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From the Pages of CityStyle Magazine
Omegas in Tech Gala, November 18. This exclusive, invite-only event launches a new national non-profit, headed by omega Natalie Marke, former CTO of SPARQ. Rumor is it’s funded by a young prince–could an engagement be ahead for Ms. Marke and a certain alpha charmer known for his recent top-dollar acquisition?
CITYSTYLE MAGAZINE, UPCOMING EVENTS, PAGE 12
Ella
Friday afternoon at the office was a restless kind of hopeful.
I could tell by the energy of the place–and the distinct lack of keyboard clicking–that we were all sitting at our desks, counting down the minutes until five, hoping that there wouldn’t be any breaking news before it would be acceptable for us to start trickling out. Not that it was likely: the CityStyle was a local magazine producing hard-hitting investigative journalism such as “The City’s Hidden Gems for Galentine’s Brunch” and “Family Fun at the Plaza.” Hardly what I had thought I was dedicating myself to when I graduated with a shiny new degree in journalism, but I was thankful to have a job in my field, even if I was writing puff pieces and society gossip.
It was with a mixture of excitement and annoyance (along with the ever present fear of losing my job), therefore, that I heard my name being called from lead editor Stevens’s office at 4:58.
“Booker!”
My head snapped to attention, my eyes, which had been half-lidded as I scrolled mindlessly, widened. I looked up across the workspaces of my colleagues, towards the editor’s half-open door.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Get in here for a minute.”
I am going to lose my job.The irrational thought made my heart rate spike and my legs weak before I even had a second to talk myself out of it.I am doing fine,I reminded myself.I am a competent reporter; this is just imposter syndrome talking. I just have imposter syndrome, like every other twenty-three year old with her first job. This is just how I have been socialized. It’s not me, it’s the patriarchy.My pep talk was maybe a little over the top, but it did the trick as I walked between the aisles of desks, no one making eye contact, and stood before the editor’s door, taking a deep, calming breath. She waved me in, and I closed the door behind me with a soft click.
“I can’t make it to the gala tonight,” my editor barked. There was an event tonight for a new non-profit; I knew because I had put it on the Upcoming Events Calendar in last month’s edition. “Family emergency.” I nodded. The lead editor had a husband and three school-age kids at home–she had told me when I started at the office, informing me in her gruff way that just because I was an omega, she wouldn’t expect less of me. “After all,” she had huffed, “I’m an omega too, married with children, and you don’t seemeleaving early.” I had taken it as her awkward way of encouraging me:work hard and earn everyone’s respect. We won’t let you off easy, but we won’t expect less of you, either.It was the most I could hope for, I guessed.
“Did you want me to send an R.S.V.P?” I asked.
“I want you to go,” she responded, with her typical bluntness. “Tickets are expensive; I don’t want to waste it. Have fun.” She passed me a thick white envelope, slightly crinkled, as if it had been shoved into a cluttered briefcase. This was almost certainly the case. My editor was dedicated to her job, and great at it–but her messy desk was notorious around the office. I looked, bewildered, at the envelope, which bore the nameLara Stevensin elegant script, the hand calligraphy smooth over velvety paper.
“You want me to go to the gala? Tonight? But…” I had been planning a fun evening of doomscrolling, a bubble bath, and maybe a glass of wine.
She raised an eyebrow. “What, you have a date?” I shook my head. I never had dates. “Good, then you’ll go.”
“I don’t have anything to wear.”
“Oh.” She looked around, shuffling the multitude of papers on her desk and pulling out desk drawers before finding the object of her search tossed over a chair in the corner of her office. “Here.” A dry-cleaner bag was unceremoniously dumped into my arms. “I was going to wear this.” In the bag was a slinky, sapphire blue dress. I had a hard time picturing the editor wearing anything like it. “It should fit you fine.”
“What? I couldn’t–” I fumbled as the fluid, silk fabric and slippery bag nearly spilled out of my arms.
“It’s rented, so don’t mess it up. Just get it back to me–dry cleaned, okay?--sometime next week. Oh, and like I said,” she rose from her chair, haphazardly shoving her belongings into her nondescript black leather briefcase, before escorting me smoothly from her office, “have fun.”
I stared after her back as she retreated down the hallway to the elevators.
My bubble bath would have to wait. I was going to a gala.
* * *
My sister Anna’s apartment was closer to center city than mine, so after a quick flurry of texts and a short walk, I found myself standing at the entrance of her apartment, my knock interrupting the cheerful, hectic sounds of family life audible through the door.
“Ella, you know you don’t have to knock, just come on in.” Anna answered the door, ushering me inside.
“I know…”
“Jessie!” Her voice cut through my excuses. I was left standing in the hallway as she hurried off in the direction of the kitchen. “Sit your butt down right now! What have I said about standing on the chair!”
I continued down the hallway, following the noise. Anna’s youngest was standing on the kitchen chair, her whole body wiggling in excitement as she stole a strawberry off the momentarily unattended plate of her older brother. She earned a “hey!” and a swat from him when he realized what had happened. Anna lifted Jessie up, depositing her down on her bottom, then moved quickly into the kitchen.
“I’ll get you some more strawberries, both of you, just please stay seated. Say hello to Aunt Ella!” Without waiting for the children to speak, she continued, her voice floating out from the kitchen. “Ella, you can change in my room, and if you want to leave your stuff here and pick it up tomorrow, you can. Or stay the night–no, wait, that won’t work, we leave for a swim meet early tomorrow and won’t be back until late… But you could pick it up Monday morning, or Tuesday after 2:00–”
