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The eight other interns look at me expectantly.
“Y-Yep,” I answer vaguely, smiling.
No one else smiles. They wouldn’t dare. They probably wonder what’s wrong with me, curious why anyone would ever actually smile in here.
He stares at me. “Well, which is it? Columbia or Stanford?”
I open my mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Why did I lie in the first place?
I’m saved by Brenda entering the room at that very moment to check on our progress. And I’m once again just another listening face among the interns, whom I’ve quickly realized are in a totally different economic league than my own.
But my professor believed in me, and he stuck his neck out to get me this opportunity. I have to believe it was worth it, that I belong here, that I’ve got as much to prove as the other interns.
Even if I’m quite sure their parents’ income is about fifty times whatever my parents could ever hope to make in their lifetimes.
It’s hours later when I’m back in the elevator, every ounce of my energy spent. The day I’ve had is evident in my tired reflection, which I stare at in the shiny metal surface of the elevator door.
I look different, but can’t say how.
One of the other interns is also taking the elevator down, the lone female. Bree. Short-haired, tanned, and freckly, she gives me the tiniest smile of acknowledgement before proceeding to mindlessly stare at her own tired reflection, right next to mine.
We don’t say very much at first.
“Long day,” I mutter, breaking the silence.
“Sure,” she agrees mildly.
“To be honest, I thought our internship was … going to be a little different. I thought we’d—”
“That Jay needs to pull the stick out of his ass.”
I glance at her. He definitely has a way about him, I reason. “Maybe he was some kind of leader where he came from. He learned to be the way he is for a reason. I think we should give him a chance … at least for a little bit,” I add with a chuckle.
My chuckle is returned with a roll of her eyes. “Alright, that’s more than enough fucking Pollyanna I can stomach for a day, thank you.” She thumbs through her phone, squinting agitatedly.
I return to staring at the door, leaving her be.
Serendipitously, the door opens on that other floor on our way down, and I am gifted another brief glimpse of the glorious madness of journalists working hard to capture that perfect story. Three guys board the elevator, relegating myself and Bree to the back, and the doors shut. The guys are in a heated conversation about font sizes, of all things.
Bree stuffs away her phone with a huff and gently pinches the bridge of her nose, appearing to nurse a headache.
I can’t ever let someone suffer near me without saying something. “The work might be unforgiving at times,” I say privately to her, “but who else in the whole big city can say they’re being paid to do what they love?” I give her an encouraging smile.
She frowns. “Paid? We’re not being paid.”
I stare at her. Maybe she’s confused. “Of course we are. The program pays for its … I mean, I was told that Mr. Wales …” My heart skips three beats in a row. I feel a pinch of doubt. “Mr. Wales said he—”
“We’re not being paid,” she repeats, cutting off my stammering. “They cut spending to the intern program last summer. Like, everyone knows.”
The floor of the elevator falls away.
I’m floating. Weightless. Uncomprehending.
Bree shrugs lightly, not noticing my reaction at all, then lowers her voice to add: “Thank God for loaded parents, am I right?”
7
I sit in the downstairs lobby and stare at my hands for approximately one and a half eternities.
Thank God for loaded parents, am I right?
My dad had to work two jobs to afford putting me through college. Even then, I’ve got a mountain of loans I slowly need to pay back, since my small scholarship barely covered the cost of my books. I had to work every summer, too, picking up any odd job I could find, while maintaining a minimum wage gig pressing meat patties to grills, or pushing mowers over lawns, or helping out on a neighbor’s farm. At last, I thought I earned a break, scoring an internship in the big city, preparing for a job that’d make all the blood, sweat, and tears worth it.
Only to discover it doesn’t pay.
Not that that sobering fact has much impact on the rich kids I’m interning alongside at all, who are probably set up in their parents’ studio high-rises, bought and paid for. Bree didn’t even bat an eye.
How’d I not know this? I clearly fundamentally misunderstood something. Or my professor did.
My phone buzzes, the first thing that pulls my attention from my hands in nearly twenty minutes. It’s Brett, asking me if I’m up for pizza—again—since he and Lex are hanging out at the apartment.
