her red painted lips and rolled her dark brown eyes.
"You're no daughter of mine."
"Yeah well," I stretched out on the couch, "I'm the crazy apple to your crazy tree."
I charmed her with my beautiful smile, because I knew she couldn't stay mad at me. I was the only person in the family that could put up with her crazy pregnant ass. My older brother, Lucas, was away at Columbia as a sophomore. My dad stayed out late to go to all of these sports events with his corporate sponsors. Or at least that's what he told us. But I knew better. So, for now, it was just me, mom, and little junior in her abdomen.
"So!" My mother bounced on the couch excitedly, "how was work! Did you meet a guy? Was he cute? Did he ask you out? Did you meet any celebrities?"
It was then that I realized that I was actually going to meet some celebrities that next day. I felt my heart pound, and I took a deep breath to calm my jumpy nerves.
"Well...as for the guy...this girl at my job was subtly hitting on me."
I thought of Ariel and the way she looked at me. I was all for people being gay, I just wasn't one of them. Mom bit her bottom lip, holding back laughter. She's the only mom I knew that would find it funny when a lesbian hit on her only daughter. Any other mother would ask if their daughter was a lesbian, too.
"Well what do you expect," she caressed my cheeks in both of her hands, "my daughter looks just like her beautiful mother. And it doesn't help that you have your mom's boobies." And with that, she thought it'd be a good idea to give my left breast a poke.
I felt my face flush in embarrassment.
"Oh my God mom go away!"
My mother tossed her head back in laughter, but I didn't find it very funny.
"You are, so beautiful...to ME! Can't you see?" My dad's soft tenor sang from the foyer. He entered the living room with a large bouquet of blood-red roses.
"Hello." My mother tilted her head back on the couch for an upside down kiss.
Whenever my dad was around, mom's voice went up 3 octaves higher than normal. She was always more girlish and giggly than she normally was. After their brief make out session, he handed her the roses. I instantly became suspicious.
"What are those for?" I asked, not hiding the slight disgust in my voice.
"Just because. Why else would he get them for me?" Mom cooed. She puckered her lips for another kiss from my dad, and he obliged.
It's not that I didn't like my dad, I loved him. But I didn't trust him.
"Yes, Lydia. They're just because." His hazel eyes locked onto mine for a split moment, and I squinted.
I know what you're up to, you bald son of a bitch. I'm onto you.
My dad's dark brown forehead crinkled, and he grinned.
My mother was blind. God forbid I ever fall in love. I've seen it turn my ex-best friends, my mom, and even my brother into mindless, love song listening zombies. My only love was power. Power and money. I secretly hoped that Miranda would get laid soon. Less competition.

~~~~~~~~~~~
The next day was a whirlwind of plucking, pulling, combing, squeezing, and waxing. I was almost offended by the amount of alterations done to my body. As my hair was torched with a curling iron, Gracie's assistant, Lucy, read me my rules and my mission.
"When you get inside, the first thing you're going to do, is make yourself known to the people within the gathering. What's your name?"
"Cherie Washington." I answered obediently.
"How old are you?"
"Nineteen."
"Where are you from?"
"My parents moved here from Chicago."
"Who are your parents?"
"Mr. and Mrs. Washington? They're up-and-comers in the-OW!" The hairstylist burned the tip of my ear, and didn't even bother to apologize. The wench, "They're up-and-comers in the fashion industry." I rubbed my sore ear.
"Can I have a card?" Lucy swiftly continued.
"They're getting new ones made for our new address. But when we get them you'll be the first to know."
"How did you get in to this party?"
"They're friends of Gracie Craven. They go way back. They went to Dartmouth together."
Lucy smirked and read the next few questions about my fake family, my fake friends, and my fake love life. She even asked me about my dress. I learned that it was made by Versace, and that thought alone made my heart race. I, Lydia Burkes, was going to be wearing a Versace gown to the Met Gala. I felt a warm curl fall against the nape of my neck, and the stylist quickly grabbed it and put it up in the bun forming on the back of my head.
"When you meet Bieber, do not go right into conversation. He's said to be a bit of a jerk sometimes, so you'll have to be light and fun," she looked me up and down, "can you do that?"
I couldn't help but scoff, "I am the epitome of light and fun. My middle name is Joy, you know-"
"That talking thing you like doing," she shook her head, "that's gotta stop."
I glanced at my watch. I needed to be at the Met by 7:30, and it was almost a quarter to 7.
"Look I know you told me not to talk, but can we speed this up?"
"SSH!"
That was the first thing that the stylist said the entire time we were there. After a few moments of silence, the stylist finally dropped the pins in her hand on the table next to my chair, and clapped her hands together.
"C'est magnifique!"
I hardly was able to take a good look at my hair before Lucy was pushing me out of my seat, and towards the back of the dressing room. She thrust the garment bag and shoes into my arms.
"Hurry up! We need to meet the crew in almost an hour! Let's go!"
I struggled to pull my tight black denim jeans over my legs, and I pushed my top over my head. If I were a model, I'd be fired in a second. Tripping over my sneakers, I stepped on the button of my jeans and stumbled back, almost toppling over the curtain separating my semi-clothed body from the public. Okay, it was just Lucy and the hairdresser. But still, I'm shy.
"Hey! Step into the dress! Do not put it over your head!" Lucy sounded to exasperated, and I felt sorry that I was causing her all of this stress, "and don't rip it! That is a SEVEN THOUSAND DOLLAR DRESS! If you rip it, it's my ass on the line!"
Seven thousand dollars? On my clumsy body? Oh, lovely. No pressure there.
I honestly believed that I'd get some cheap $100 get up from a vintage shop and do it up a bit. I wasn't expecting the price of my dad's car to be on my shoulders. When I opened the garment bag, and finally caught a glimpse of what the big deal was about, I nearly choked on my own saliva.
c.

The dress was absolutely stunning. I almost backed out of the entire thing. I didn't deserve to wear something so elegant and delicate. Picking up the dainty hem of the dress with two fingers, I prayed that I wouldn't spill wine or salsa on it...or whatever people consumed at these parties.
"LET'S GO, LYDIA! MOVE IT!"
Lucy's booming angry voice ripped me from my trance, and I quickly shoved my heels on. I, then, stepped into my dress as slowly as I could. I contemplated using the old hanger to zip up the back, but I didn't want to break the zipper, so I asked Lucy to do it for me. When all was said and done, it was time.
I took a deep breath, and pushed open the curtain. The minute Lucy saw everything put together, her eyes lit up.
"Perfect."
"Oh my gosh," the hairdresser, that I assumed to be an emotionless tool, dabbed her eyes with a tissue, "what a lovely flower."
I felt my face heat up as I glanced down. The dress hugged every curve of my body including my hips and bust. I didn't even want to think about what my butt looked like. There was a considerable amount of cleavage, and I suddenly felt insecure.
"Let's go before I change my mind," I muttered, grabbing the gold clutch and black faux-fur shrug. At least, I hoped it was fake. I didn't feel like seeing PETA members, with buckets of red paint in hand, jumping out from behind a bush to greet me as I arrived.
As I climbed into the black Rolls Royce, I closed my eyes and tried to even my breathing out. I could've thought twice about this. I should've. But I didn't.
But I couldn't back out now.
Do it for the power. Do it for the glory.
I chanted that to myself, in my head, all the way to the Met.

ok. that was beyond great

I'll probably update tomorrow

yay!!