“And who do you belong to?”
I look around, wondering if the security guard is speaking to someone else.
“I’m sorry?”
The woman behind the camera peeks her head out and peers at me through thick glasses. “Who is your mentor?” she asks slowly.
She ducks back behind the camera as I say, “Corrine Blunt.”
Click.
She straightens again, frowning down at the image on the display. “Oh dear.”
I can’t tell if she means my picture or my mentor. Her fingers click and tap over the computer keys. “Have you met her yet?”
“Yes.” I sigh.
She studies me again. “And?”
“And...”
All the words I wanted to say in Ms. Blunt’s office threaten to choke me and I resist the urge to loosen my tie. “I’m looking forward to learning from her,” I say dutifully.
The security guard snorts, her frizzy, white hair bouncing as she laughs. A printer whirrs, shooting something onto the tray. She attaches it to a lanyard and hands it to me. “Here’s your security pass. Welcome to the building. I’m Wendy, by the way.”
“Thanks, Wendy.” I tug on the pass but she doesn’t let go. “I’m Wes?”
She smiles, glancing down at my crisp new security card. “I know.”
“Oh, right.” I give another experimental tug. “Can I have my—”
“A word of advice.” She smirks. “Count to ten.”
I think I look exactly how I feel. Like I don’t know what she’s talking about.
“When you feel like you’re going to lose it with Ms. Blunt, count to ten. It helps.” She lets go of my security pass.
“Uh, thanks.” My new, official Hill City Marketing & PR security pass gleams as I ride the elevator back up to the office. In the photo, my mouth is open, my eyes half closed.
“Oh dear,” I echo.
The Pit echoes with ringing landlines and resembles a beehive in the way junior associates move in groups. I feel like I’m moving in slow motion to them as I drag my feet back to Ms. Blunt’s office. Suffocating in that elevator seems like a way better first-day feeling than this gut-clenching dread.
I stop when I turn the corner to Ms. Blunt’s office. A tall, blond, objectively beautiful woman stands at the desk outside Ms. Blunt’s closed door. I nod to her as I approach, raising my fist to knock.
“I don’t think so, buckaroo.”
The woman stands behind the computer chair at the desk, turning it to face me. “Sit your butt down here.”
I frown but do as I’m told. She pulls up another chair. “I’m Emily, Richard’s assistant.”
“I’m Wes. Ms. Blunt’s intern.”
Emily’s smile is a little patronizing. “Actually, you’re her assistant. I’m here to train you.”
Hill City Marketing & PR boasts two things of their internship program. First, they don’t relegate interns to overeducated coffee fetchers. Interns are asked to do real work and make real contributions while being guided by the best in the business. Richard had promised my position here would be to work closely with Ms. Blunt creating innovative digital campaigns, and that I might get the chance to lead an account—under her supervision, of course. Second, even though it’s less than I would be making serving at one of Amy’s friends’ restaurants or coaching baseball, Hill City pays interns, which is better than most. And at least I get to do work I actually went to school for.
I must not do a very good job of hiding my confusion because Emily raises her chin.
“You know, the administrative core is the backbone of any office,” she says defensively.
“Oh, yes. Of course.” I nod quickly and fuck, I’ve made two people hate me and it’s not even lunchtime yet. “I totally believe that as well.”
Emily studies me. “Why did you get into marketing, Wes?”
My chair creaks and lists to the side as I sit back. Of course I get the oldest office chair in the building on a day like today. “Honestly, I wanted to do whatever my dad didn’t want me to do. He’s in finance and he wanted me to be an investment banker. I think he’s always had a boner for Michael Douglas in Wall Street.”
Emily laughs, loud and unabashed in this quiet hallway. “Wasn’t he the bad guy?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Anyway, I took a lot of arts classes in school, art history, literature, but majored in business. And then it turned out that I was actually good at...” I shrug. “Marketing stuff.”
I risk a glance at the closed door behind me. Despite the dread festering in my gut, confronting the issue seems preferable to being completely shut out.
“Well...” She sits up straight and points at the phone on the desk that has started to ring. “Maybe you’ll actually be good at assisting, too.”