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“First day?” asked a kind-looking and very old security guard, whose name tag said “Sam” on it.
“Yes, sir,” I said, instantly sounding like the sheltered kid I had always been while growing up.
“Name?”
“Skye Stewart.”
Flipping through the pages in his big book like St. Peter at the pearly gates, he came to my listing.
“Sign here,” he said, turning the book toward me, the pen already set in the crease between the pages.
“Donut?” I asked, opening the box.
“Why, thank you,” he said, selecting a freshly made apple fritter.
After applying my Jane Hancock to the first space next to my name printed on the page, I was given leave to cross through the metal detector and into the building proper. I had never been so happy that I didn’t really wear jewelry as I was when I passed through those silent gates.
Not that I wouldn’t wear it if I was able to afford it and if my mother wouldn’t go nuts. I’d worn a necklace my friend had loaned me once, when I was twelve. Mom had said it made me look like a tart and ripped it off so hard the chain broke. If it hadn’t, I was afraid she would have taken my head off.
I flinched at the memory, my hand unconsciously going to my throat as I walked to the elevators, the donut box tipping somewhat in my one available hand. The bell dinged a happy tune as the elevator door opened, standing out against the austerity of the place and granting me passage to the safety of its chamber.
My breath came out in a whoosh as I leaned back against the wall of the gently humming elevator.
“Nine-hundred ninety-nine. Nine-hundred ninety-eight.”
It was a trick I’d picked up in school. Apparently panic attacks weren’t uncommon in the children of our community, so much so that the school board decided to step in and teach basic meditation techniques.
We weren’t quite the children of royalty, despite the claims of some, although we were pretty close. New monied folk like the Rockefellers would have laughed at the pretentiousness, but we were Oregon rich and that was enough for most. Many in our immediate circle never actually ventured beyond the state.
The bell dinged again, marking the elevator’s arrival on the 15th floor. The shiny chrome doors opened onto my immediate future.
“First day?” asked the young, pretty receptionist, barely looking up from her magazine.
“How did you know?”
“You have the look.”
“What look would that be?” I inquired, although I almost didn’t want to know.
“Hope and whimsy combined with abject terror. Trust me, darling, I know the feeling of those first day jitters.”
“Donuts?” I offered, trying to act unfazed, but secretly wondering if everyone could tell how nervous I was as easily as she could.
“Um, yeah, sure. Wow, you really come prepared.”
“Thanks,” I said, feeling as if my ploy had worked.
Always carry donuts when you want to project confidence, I told myself, as a mental note for any future point in my life when I might need the advice.
I lowered the lid back into place and looked around, feeling stupid again.
“Where do I go?” I asked.
“The cubicle farm is over that way,” she said, pointing to the right, “but there is going to be a staff meeting in the boardroom, which is over that way, next to the arcade across from the ping-pong court.”
It took me a few seconds to fully process the end of her sentence. The words ‘arcade’ and ‘ping-pong court’ did not easily fit into my mental image of a big publishing house. Not that I was worried to hear that the employees were allowed to have fun. No wonder they’d had so many responses for what was unlikely to be a permanent position.
Following the receptionist’s directions, I went to find my cubicle, which had a temporary name plate already Velcroed to the exterior wall. I knew in my gut it was done as a matter of course and so that everyone knew where to sit and what to call everyone else, but I felt welcomed just the same.
The boardroom wasn’t difficult to find after that. I just had to follow the distinctive sound of ping-pong paddles after I had turned down the corridor to the right of the reception desk.
I was the first to arrive, which gave me the opportunity to set the donuts in the middle of the table and flip open the lid. They looked a bit odd, sitting there with all their uneven heights. One of their members was clearly absent.
Feeling a rush of heroism coming upon me, I swept up a wayward Boston Cream and gave it a new home in my tummy. I ate it fast so that people wouldn’t notice and assume that I had brought all of them just for me.
