Okay, so I peeked. I’ll admit it. I’m sorry! I couldn’t help myself!
Here’s how it went down.
After I left lunch with Kelsea, I couldn’t stop thinking about it—the December cover star, Kelsea’s mission. Sure, I haven’t been sitting in prod meetings, and the team hasn’t begun working on the actual copy for the issue yet (we literally just wrapped up November).
But I’m sitting on a gold mine—Loretta’s email—which contains billions of dollars’ worth of intel, and for some reason, my selective “morals” have been preventing me from prying and getting rich real quick. What’s the harm in a couple of meandering computer clicks? The touch of a button has never killed anyone. But then I think of Loretta’s fallen face when she finds out, and I’m sure I’m going to be sick. That, or I’m close to throwing my laptop against SPP’s bulletproof windows.
I spent the next two days at work twiddling my thumbs, trying to distract myself from thinking about the task at hand. I scoured LinkedIn, looking for potential job opportunities for Leila to apply to. When she stopped responding (usually after the fourth or fifth message), I’d move on to asking Saffron to give me extreme home makeovers in the beauty closet. But after several swatches of mismatched foundation and a superglue mascara incident, even that lost its allure.
Finally, I decided to get organized. I made headway with Loretta’s expenses, color coded her file cabinet, added more information to her calendar, and structured it for the rest of the month. Having her away in LA has been, frankly, a breath of fresh air—I’ve been texting her before and after every meeting and remotely calling her cars, which means I can’t lock eyes with her as she calls me love and expresses her disappointment about the model of the vehicle.
But today is the ASME Awards. I can’t stop thinking about it. Obsessing over it. She still hasn’t added in anything on her calendar for that night, but she does have a very suspicious manicure appointment around noon. She never gets her nails done, because “real feminists aren’t afraid to get down and dirty.” And yet, folks. And yet.
A few times each day, Kelsea will Slack me, asking if I’ve made my decision. The first couple of times, I said I was still mulling it over. Eventually, I stopped responding altogether.
I wonder if Jade, who once very much stood in my shoes—or rather, sat at my desk—ever had to make a similar impossible decision. To pick sides between a publication and the person attached to it, that she loved and respected all her life, and the future she knows it deserves. I imagine that’s what she must have been considering when she made the decision to betray Loretta and throw her hat in the ring for head of Digital. She was once Loretta’s secret weapon. Now, that very same weapon, which Loretta molded from scratch, is being used to stab her repeatedly in the back.
On Friday morning, I decide to stop at Maison Kaiser, a quaint French coffee shop that sits in the heart of Lower Manhattan between Leila’s apartment and the six train. I need to grab an extra dose of caffeine to finish off the week (sometimes, my three cups chugged over the kitchen sink just don’t cut it).
I open Instagram and begin mindlessly scrolling. Between fall runway looks from Paris Fashion Week, memes of cats pretending to play chess, and photos of all my college acquaintances getting engaged—actually murder me—I almost miss a post of Leila’s from two days ago. I swear to God, these algorithm changes make literally zero sense.
It’s a picture of Willow and Leila at Cubbyhole, a historic LGBTQ+ bar in the West Village. They’re leaning up against the jukebox, their fingers subtly caressing each other’s thighs. The lighting makes them look like two sexy space aliens. I giggle and throw it a Like. Looks like those two might be getting serious.
I absentmindedly flip through my Instagram story from yesterday—I swear, I’m, like, the funniest person alive—when I notice a pattern. Whenever I click on the option to view those watching my story, Cal’s username, TechBr007 (I know), is at the very top of the list.
You know what this means? He’s totally orbiting me. You know, when the person who ghosted you continues to haunt you on social media.
I quickly jump to my Safari app to look up whether someone’s name appearing first in your line up means they’re one of your most frequent viewers. But before I can type anything into the search bar, my phone lights up with a notification. It’s an email from Beth.
Beth Bennett 8:17 am (1 minute ago)
Hi Noora,
Can you stop by my office before EOD? We need to talk.
Best,
B
I feel my heart drop. She knows. She totally knows about my lunch with Kelsea. How could she have possibly found out? Unless, of course, Kelsea told her? I chug my cold brew like a white frat boy at a kegger, then bolt toward the train.
Throughout the duration of my ride downtown, I keep replaying my talking points.
I never agreed to spy on Loretta.
I don’t know anything about why Loretta’s in LA.
I love my job and am grateful for the opportunity and would really, really like to continue submitting myself to this tempestuous torture chamber each day. Or something like that.
I walk through the double doors of SPP, mouthing these points to myself over and over. Superman gives me a look. I must look like I’m talking to myself. Whatever. Maybe I really have lost my mind and I’m in desperate need of an intervention. That or a Xanax prescription.
As I exit the smart elevator onto the thirty-second floor, all I can think about is Leila. I imagine her face—the desperation in the way her forehead wrinkled, her cheeks deflated—when she asked me to keep working. I can’t disappoint her. I can’t be the reason we end up couch surfing or sleeping in Central Park.
I knock on Beth’s door around 5:00 p.m.
The second I enter her office, I feel my heart rate accelerate. The walls smell of lavender and basil, the lingering incense of the tiny garden I’ve heard she keeps outside her Westchester home. There’s a jar of hard caramel candies that sit on her desk, the kind you can only find at a reception desk or in the musty, old pocket of a grandmother who just got home from bridge club, next to two unopened bottles of Dom Pérignon. Her smile is soothing. It sends a shiver that runs down my spine, similar to the one I get when someone plays with my hair.
“Sit down, Noora.”
I twiddle my thumbs, thinking about what I’ll say during my exit interview. Actually, scratch that. Knowing SPP, I probably won’t even get an exit interview. Beth leans forward in her chair like a good therapist.
“Vinyl loves to gossip. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes.” I gulp. “I’m learning that.”
“Word travels fast here. Rumors spread like a nasty virus.”
“I know.”
I’m so getting fired.
“But you’re new and still learning.” Beth extends her hand and pats my shoulder. “You still have time to rise above it.”
She moves her hand off my shoulder and begins playing with the Star of David necklace hanging from her neck. I fixate on it too. I think back to all the bat mitzvahs I wasn’t invited to, some held at extravagant venues like the Natural History Museum or Cipriani Midtown. That’s growing up in New York for you. You don’t get to take home any bat mitzvah swag, but boys will give you the gift of reminding you that you look like their hairy uncle.
“You get to decide what kind of reputation you build for yourself in this industry, Noora,” she says. “I trust you’ll make the right decision.”
Beth stands and gestures to the door, signaling to me that our meeting is over before it even begins. I smile and do the same weird little curtsy again. She looks mildly amused.
Was that it?
As soon as I’m at my desk, I let out a sigh of relief. I’ll live to see another day. And while I’m not sure how exactly Beth found out that I had been approached at enemy lines, I’m not going to waste time trying to change the past when I just got a second chance at a future.
Ping.
I look up to see one new incoming Slack. I check my notifications. Sure enough, it’s from Kelsea.
Kelsea (9:43 AM): Look at Loretta’s IG. R u in or out?
I open Instagram and refresh my feed. Loretta’s added the video I spent my entire night recording. Watching it is painful. She’s edited it so each clip lasts around five seconds and tied them together with “What’s Up?” by 4 Non Blondes.
I’m about to x out when the video changes to a new slide. This one, I don’t recognize.
It’s a selfie of Loretta speaking directly into the camera. There are palm trees behind her, swaying in the wind. Her lips are painted plum, and she’s talking with her hands like an orchestra conductor.
“Now, my darlings, I’m finally here in LA, getting ready to attend the ASME Awards. It is my great honor to announce that Vinyl has been nominated for best feature of the year. I’ve come to the Golden State to hopefully accept the award on the magazine’s behalf. What a thrill!”
I click out of Instagram and promptly drop my phone. My arm hair is standing up as straight as a country music festival.
She’s actually going to accept that award. Kelsea was right.
I stare at my laptop screen for what feels like a millennium. The last shred of optimism I have left starts to sour, leaving my insides filled with acid. This time, I’m sure I’m going to be sick. Loretta, this magazine, the entire fucking Shifter & Pearce Tower all feel like a massive lie.
For a split second, I picture Beth’s face—the concern in the crease of her forehead, the levelness of her voice wavering as she warns me to keep my friends close but my enemies at a distance. I can’t help but want her to respect me, to be proud of my choices. She’s like the angel hovering above my padded shoulder, willing me to do the right thing. But then there’s the devil, with a face so dark and clouded that I can’t quite tell who they are. Loretta? Is that you? Are you gloating about your victory as you destroy this magazine’s legacy through lies and deceit? My brain snaps back into focus. I guess life has handed me lemons. The question is: Am I going to make lemonade or spike it with vodka?
Fuck it.
I glance around the office to make sure nobody is watching me, then turn around and double-check that there are no security cameras secretly recording me from behind. All clear. Holding my breath, I open Loretta’s email and type December issue into the search bar. Last week’s run of show is the first thing to pop up. Before I can second-guess myself, I click into it.
It takes me two seconds of scanning the page to figure out who the cover star they’ve recently signed is: Zendaya. Yes, the Zendaya. The manic pixie powerhouse of my dreams. She who only needs one name, like Beyoncé. Or Jesus.
I mark the email unread and x out of her inbox as quickly as I can. Afraid I’ll chicken out, I immediately message Kelsea. She responds within seconds.
Kelsea (10:02 AM): Let the games begin.