Yeah, I sort of feel like that. Except I'm awake. I think…
I pinch myself, hoping to come to in my tiny bedroom.
No such luck. Definitely awake.
I cough, clearing my throat and searching for my voice—which I'm pretty sure is burned out from screaming like a little girl in the back of my mind. "Hi, I'm Skylar Quinn, the new editorial assistant. I just graduated this past May, and I've been interning for the arts and literature team, specifically for the book review, for the past three months. And, um, today is my first day."
As soon as I say book review, they all knowingly nod. Not in an obvious way, but when twelve people do it, it's sort of easy to notice.
"And, tell them about your vision for the column," Victoria says encouragingly. "We spoke about it at some senior meetings, but I'd like the team to hear your plans."
I sort of want to hug her. But I won’t. Especially because a tingle of jealousy has tightened the air, shifting the mood in the room. I look to my left at the three assistants now straining to hold their smiles in place.
"Um…" I trail off. I didn’t even know about the column until yesterday—was I supposed to come up with a game plan overnight? Think, Skylar, think. Pulling crap out of thin air is what writers are born to do. "Well, as Victoria and I discussed, I want to make the column as approachable and entertaining as possible, to hopefully bring a new demographic and new readers to the newspaper, so I was thinking…" Come on! Words, say words. "Well, lots of girls my age," and by that I mean me, "don't actually feel that comfortable talking about sex, or reading about sex…" Or, you know, actually having sex… "So I thought this column could be more about the dating life of the average young professional woman. The trials and tribulations, various dating failures, the few successes, sort of entertaining experiences that every girl or woman can relate to."
Well, that actually sounded pretty great if I do say so myself. But there's stillness in the air, as though everyone is in on something I'm missing.
"But, there will be some sex, right?" one of the editors finally asks.
They're staring, so I try to play it cool, looking down at my notebook while I swallow my hysteria. "Oh, sure, I mean, what’s the dating life of the average young professional without some sex?"
Not this average young professional, of course, the one you sort of hired to write about it. But lots of others I'm sure.
I chance a peek, scanning the group for a reaction.
They're nodding. They're smiling.
I might actually pull this off!
"And what’s your idea for the first column. If you're ready, we’d like to go to print with the launch next week."
I say the first thing that comes to mind. "What to do if you're crushing on the guy you live with?"
Wait, what?
No!
No!
Abort. I can’t write about that. Bridget will read this. Ollie might even read this. Say something else, quick.
"Or, um," I press forward before they get too attached to the idea, "I mean, what to do if you're crushing on the guy who lives next door or in your building. Like me, for example, there's this guy who I see every morning, in the, um, elevator. Yeah, the elevator. I can experiment with flirting, trying to get him to ask me out, that sort of thing and then write about how it goes."
My first professional lie, and it’s not even noon. That has to be a record.
"Well, that's not that difficult," Blythe chips in from the corner, smile way too kind to be sincere. "My neighbor asked me out on the elevator just this morning. I didn’t even have to do anything."
Well, good for you.
"That is so funny. I just got asked out by a guy in my building too," Rebecca chimes in, but her tone actually does sound genuine. Aloof maybe, but genuine. "I was doing laundry over the weekend at the same time as this guy in my building, and when I went to get my clothes from the dryer, there was a Post-it note waiting with his phone number on it."
Who are these girls? I haven’t been asked out since college. And really, that was only my ex John. And, well, if I'm being totally honest I wasn't so much asked out on a date. It was more of a drunken mutual attraction that happened to turn into a relationship that happened to last right until the end of my senior year.
Can I just bury myself now?
But Victoria leans in, excited. "I love it, Skylar. The idea is already resonating with girls your age. Go for it, and I expect a first draft on my desk by Friday. Now, Alexandra, where are we on the new designer previews?"
I'm dismissed. And I can't reach for my coffee fast enough.
Yum.
Still delicious.
I sink back in my chair as the meeting continues in what I can only describe as a foreign language. This—insert name I don't recognize—is a new—insert name I don't recognize. And she—insert name—is just like a new age—insert name—totally reminiscent of—insert name.
And so on, and so forth, until my hand cramps from taking so many notes on people I need to research just to be able to grasp a basic understanding of what is going on for next week's meeting. But it does give me another great idea for a column.
A new age love story—how the modern woman and her café latte defied the odds and managed to survive in the wilds of a hostile work environment.
They’ll love it.
Not.
I'm an utterly terrible flirt. Really. I know some girls might say that just to hear their friends jump to their defense and shower them in compliments. Not me. Oh, I'm really great at coming up with something fabulous to say five minutes after the boy is already gone, but in the moment? I'm a deer caught in the headlights, then…bam!
I'm determined to hit this first column out of the park. So determined that when I arrive home after my first day, I dive full force into reporter mode, which in this case could loosely be defined as stalker mode. But I need to find a boy—not Ollie!—to harass—I mean flirt with—for research.
So I wait, idling by the mailboxes, keeping an eye on the entrance.
He's too old.
He's with a girl.
He's too cute—I'd have no chance whatsoever.
He's not my type.
And then miraculously, a boy I've never noticed steps through the front door. Sandy blond hair. Gangly build that I secretly find sort of cute. Business casual. And as he walks by the doorman he nods in greeting—polite!
Okay, go time.
I pick up a discarded letter from the floor, pretending I actually have mail—which really, for the first time ever, the one time I really need mail, I have nothing, not even a dear resident marketing pamphlet. But the envelope I just grabbed from the floor will do.
Trying my best to look casual, I step next to the boy to wait for the elevator, peeking at him a few times, until there's a ding and the door slides open. He lets me in first—such a gentleman—and then steps in behind me.
The doors close.
Silence descends.
I lick my lips, turning my head to the side to take a full-on look at him. He senses the movement and reciprocates. I smile. He smiles. I coyly look away for a moment, and then glance back. He's still looking at me. Cue second smile, friendlier this time.