Party Girl (3 page)

I am still staring down at the binder when a pair of scuffed black combat boots come into view on the floor next to me. I look up at a petite Asian girl with wild, choppy shoulder-length hair in an outfit of perfectly styled disarray. She’s wearing all black, but her ensemble is a bit edgier than the sharp designer duds everyone else has on.

She looks down at the binder on my lap and then back into my eyes with a serious expression.

“The definition of a mammal?” she asks without preamble.

I’m a little nonplussed by the question so I hesitate for a moment. Unsure of what else to do, I answer.

“Animals that nurse their babies.”

“And the secretary of state?” She’s still staring intently at me.

“John Kerry.”

“Before him?”

“Hillary Clinton.”

“Capital of Uruguay?”

Is this girl crazy?

“Montevideo.”

“Your opinion of Kesha?”

“She’s kind of gross looking, but her music’s good for cardio.”

Her serious expression is replaced quickly by a genuine smile.

“May I ask why you’re asking such odd questions?”

She looks surprised by my curiosity, as if the definition of mammal is a valid topic in the intern interview process.

“They call me Jin,” she says, sticking out her hand. Each nail is perfectly manicured in neon yellow. “What’s your name?”

“I’m . . . Brinkley, I guess?” I reach to shake her hand, and she uses the opportunity to pull me to my feet.

“And your actual name is . . .”

“Landon.”

“Well, Landon Brinkley, most girls who roll through here, and believe me there are a few, are dumb as a box of rocks. If I’m going to take you under my wing, I have to make sure you’re not a moron,” she says decisively.

“You’re going to take me under your wing?” I ask, confused.

She considers me for a second, then seems to come to a conclusion with a nod. “Yes, I am. And here’s your first lesson: you’ll do better with her if you don’t show fear.”

“I wasn’t afraid.”

“Like hell! Selah can strike fear into the heart of an intern from a mile away!” She giggles. “Have they given you a break or let you eat lunch or anything?”

I look nervously in the direction Selah has gone.

Is this some test?
Like, if I admit I haven’t eaten today or that I have a functioning bladder, she’ll tear around the corner and call me
girl
again. My new friend must sense my hesitation.

“Don’t worry, they’re in an update meeting. They won’t be out for at least an hour. Come on, I’ll give you a tour.”

When I still don’t move, she giggles. “She’ll hate you even more if you piss yourself, and there’s far too much white upholstery around here to risk it. But if for some miraculous reason they pull their heads out of their asses long enough to check on you, I’ll tell them I needed you for a project. Alec and Jane won’t mess with me, I promise.”

Even though I don’t feel much like smiling, my mouth twitches at her comment. I consider not saying anything, but the book nerd in me can’t ignore it.

“
Twilight
. . . really?” I ask with mock incredulity.

Her smile just grows bigger. “The fact that you got the nebulous Volturi reference only means you’re at least as big a nerd as I am. Come on.”

For someone so petite, she certainly seems sure of herself. With one more glance at the forbidding closed office door, I follow along after her.

Jin, whose first name is actually Miko, shows me to the bathroom first. Thank God!

Next it’s the kitchen, where I gratefully grab some string cheese and carrot sticks from the fridge. I’ve never been so appreciative of free, communal snack food in my life, even if it is all suspiciously healthy. Miko shows me where to get coffee, where the printers are, how to find office supplies, and then how everything is laid out. Every single part of the office is sleek and gorgeous and some variation of glass, chrome, and white. I’m afraid to touch any of it.

Miko, as it turns out, is part of the design team—in fact the head of the design team. It’s a little hard to believe because she can’t be older than twenty-five, but I clearly don’t know anything, so I choose not to question it.

There’s also a production department and an in-house floral team that is in what Miko calls “full crisis mode” about some shipment of orchids that is stuck in customs. Apparently, “full crisis mode” happens a lot around here.

Next I meet a man named Revere whose highlights are better than mine and whose black ensemble is almost entirely silk. He’s the head of the culinary arts team; I’m guessing that means catering?

At some point on the quick tour I ask about the whole last-name thing, and Miko sighs dramatically.

“Just another one of Selah’s edicts. She tells anyone who asks that it’s chic and catchy, but really she doesn’t like anything she can’t control. She says if our parents could be trusted to choose good names, we wouldn’t be forced to forgo them in her presence. Evidently, she’s never met a first name yet that meets her approval, and now it’s just a thing everyone accepts. They’re like pod-people. No one here even questions it anymore. If you meet them outside of work, they’ll still only go by their last name.”

“Gosh, I guess it’s a good thing everyone has a nice last name then.”

“Ha, hardly! Revere’s last name is actually Warchenstein. No way he was ever gonna get away with that. He changed it before she could even ask, so now his alias is an alias. It’s ridiculous!”

I can’t help laughing along with her. It is sort of ridiculous, but clearly Selah knows something about what it means to be cool, chic, and elegant because everywhere I look the assembled groups are working on beautiful things. I so badly want the opportunity to work on those things too, and if the only way to beautiful flowers and silk linens is through a bunch of messy binders, then by God I am going to organize the heck out of them!

Hours later I am still on the floor putting the last of the binders onto the shelves when I hear a little
snap-snap-snap
. I look around me, unsure from where the noise is coming. Then I hear it again. I turn my head and see fingers snapping aggressively, reaching beyond the frame of the door of the small office. I jump up and hurry towards the angry hand.

Inside the small office both Quade and McKenna are barking orders into their headsets and simultaneously punching the keys on laptops in rapid succession. I stand awkwardly in the doorway; I have no idea what to do next.

McKenna glares at me and removes one manicured hand from his keys long enough to point at a Post-it on the edge of his desk. I walk over quickly and pick it up. Scribbled in near-illegible handwriting is a coffee order. It isn’t entirely clear what the order is, but based on the penmanship, I’m guessing it’s written by a serial killer.

“You want me to go pick this up?” I whisper.

He covers the mouthpiece of his headset with one hand.
“
Obviously
.”

I look at the list again.

Q – Lrg Blk

Mc –
Sm
Lrg Blk

SS – SFV/Ice Blended /Xtreme /Xtra Ice

Ice Blended? Like a blended iced coffee? Or is that a specific thing from a specific coffee place?

“I’m sorry to bug you, but is this from a specific—”

McKenna pushes the mute button on his phone and swings around to where I am nervously clutching the neon-colored Post-it.

“If you can’t pick up a simple coffee order, what makes you think you can handle an actual job?” He sneers. “I suggest you figure it out quickly; Selah’s leaving in twenty minutes for a meeting and better have a coffee in her hand when she goes.”

Right.

I turn quickly and rush to grab my bag. Twenty minutes to drive and get special coffee from I-don’t-know-where and be back here.

Crap.

How am I going to pull this off?
I look around me in a small panic as if the answer will be painted on the wall or something. Miko and the design team are deep in discussion about some kind of room layout printed on a poster-sized piece of paper that takes up the space of a whole desk. I’d love to ask her for advice, but I’m hesitant to bug anyone more than I already have. I look down at the list once more and decide to Google it on my cell as I rush towards the door. On the way by Miko’s desk, she holds out a magazine towards me.

“Brinkley, I need you to pick up this month’s edition while you’re out.” She says this with a wink and then turns back to her group, most of which don’t even acknowledge my presence.

I look down at the copy of
Elle Decor
in my hands; it’s got thick black ink scribbled on the cover.

Coffee Bean.

She’ll want it every day.

Down the street to your left.

#deathtothevolturi

I’m officially in love with this girl!

Thanks to Miko’s help I find a place called Coffee Bean that does in fact have something called an Ice Blended. And when I tell them Selah’s order, they seem to know exactly what I’m asking for. I have a small panic attack when the barista asks if she wants whipped cream or not. It will occur to me later—when I go over this day in my mind—that whipped topping shouldn’t ever be the cause for anxiety. But at the time it seems like a life-or-death decision. Since I have no idea what the answer is, I decide that someone as skinny as Selah wouldn’t be caught dead with whipped cream on her coffee. It’s only when they ring me up that I realize no one gave me money.
Am I buying coffee for them now?
My budget is definitely not going to accommodate that. I hand over my debit card and decide to figure it out later; I have only eight minutes to get back.

I rush back up the street, balancing the coffee tray while inhaling a stale piece of coffee cake, which was the only pastry left in the display case this late in the afternoon. It’s dry and cold, but I’m starving, and therefore it’s the most delicious snack ever.

I’m back up the elevator and in the small office with three minutes to spare. I hold out the tray to McKenna and Quade, who turn around long enough to grab their own coffees. Neither says thank you.

When I stand there waiting for someone to take the last drink from the tray, McKenna nods in the direction of the larger office next door.

“You want me to take it to her?” I ask, unsure.

“Obviously,” he replies and spins back around in his chair.

Someone should really explain the definition of the word “obvious” to McKenna. As in, whatever is obvious should possibly be obvious to people other than him, but whatever.

I sheepishly go to the frosted door to Selah’s office and knock.

“Yes?” she calls from behind the door.

I turn the handle and open the door. Selah sits behind an all-glass table that’s twice the size of any single desk I’ve ever seen. Her office feels very similar to everything in the common area: it’s clean, sleek, and luxurious. A set of framed, oversize black-and-white prints dominates one wall, but beyond that there are no other photos. No paintings, no colorful throw pillows . . . Even the expensive-looking flowers on her desk are all white.

“Yes?” she asks again, clearly annoyed.

I haven’t realized I’ve just been standing in the doorway like an idiot.

Way to impress, Landon!

“I have your coffee,” I say, without moving to step foot in the room.

“Bring it.”

I do as I’m told, removing the drink from the tray on the short trip across her office. I place a napkin down first, set the drink on top of it, and then lay a straw down next to the drink. I straighten up to leave the room.

“Why the napkin?” she asks without looking up from the screen of her computer.

I want to ask her to clarify the question, but I’m fearful of speaking unnecessarily.

“I—the drink is cold. I didn’t want the condensation to drip onto your desk.” I answer very carefully as if I’m competing in a spelling bee.

Intimidated, I-N-T-I-M-I-D-A-T-E-D, intimidated.

Her eyes flicker in my direction for a single heartbeat.

“What’s your name?”