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I had this great dream of interning at the state capitol, then making my way to the national stage. Maybe I would be a speech writer. Or a strategist. I didn’t see myself running for office, not a chance, but being someone’s right-hand woman.
I could help make change, first in Florida, then the US of A.
I was so naïve.
My starry-eyed vision held true freshman year, and partway into the second. Then I began to take classes in my major, and the real picture became clear. Rich kids got the good internships,the ones where you worked for free but got access to the top offices. I couldn’t take those, as I had too many schedules to juggle. I had to pay my way.
Family friends and their contacts were the primary way to get in. Everyone seemed to know someone. I applied right and left and didn’t get a single bite, even though my grades were good. It was my references that weren’t right.
Nobody was impressed by a father who works at Kwik-e-Mart and a mother who does clothing alterations. And even though my bosses were glowing in their letters, it wasn’t impressive to have curried favor with the manager at Bucky’s Burgers.
In hindsight, I should have gotten to know my professors better. I didn’t realize they would be my only hope until I was deep into my junior year and most of the good spots for my class were already allocated.
My poli-sci advisor helped me land a clerking spot, but for the traffic court. That got me nowhere, as everyone in that department had already been passed over for any kind of preferential treatment.
I did, however, meet Melanie Billet, who was the assistant to Rhett Armstrong before me. She had the worst time with parking citations. I got to know her when she broke down crying one day at the ticket office and I sat next to her and held out a tissue.
We got her situation handled before she was issued a warrant for outstanding fines. She came by a week later with chocolate croissants and coffee, and we struck up a friendly acquaintance punctuated by her occasional visits with more tickets, which she kept up with after that.
She told me about Dougherty Inc. and Rhett, and eventually, that she was planning to leave and move to Boston. By then, graduation was looming, and none of my applications werepanning out. I asked her if entry-level positions were available at her company, maybe vacated by someone who would move into her position.
She suggested I meet Rhett Armstrong and go for the gold. I had a solid degree, and being an assistant for the head of a company like Dougherty had some prestige. The job was more about understanding what Rhett needed done than anything else.
At no point did she tell me he was a tyrant. In fact, she insisted he was a perfectly reasonable boss.
Only after I was hired did he reveal his true self.
The self that is somewhere on this boat.
I check my phone. Fifteen minutes have passed while I lay staring at the ceiling tin.
The curtains have shifted slightly, revealing unbroken ocean as far as I can see. Surely we are far enough out that I’m safe.
I’m debating the mustering issue again when the quiet is broken with a second announcement.
“All guests aboard the Blue Sapphire should please make their way to Deck 1 for compulsory mustering. Everyone aboard must participate in this safety activity.”
I glance at the door. Risk it or hide?
The memory of Rhett’s hard features from my last day of work settles it. He fired me with no warning, no notice, no time to say goodbye. Two security guards arrived with boxes for me to pack, and I wasn’t even able to log out of my computer.
Gone.
And why? One convincing act by my so-called best friend.
I don’t even know why she did it. It’s not like Rhett has ever given her the time of day. She didn’t have to choose between him and me when she brought him those marketing documents that supposedly proved I was milking the company.
But she did, and here we are.
No, that steely glare and rock-hard jaw aren’t something I should forget. If he acted harshly and decisively then, he’ll do it again. He’ll make them turn this boat around.
I need to hide from him as long as possible.
So, I drop to my knees and crawl into my hiding spot right as someone knocks on my door.
“Mustering!” a voice calls. “Time to go to Deck 1 for instructions!”
I bang my head on the desk as I scramble to pull the chair close. I can’t see anything but my suitcase and the cushioned seat.
