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“Oh,” I demur. “I don’t know. That’s not really my style.”

“You mean because it doesn’t scream ‘I’m a serious anchorwoman’?” she asks.

“I guess, sort of.”

“Well you’re the one who said that’s all done, right?” she cajoles. “So you might as well reap the benefits. At least try it on. I saw the clothes you brought down here. You can’t spend the summer dressed like the CEO of General Mills.”

I end up buying it. I suspect I’ll never wear it, but there’s something strangely freeing in the possibility.

James is just coming back from a run as we walk up to the house.

His shirt is off, revealing a long, lean torso covered in a fine sheen of sweat. His hair is standing up a little in front, he’s just the tiniest bit flushed, the lines of his jaw and cheekbones slightly sharpened. He doesn’t look like a normal guy after a hard run. He looks like a fitness model posing as a guy who’s just done a hard run.

“Gross,” Ginny says, wrinkling her nose. “Poor Elle hasn’t been in the house long enough to be subjected to that.”

He laughs a little. “Sorry,” he says to me.

All I can do is smile awkwardly in response. And try not to gape.

**

I put on my uniform at 5:00 that afternoon, and squirm with discomfort as I look in the mirror. I have my mother’s long legs, and between the tiny shorts and the high heels, the effect is just … ridiculous. The shirt is, as predicted, way too tight. It’s all too much. I’m embarrassed to even go downstairs to find Ginny, whom I’m supposed to shadow tonight.

I hear her on the back deck, and reluctantly head that way. I suppose if I’m going to have to suffer the perusal of hundreds of strangers in this get-up, I can suffer the perusal of my roommates. Besides, Ginny’s dressed for work too. This can’t really be the big deal I’m making it.

She’s sitting with James and Max, who both stop talking and stare at me in surprise. This does not dramatically boost my confidence.

“You can’t wear that,” says James flatly.

“The hell she can’t,” counters Max. He looks at me approvingly. “You were made to wear that uniform.”

“I can’t say I’m a fan,” I murmur.

Ginny laughs. “You’ll get used to it.” She turns toward James with irritation. “You know what the uniform looks like. Why are you making her feel bad about it?”

“It just doesn’t fit right,” he argues, his jaw grinding.

“That’s exactly how it’s supposed to fit, asshat,” she says. “Elle just looks better in it than the rest of us.”

“You’re showing too much skin,” he says to me. “Just wear some jeans tonight and a white shirt and I’ll talk to Brian.”

Ginny snorts. “A. That bar has no air conditioning, so jeans will be profoundly uncomfortable after about 30 seconds. B. There’s no freaking chance that Brian is going to let one girl wear jeans while the rest of us wear Daisy Dukes. And C. She has to wear the t-shirt. We all do. You’re going to get her fired on her first day.”

“Ignore your surrogate father over there,” says Max. “I, personally, would give you a very generous tip.”

**

James drives us over, though his shift begins an hour after ours. He marches directly to Brian’s office, and Ginny snickers as he goes.

“I’m sorry, but misery loves company. Although this is overboard even for him.”

I hear raised voices coming from Brian’s office, and then James storms out. Brian follows, looking me over with a level of appreciation that I find somewhat unsettling. “I think her uniform fits perfectly,” he says. “She doesn’t look like a whore.”

My face falls. Brian walks away and I barely trust myself to speak. “You told him I looked like a whore?” I ask.

“No,” he says hurriedly, catching the look on my face. “I just said I thought it made you feel like one. It seemed like the uniform was making you uncomfortable.”

I meet his eye. “Well now it is.”