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With an umbrella above my head and my headphones tucked into my ears, I trudge into the terminal to catch my train to Boston. Today is the day. My first day at the magazine. I readjust the placement of my black bag on my shoulder once I’m out of the rain. The weather and the commute have forced me to wear flats, so I have a pair of heels stashed away in the bag so that I can slip them on when I get to the office.
The smell of rain and the end of summer follows me until the stale air of the commuter rail takes over. The possibilities ahead of me keep me from succumbing to the mood a dreary day sometimes puts me in. Around me, the other travelers haven’t fared as well. Most wear unfocused gazes and frowns. A few women chat idly, and I can’t help but concoct stories about them. Maybe they ride the rails together every day and have formed a friendship because of that. Or maybe they work together and have always been friends. Beside them, a girl about my age sits with her head in a book. Opposite me, a man pulls out his computer and types loudly, as if he’s the most important person to ever step foot on the train.
I settle in my seat, my focus on my music. Chris Martin sings about heartache, and I lean my head back and close my eyes.
The ride is only forty minutes, even with the stops we make. When the train stops at Back Bay, I finally disembark. Being back in the city brings a wave of nostalgia. Not all my memories of this place are bad, but they certainly aren’t all good either. Instead of focusing on the past, though, I lift my head and smile. The rain has stopped, the sun is breaking through the clouds, and today, I begin my internship at Jolie.
The foyer is lined with black marble that sparkles in the early morning light and accentuates the click-clacking of heels as employees bustle to their offices.
“First day?” the security guard asks as he holds out his hand to me. I have my license in hand already—experience with my family’s business over the years makes this interaction almost second nature—and I hand it over to the good-looking security guard. A tattoo peeks out from under his suit at his neckline, and his blue eyes pierce me as they study my face and then my license again.
“Yup. How could you tell?”
“I have photographs of all new hires. Welcome, Ms. Bouvier. Cynthia is expecting you.”
I lick my lips while he takes my license and turns his back. When he returns to the counter, he hands me my very own badge. I stare down at it, fighting a grin. Catherine Bouvier is printed at the top, just above my picture.
Where did they get this?
I swallow my questions and regard the man for a long moment.
Before I can ask for directions to Jolie’s offices, he says, “Cynthia is on the twelfth floor. Her assistant, Rose, will greet you when you exit the elevator. Have a good day.” He smiles at me again, dismissing me.
I study my picture again, holding back the giggle that wants to erupt from within.I’m at Jolie magazine.Cynthiais waiting forme!
Instead of letting out my girlish squeal in front of the hot security guard, I blow out a big breath, lift my chin, and put one foot in front of the other.
“I’m so nervous,” a girl beside me babbles as we enter the elevator with two men.
Her jet-black hair is perfectly styled, and her brown skin glimmers, accentuated by the peach bronzer on her cheeks. Her almond-shaped eyes meet mine anxiously. “It’s my first day. I don’t usually talk to strangers or freak out like this, but today, I can’t help but do both.”
I only smile in return, because her stream of consciousness leaves little room for a response. She’s too immersed in her own mental gymnastics to wait for one, and I, for one, am happy to focus on someone else’s freak-out for a moment.
“I’m about to meet the biggest fashion editor in the country…Oh, shit, do you work for Jolie? You do, don’t you?” she asks, giving me a once-over. I swapped my sneakers for my black Louboutins, and her eyes go wide as she homes in on them. “Did you know your shoes cost a thousand dollars? Oh my God, of course you know that. They’re on your feet. Fuck. You know Cynthia, don’t you? I mean Ms. Caldwell. Fuck, of course you do. Please forget I said fuck.” She tips her head back and inspects the ceiling. Her lips move like she’s saying a silent prayer, or maybe she’s just talking to herself.
The two men look on, lips pressed together like they’re holding back their laughter. I glare at them and squeeze her hand. “It’s my first day too.”
She drops her chin and stares at me, her mouth open in a surprisedO. “Thank god,” she breathes. “I’m Sophie.”
I take her proffered hand. “Cat. It’s nice to meet you. And everything you’re feeling? Yeah, me too.”
She laughs, but before we can continue our conversation, the elevator dings and opens to the twelfth floor.
Just outside, a woman wearing a bored expression and a dress cinched tightly around her size-zero waist waits, holding a folder in her hand. She is precisely what I would expect a woman working here to look like. “Perfect, you’re both here. Follow along. We have a lot to get through,” she says, turning her back without greeting us or introducing herself.
“I assume this is Rose,” I whisper to Sophie, who shrugs and scrunches her nose as we scurry behind the woman.
The sounds of ringing phones and clacking keyboards and a low murmur of voices filter through the office space. Cubicles are set up in what can only be described as a pen, and women glance up at us, one by one, as we walk by. A rack of clothing is set up in the corner, and a woman with a camera watches a man who pushes through each piece, making disgusted sounds as he goes. “None of this works,” he grits. “I asked for modern pastels. Not nineties atrocities. What the fuck?”
Sophie giggles beside me, and I clamp my lips shut, trying to keep my own smile from sprouting. This is everything I expected it to be.
Over the next few hours, we’re shown to our side-by-side desks inside the pen. Then we’re dragged into meeting after meeting where we’re told to sit silently and take notes, which will likely never be reviewed. We sit through lectures where we discover we’re forbidden from discussing anything we hear within these walls and are told we are not to have an opinion.
By the time six rolls around, I’m dead on my feet, hungry enough to eat an entire pizza, and smiling wider than I have in…well, honestly, I don’t know if I’ve ever smiled this big.
“We made it,” I utter as we step out into the Boston evening, a cool chill in the air reminding me that fall will be here and gone in a blink of an eye. Soon I’ll be trudging here through snow. But even that thought can’t bring me down.
Sophie is wearing an awe-filled expression and the smile of someone who is finally living her dream. “We did,” she says, her red lips glistening as she looks back at me. “Want to grab a drink and dinner? I’m fucking famished.”
