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“I hope you turned it down,” she said seriously. “You already work too hard between your classes and working here. You need some time to relax and get a hobby. Before you say that you have a hobby and it’s learning more about marketing trends, I want you to consider whether you want me smack you upside the head,” she said. “But since I know you, I have to assume you were the first one with your hand up volunteering.”
“Right as always,” I smirked at her, and then went to deliver some short stacks and sausage patties to an old couple in my section. I refilled their decaf and asked about Horace’s kidney stones, and a few minutes later I was back behind the counter with Maria.
“How’s the old guy’s prostate?” she said.
“No clue. It’s kidney stones,” I said.
“Oh, that’s right. His brother’s the one with the prostate problem. John?” she said, “always gets the Reuben with extra onion since his wife died.”
“That’s right. Because Martha hated the smell of onion,” I said with a smile. “You know, I’m not sure I’m the right fit for this assignment, since the project is to brainstorm ideas for a pitch that updates the brand and most of the people I talk to on a daily basis are over seventy and want to discuss their urethra or prostate over fried food.”
“Maybe watch a couple hours of TikTok, renew your subscription to youth,” Maria offered. “I’m glad you’re excited about it, but I think you take on too much.”
“I always have. I’ve made it my whole personality,” I said sarcastically.
“No lies detected,” she smirked and went to deliver some Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes.
I checked on my customers, took some orders, and the whole time I was looking for inspiration, for something I could develop that would make a really engaging hook, a unique angle to approach this from. What do I want in a soap product? I asked myself as I rang up a takeout order. I want it to be really cheap and last a long time and not stink too badly, I thought grimly.
My standards were not that high, but I was not the target audience. The under-thirties were who the company wanted to court, but I assumed they meant successful, upwardly mobile under-thirties, perhaps with a nice apartment and great shoes and a boyfriend. Not students who waited tables and wore clothes from consignment shops.
The more I thought about it, racking my brain for anything new and exciting to say about soap, the more I wanted to win. It wasn’t a competitive drive; it was the same as wanting to pay my way through school. I had to prove it to myself, that I have the creativity and determination to do what it took. More than that, I really, truly, in my heart of hearts, wanted to impress Rick. I wanted him to be speechless at my brilliance, maybe applaud a little when I presented my ideas. Perhaps say that he could just kiss me, and then turn away, resolute and regretful. It was my fantasy, after all.
CHAPTER12
RICK
Iwas avoiding my grading. I hadn’t dreaded paperwork this much since my first year teaching, when it seemed overwhelming. Now I was anxious for a different reason. I was concerned the quality of my students’ work would be lacking. This assignment had a lot at stake for me. This pitch was my last opportunity to secure the account, and this lucrative client would mean such an expansion for my charitable work as well as a bonus for my staff and a much-needed company wellness retreat.
I took my staff to Napa for a weekend annually—I rented out a few of the nicer local inns, paid for the rooms and a couple of good meals, just to get them out of town and let them unplug with their families, go riding, picnic, do some wine tasting. It was good for morale and mental health. Adding a second retreat would be very welcome and help replenish my hardworking team.
I wanted the account. The competitive spirit burned in my gut and the fact that I had failed appalled me. I knew when to outsource, when to enlist other voices and perspectives even when it meant swallowing my pride. The idea that my class might be sorely out of their depth had occurred to me when one of the submissions, the one on top of the stack, was written on notebook paper with obvious drips of taco sauce staining the page. Either they were incompetent or had no respect for the gravity of the project. Neither outcome spoke well of their preparation for the real world of marketing or of my skill as a professor. Sloppy and unprofessional work was what I was dreading. I’d already seen the taco sauce evidence that it was what I should expect.
The folder with the submissions was on my coffee table, plaguing me like the tell-tale heart. I cracked open a beer and got on with it. Page after page of lists, three or four slogans or ideas scrawled on notebook paper and in one case on the back of a coaster from a bar. It was pretty routine stuff—at least two of the catchphrases were existing slogans used by the brand or its competitors in the recent past. I groaned when I saw that, since it wasn’t a promising sign. I made notes on a couple of the more original ideas—original being set at a low bar for this selection of work. None of what I saw was even on par with my ideas, which were rejected out of hand. The notes I made were scrupulous, listing the student whose work it was, full name and ID number, contact info and everything. If I even considered using part of their concept, I’d be sure they were contacted and given the credit and compensation they deserved. Although the truth was, the choices here were dismal. I didn’t want my company name attached to any of these.
My students were not helpless, they just hadn’t put much effort into the assignment. Maybe they were overworked with their other class projects, or maybe some were short-sighted and didn’t recognize the cache involved if their work was chosen and promoted by my firm. Regardless, there were only two submissions I’d read that were actually typed when I was halfway through the stack. One was a single paragraph and the other a bulleted list. The most impressive thing about them was that they were formatted correctly, which, again, wasn’t saying much. Just beneath them was a bound folio, a slim, sleek submission that had been printed at an office supply store.
I flipped it open, read the abstract, the three short pages with proposed rebranding color schemes with citations for sources that showed success with the key demographic and a few sample slogans. Then I scanned a QR code that linked to a short slide deck presentation with a voiceover. I knew the second I heard the narration that it was her. Of course, it was Hailey’s proposal.
She did excellent work in class, so I shouldn’t have been surprised or dismayed, but I was. It felt a bit like karma biting me on the ass. I had tried to keep things strictly neutral and distant because I was attracted to her, and now the universe was tossing her in my lap so to speak. Her take on the assignment was unexpected, but I thought it looked promising. An angle that would not have occurred to me, and a proposed split for advertising to under-thirties in one way and over-thirties with a different campaign altogether. The idea made sense, and I’d have to invite her to discuss her ideas and develop them with my team prior to the pitch meeting.
I set it aside and made myself go through the rest of the stack of papers, hoping against hope that someone else had done something distinctive or memorable or at least professional looking. No such luck. Hailey had submitted work that was at a professional standard already and bound and presented as such. She deserved the extra credit, the check, and the invite to the pitch meeting. She had clearly applied concepts I’d taught as recently as a week ago and showed a thorough understanding of how to develop a basic pitch.
A rush of pride was hounded by dread on its heels. I’d have to loop her in to my team on this, spend time in the room with her. Elation came in on a leash of rules and ethics and slunk in the corner. This was an exciting opportunity for Hailey. It would be like running a gauntlet for me, trying to steer clear of the danger.
In class the following morning, I didn’t even need coffee to be wide awake. My nerves were humming on their own. At the end of the lecture, I cleared my throat.
“The student whose work will be advancing to my creative team for the upcoming pitch is Hailey Thomas.”
My eyes found her in the fourth row and saw her face light up. She didn’t just smile, she gave off a glow of pride and sweet surprise that made me rub my sternum as if to get rid of heartburn. Nothing helped the feeling that was in my chest then, though, the unbidden answer to her sudden joy.
I clicked the button to display the presentation from her QR code submission on the screen and gave a quick overview of what worked about her submission so the other students could at least make note of what was useful to include and how such a proposal should look. At the conclusion, some students congratulated her, others grumbled, staring at their phones. I signaled to her to stop for a moment.
When she reached my desk and the other students had filed past, she was bouncing on the balls of her feet, still glowing, eyes alight, every part of her exuding excitement.
“I can’t believe it. Thank you so much,” she said.
“You have nothing to thank me for. Your work shows a promising talent as well as a critical eye for detail. You also got extra consideration because there was no visible taco sauce on your submission,” I said.
