But Victoria presses on, unaware of my barely contained glee. "You'll have the normal duties of an assistant of course, copyediting, managing the databases, updating the calendars, filing event invitations, communicating with our freelancers, writing a few articles for the online site, but the other girls can help you get acquainted with that."
"Other girls?" I ask, finally finding my voice.
"Oh, silly me." Victoria stands, utterly graceful. "Let me introduce you to the other assistants."
I scramble to follow, the ugly duckling to her swan. I can't help but make the comparison—she's even wearing a cream suit, one that looks absolutely regal and stunning, especially against her dark skin. But it's more than just the clothes. It's everything. The tilt of her head—raised just enough to look down on everyone else. The curve of her spine—long and lean, especially on her five-foot-ten-size-zero frame. The bounce in her step, as though the entire world is her runway.
I, on the other hand, am hunched over, wide-eyed, hugging my purse for dear life as though I'm venturing into the wilds of the Amazon and not a corporate office. But really, it might as well be. Somehow, I just know I'm about to be fed to the sharks. Well, if it’s the Amazon, more like being fed to the crocodiles, right? Or the…what do they have down there?
Stay focused.
I look up just in time to see three other girls lift their heads in unison, as though they have a sixth sense and know where Victoria is at all times. And maybe they do…there's a sort of superhuman air about them.
"Victoria."
"Victoria."
"Victoria."
They all chorus in the same high-pitched, pleasant voice that hovers somewhere between earnestness and insincerity. I need to learn that voice. It says, yes, you interrupted me and yes, I don't feel like speaking to you right now, but hello, good morning, you are fabulous, and I am your servant. And then they all dip their heads to the side and smile the same inquiring smile, waiting patiently for Victoria to keep speaking.
They can't be human can they? Highly advanced robots? Clones? Aliens who have snuck their way into society, waiting until the day the mother ship returns to finally take over the world?
The last one.
Definitely the last one.
I read too much.
"Ladies, this is the new assistant, Skylar Quinn," Victoria says, moving to the side so I'm no longer hidden behind her. I keep my feet in place, trying my best not to cower as their eyes dip to my completely unfashionable outfit and then lift to my almost makeup free face. At least I don't wear glasses. Then I really would be a walking cliché.
But to my amazement, their smiles don't waver. They don't even flinch. They hold still, steady, faces warm and inviting.
Robots…maybe they’re robots.
"Hi, I'm Isabel." One girl steps forward and offers her hand, which I shake hesitantly, somewhat afraid to squeeze too hard and break the fragile bones in her fingers. Something about her seems familiar…and then I realize she looks just like Victoria. Same build, same deep brown eyes, same wavy brown hair.
"I'm Blythe," the next girl says. I shake her hand with a little more force and a little more fear. She's Upper East Side Barbie, with that same sort of air about her that the cheerleaders had in high school. What did it say again? Oh yeah—I remember now. I'm better than you, you are the dirt beneath my feet, worship me. And the longer I meet Blythe's eyes, the smaller I seem to feel.
So I look away, to the third and final girl.
"I'm Rebecca," she says, not offering her hand, but something about her seems a little more down to earth. I don't have time to figure out what that is though, because she turns away from me and looks at Victoria. "Are we still having the weekly meeting? It's almost ten. I'd be happy to print out the agenda."
"Yes, thank you, Rebecca. Please print an extra copy for Skylar. I'll take her to the conference room now."
And then we're off, walking the opposite direction back down the hall toward a glass-encased space at the other end of the newsroom. Finally somewhere familiar—somewhere I've been before.
The conference room.
And there's a coffee machine right outside.
Come to mama.
But as we approach, Victoria leans in, whispering to me. "Now do you see what I mean? We need you, the average girl, something this office is sorely lacking. Isabel, you probably noticed the resemblance, is my niece and her father is one of the wealthiest men in the Dominican. Have you ever heard of Casa de Campo? They own three waterfront homes there. She was a model for a while, but wanted a more stable life so I found her a position working for me. Blythe, on the other hand, grew up in a brownstone across from the Met. Her parents are big donors and she gets invitations to all of the major parties, the perfect socialite to keep us up-to-date with the Manhattan scene. And then, Rebecca, of course. Her father is a famous designer. She's the darling of New York Fashion Week."
Her next words remain unspoken, but I hear them anyway. And then there's me…totally normal, totally insignificant me.
Yeah, I'm starting to get the message.
But I just smile and nod, trying to copy the robotic movements of the assistants we left behind. I end up with a stiff neck and an uncontrollable twitch.
I'll work on it.
As we round the last corner of desks, I see it. The coffee machine—and not just any old machine, but the fancy one. I could get a vanilla latte. A mocha. A vanilla mocha. A double espresso with hazelnut. A cappuccino. A—
"Would you like some coffee before we head into the meeting?"
Oh god, was I salivating? I swallow, licking my lips and feeling for drool. None. I breathe a sigh of complete relief.
Be cool…just be cool. "Yes, thank you."
"I'll meet you inside."
Nailed it.
And for a few minutes, I can actually breathe. Even just the smell of coffee has alleviated the pressure in my skull. Against the muffled roar of the newsroom, I experience a moment of complete peace, telling myself over and over—you have a job, a real job, as a real reporter. This is your dream and you have it.
But then the rest of the lifestyle team rounds the corner, a rainbow that's shockingly bright against the gentle storm cloud gray of the rest of the room, and my bubble shatters. I hastily click the button for a vanilla latte and follow the group inside. The click of a closing door has never sounded quite so ominous.
Victoria sits at the head of the table, queen of the court with her hands folded on the tabletop. There are about twelve other people in the room, the assistants I met as well as some editors I haven't been introduced to yet. And I realize I was wrong about one thing—there is one man on the style team, and I think he's wearing pants that are tighter than any article of clothing I own.
Just as I'm finally about to take a glorious sip of coffee, Victoria begins the meeting, and I know what's probably first on the agenda—me. The stranger in the corner hunched over her mug, completely out of place—the one getting baffled, curious looks from half the people in the room.
"Welcome, everyone. I have some really wonderful news today. We hired a new assistant. Skylar, introduce yourself to the group."
Eyes widen. Jaws minutely drop. And about a dozen gazes scan my body, judging the stuffy conservative suit, the button down, the barren face, the un-manicured nails, the barely brushed, let alone styled hair, the lack of jewelry—well, I have on gold studs, but that's practically nothing.
For a moment, I'm thrown into that nightmare every kid has growing up, that one where you show up to school and walk into class completely and utterly naked. Everyone is pointing and laughing, and you're horrified, unable to move, wondering how in the world did your mother let you out of the house nude? But then you wake up and relief washes over your body because, thank goodness, it was just a dream.