At eight in the morning.
In front of my number one role model.
“Come on,” Katherine says, taking me by surprise as she reaches for my hand and starts pulling me behind her. I keep my head down to try to hide my blubbering and let myself be dragged along, praying to whoever’s in charge of these things that we don’t run into Benny.
Katherine finds the nearest room I can safely cry in and shuts the door, then flicks on the light. Because this is Friends of Flavor, it’s a pantry full of food.
At least it’s a spacious pantry, though, so we duck arounda row of shelves and sit on the floor, almost hidden from view should anyone else come in. As good a spot as any in the office to sit and be pitiful. Which I am, as I cry openly now, letting the tears fall and soak my face and shirt. The No Feelings Zone has been completely invaded by enemy forces, demilitarized, made into a monarchy in which emotions have sovereign power, the whole nine yards. I know I’ll likely be red and puffy for the rest of the day, but I don’t imagine that Margie will say anything.
Of all the people to be sitting here as I sob pathetically on the floor, it had to be the strong, badass woman I’ve spent years idolizing and still have to work up the nerve to talk to.
“Sorry, I should probably just go…,” I sniffle, starting to get to my feet with no actual destination in mind exceptaway,but Katherine holds a hand out.
“Sit,” she says, and because I would stand on my head if she told me to, I sit back down. “Is this about your job or your boyfriend?”
My watery eyes widen and I gape at her for a few moments.
“I—he’s not—”
“Girl, please. We all knew even before that picture on Twitter. There are no secrets here; someone should’ve told you guys that your first day. So which is it?”
I blink a few times, taken aback by the turn of events. “Both?”
Katherine nods and folds her little legs up to her chest. Neither her stature nor the position make her any less intimidating.
“Why don’t you tell me about it.”
She doesn’t make it sound like a question. And she doesn’t look surprised when I start talking, though I myself am surprised as all hell. I relay the entire convoluted story to her, starting with the events of freshman year and ending on how I fought with and may or may not have dumped the best guy I ever met, had a creeptastic run-in with FoF’s CEO, and now feel like I’m letting down my best friends, our feminist idol, and essentially all women everywhere.
After ten minutes of rambling, I wonder if Katherine was hoping for more of a two-sentence summary. Too little, too late.
Katherine’s expression hasn’t changed and when I’m finished, she doesn’t tell me I’m crazy. She doesn’t shake her head, get to her feet, and leave the room, never to set foot in a pantry again.
She gives a single nod that somehow conveys deep understanding and wisdom that the likes of me will never possess, then angles her body more toward me.
“So obviously that’s a lot,” she says, in an understatement of epic proportions. “And I mean it with zero judgment and only your best interests in mind when I say that, long term, I recommend therapy. I’ve seen a therapist for fifteen years, and therapy will change your life.”
I blink in surprise, as if this warrior has shown me a chink in her armor. Yet it doesn’t make me see her as any less strong and powerful. If anything, I’m even more impressed and feel like saying, “Yes, my queen, I will leave in search of a therapist this instant.” But before I can respond, Katherine goes on.
“In the meantime, can I first say that letting me down should be the last thing on your mind? I mean, theverylast. Someday I hope you get over the desire to please most everyone else except yourself, but at the very least, take me off the list of people to please immediately. I don’t give a shit how you live your life if you’re doing the best thing for you. That being said, you’re not.”
She pauses for a moment, letting the words sit there between us. I’m able to get out, “Wh-what?”
She raises her chin, somehow looking down her nose at me even though she’s still a few inches shorter while seated. “You heard me. Setting aside your boy problem for the moment—which, for the record, I think will work itself out because the boy is a lovesick puppy—I know the online haters are hard to deal with. Yours have been especially bad, but we all get haters. I can’t tell you how many dumbasses bombard my personal social media and email with their opinions on how I look, how I talk, how I could be so pretty if I smiled, how a woman shouldn’t act like I do. I hate to say that you get used to it, because I know that doesn’t help right now, let alone the fact that you shouldn’t have to, but youwillget used to it.”
I sigh in frustration, tears pooling in my eyes. “I don’t mean to be all ‘why me’…but really, why me? Why go after a random summer intern on a cooking channel so hard?”
Katherine shrugs. “I mean, that’s probably just it. These same losers certainly hate a lot of what Oprah says and does and stands for. But if they tweet their opinions at Oprah, what does shecare? She’ll likely never meet them and if she does, who gives a damn? She has zillions of fans and runs half the world, and a few idiots aren’t changing that. But a random summer intern on a cooking channel is an easy target—not a ‘big’ celebrity with tons of fans, and much more accessible. They feel like they can be the macho crusaders who take you down and then pat themselves on the back, one less silly woman feeling free to have fun and be herself on the internet.
“Reese, you probably know this to some extent, but this stuff happensall the time.And not to minimize your experience, but it’s more frequent and usually worse for women of color and others who are marginalized. Nia, Lily, even Seb and Raj? They’ve had people trying to run them off Twitter and out of their jobs for years. I’ll bet you can find comments on any of their videos telling them to go back where they came from because they have skin that’s not white. They’re all from, like, Illinois and Nebraska and other white-bread middle-American states. Makes no difference. Bigots are bigots.”
I know this, of course, from my hours and hours of button clicking and “taking out the trash” in comments on others’ videos. People are vile without any goading. I just see less of it these days because I’m busy withAmateur Houror designs, and it’s easy not to dwell when it doesn’t feel personal. I recognize how messed up that is, though, to not be affected by hate until it’s pointed right at me.
“What about Aiden and Mr. Block?” I sniffle. “It’s clearneither of them take me seriously, that they basically see me as Benny’s pretty, brainless assistant. I can’t imagine any way to fix that even if I do get past the online stuff.”
It shouldn’t much surprise me when Katherine rolls her eyes, but I still raise an eyebrow in question. Then she murmurs something that would definitely have my mother washing a grown woman’s mouth out with soap.
Louder, she says, “Reese, I hope you have many fulfilling and wonderful work experiences with a multitude of inspiring leaders and managers in the future. But more than likely, you’ll start to see a pattern that the world’s most powerful people are often the world’s biggest assholes.”
