Citizen Girl (17 page)

I sink into the floral couch as she cradles her glass in her lap, her eyes glazing over.

‘You know,’ I offer, ‘I don’t think there are rules, at least that I’ve observed. It really is a community of making it up as you go along, good, bad, or otherwise. So, you’re probably not breaking anything.’

‘Thank you.’ She smiles deeply, her eyes crinkling. ‘I could have put Moldova up in a hotel with my own money.’ She rubs her temples. ‘But, by that logic, should I have invited them
all
home with me? Or do I
sell this apartment? Do I move to a studio in Washington Heights, donate every last penny I have to helping? I’m still grappling.’ She smoothes her ponytail.

‘Julia, I think what you’re doing is
amazing
and admirable and a hell of a lot more than most people.’

‘No,
they’re
the admirable ones. Barely teenagers, lured over here from the Balkans, thrown in a cargo container, and forced into prostitution in a godforsaken house on Long Island, which, by the way, is frequented by cops. Now that their work authorization has come through I need to get them all employed to secure their Temporary Protection. In this economy.’ She takes a swig of wine. ‘Let’s talk about something else. What’s going on in your exciting young life?’

‘Not much, unless you find Cloroxing an old refrigerator exciting,’ I laugh. ‘Mostly, I’ve been trying to write this big thing for my boss.’

‘Ah, yes, your boss.’ She leans forward to push a sterling bowl of almonds towards me. ‘He put on quite a show Friday morning.’

‘I’m learning that he’s quite the showman. He’s given me the weekend to put together this pitch.’

‘For what?’ she asks, popping a few almonds in her mouth.

‘That’s the thing.’ I drop my forehead in my hands. ‘I’m kind of having a crisis —’I whip my faceup, appalled. ‘I’m sorry, not a crisis. I feel ridiculous calling this a crisis.’ I bite my lip, feeling very un-sold-into-white-slavery.

Julia laughs deeply. ‘Don’t. I feel ridiculous right this moment wondering if the manicotti’s going to burn.’ She
stands and walks past me. ‘Talk to me while I turn the oven down.’

I watch her as she pads into the kitchen, weighing the risk of sharing confidential information with a conceivably not disinterested potential funding recipient. But my craving for a sounding board wins out. ‘He needs me to write a pitch to Gloria Steinem – he wants
Ms.
to join the other magazines on the site, part of rebranding My Company from purely beauty/fashion periodicals to more serious fare,’ I call after her. ‘And I’m carrying out these assignments – the conference, this pitch, this donation – with essentially no direction.’ I take a sip of my wine. ‘Doris didn’t even trust me to alphabetize. So working for Guy feels great. It does. Just a little terrifying because I don’t know what I’m going to do if this doesn’t work out.’ Holding the glass between my knees, I stare up at the hunting print above the mantel, my eyes landing on the fleeing fox.

‘Sounds like normal first-semester jitters,’ Julia calls out.

‘Does it? I just have so many questions. Which
is
normal, I guess. I’m not invited to a single meeting, yet I can’t help watch when they’re happening, because the whole office is glass. But Guy just shrugs and says they’re “outside my purview”.’

Julia leans against the doorway, running her finger absently around the rim of her glass. ‘He doesn’t exactly strike me as a rocket scientist, and you seem pretty damn competent. I doubt you’re missing out on much. Besides, there’s always a learning curve. Look at me, I can’t get
the mass mailing doo-hickey to,’ she waves her hand, ‘mass mail.’

‘I can do that,’ I offer.

‘Really?’ She slumps forward, grinning. ‘I’d be
utterly
indebted. And I’m happy to take a look at this pitch of yours if you want to email it.’

‘Actually, I have a draft with me. You wouldn’t mind?’ I stand to fetch my bag. ‘And I’ll start by making your fax fax.’

‘We have lift-off!’ I cry out victoriously from the kitchen as a fax goes through.

‘You smart cookie!’ Julia drops the pages in her lap from where she’s nestled into her club chair. She pulls off her tortoiseshell glasses, laying them beside an empty sauce-drizzled plate on the coffee table. ‘You’ve done a bang-up job of eking every little bit of feminism from a, let’s face it, less than feminist operation.’

Holding the successful fax transmission report, I take the seat facing her. ‘Really? It doesn’t feel flimsy?’

‘Their offering is flimsy, but that’s just the hand you’re dealt. Do they really have data on National Cancer Institute-sponsored experimental trials for breast cancer on the site? I logged on before the conference and I didn’t see anything that useful.’

‘No, not yet. But the archives are there. I’m going to propose it first thing Monday.’

‘Good idea. But I’d lose the paragraph on the free tampons. A thoughtful gesture, but a bit of a flag that you’re grasping at straws.’

‘Ya think?’

‘Truly, good work, Girl. I’m impressed.’ Do not kiss her, do not kiss her, do not. ‘But you forgot to spell-check it.’

‘Julia, I can’t thank you enough.’

‘May I ask?’ She puts the tip of her frames to her lips. ‘Who’ll be making the final decision on this funding?’

‘Guy, and the Board, I assume.’

‘I see. And what’s the time frame?’

‘I’m not entirely sure, but soon, I would think.’

She pats the pages in her lap. ‘Well, let me just read through this once more.’

‘Thank you so much.’ I stand, picking our empty plates off the coffee table and bringing them into the kitchen. ‘Shall I just put them in the dishwasher?’ I call out.

‘If you wouldn’t mind.’

I happily rinse the bone china and slide it carefully into the machine. Bathed in gratitude and trying to remember the last time someone took more than two minutes to appraise my work, I step back out. ‘Julia, about your houseguest —’

‘Moldova?’

‘Yes, maybe I can help her. I could talk to Guy about getting her a job at My Company. I’m sure he’d like to help, especially if she’s facing deportation. He’s all about the people at the bottom of the food chain, the people who traditionally get, um, screwed, when times are hard.’

‘Anything you can do to help.’ She smiles.

‘Can I use your powder room?’

‘At the end of the hall off the foyer.’

I walk back along the hallway, slowing where a soft triangle of light falls onto the cream carpet. I peek in the open door to see a sleeping teenager curled tightly on the daybed, every lamp in the room ablaze. Her overprocessed blonde ponytail splayed beside her, she clenches one of the many throw pillows with her chipped red nails. I tiptoe past the door into the bathroom. After washing up, I step back into the hall, pausing to peer at a cluster of framed photographs, one of a young Julia wearing Eighties linebacker shoulder pads, accepting an award, a room of dark-suited men applauding—

‘YOU!!’ I jump, startled by Moldova standing inches away. ‘You wake me! With your … bathroom! And your … flush!’ She points her finger before slamming the door. ‘YOU! GO!’

7. Walking the Talk

With a grab, a grunt, and a nod, Guy retreats with my pitch into his dawn-filled office Monday morning. And I hear nothing. Nada. But embracing Julia’s ‘pretty-damn-competent’ endorsement, I dive into a report on my top ten recommendations for funding recipients and don’t lift my head until three days later, when Guy suddenly waves me into his office as he paces a semi-circle around his desk chair,
uh-huh
-ing into the phone clamped to his shoulder. I return a take-your-time wave, sitting to give my report a last once-over while I wait.

‘I’m confident it’s the right move, Rex. She’s ready and willing.’ Guy spins his chair like a top, smiling to himself. ‘I’m on it. Great.’ He tosses the receiver back into its cradle. ‘So, how’s it going,’ he states more than asks as he drops into his seat.

‘Terrific! It’s been a very productive week. Writing that pitch was really helpful.’

‘Good.’ He rubs his stubble. I recognize yesterday’s coffee-spotted Oxford. ‘That’s great to hear, Girl.’

‘Was it well received by the Board?’ I find myself leaning forward, legs crossed at the ankles. ‘Did they give you any feedback for me?’

‘Sure. Yeah, they loved it.’

‘Oh good, because it got me thinking about steps MC
can take to really heighten its attractiveness for the
Ms.
readership. The addition of the National Cancer Institute link for breast cancer, for example. This’ll give MC an edge on health info. I think if we add the same kind of links for a few of the more serious issues to the information menu, perhaps lupus or rheumatoid arthritis, auto-immune disorders that primarily affect women—’

‘Whoa.’ He holds up a hand.

‘Sorry, I’m getting a little ahead of myself. They’re all outlined in my email so we can talk about them, uh, when you’re ready. Moving on! So, the first focus group is tomorrow night with Gender Studies majors at NYU.’

‘Focus groups?’

‘Yes, I outlined it all in Tuesday’s email. So I can get first-hand understanding of the feminist MC user, really educate myself as MC makes this transition viable.’

He glowers, the circles beneath his eyes deepening.

‘But, of course, I’m open if there’re other sources you’d prefer I—’

‘The transition
is
viable. We don’t need tests. Who signed off on this?’ My stomach constricts as he puffs. ‘Did you run this past me?’

‘I sent you emails—’

‘This is fucking viable and I don’t need a bunch of … gender cranks to tell me that.’

I steady myself. ‘Guy, of course it’s viable,’ and aim for a calm expression. ‘But this is a predominantly male office.’ His eyes widen as if I’ve just called him on a loud
fart. ‘Which is
good!
It’s good. Fine with me. I love it … but this pitch is extremely important to you and I thought it only prudent to do a test run on, well, on young feminists who’re familiar with your site, to get you some hard feedback—’

‘Soundbites.’ He points at me like Uncle Sam. ‘I love it.
That
I can use – endorsements. Good, Girl, great.’

‘That would be helpful?’ I ask, trying to nail down what the hell he wants. ‘Soundbites for Gloria?’

‘Yeah, uh, Gloria.’ Guy slouches further down, lifting up his loosened tie and centering it on his chest.

‘If you let me know when you’re meeting with her, I can compile some speaking points to go along with the written presentation.’

‘Speaking points. Fantastic. Soundbites, though, that’s genius.’ He reaches out for an open Coke on his desk, shakes it, and tosses the empty can towards the garbage, missing.

‘So when are you meeting with her?’

‘Who?’

‘Gloria.’

‘Right, right.’ He blows his cheeks out. ‘Next week sometime.’ He lifts his loafer up to his knee and wipes away an offending scuff.

‘Great! So, to the business at hand, I’ve completed an analysis of the organizations who attended the conference and earmarked the ten I think would most benefit from our support.’ I reach it out to him with pride. ‘I look forward to hearing your—’

‘Nope,’ he says firmly, lifting his hands in mock defense
before sliding them behind his head, leaving me holding the unclaimed report between us. ‘This is your baby,’ he yawns.

I drop the forty-plus pages back into my lap.

‘Okay, then I’ll just give you a brief summary of the organizations I’ve recommended.’ Please?

‘Girl, seriously. I just –’ Guy slaps both hands down on his desk, pushing himself up to stand – ‘don’t care. It’s your thing. Pick one.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Pick one. You’ve compiled all this shit. You know what there is to know. Pick one.’

‘I’m sorry, you want me to—’

‘Pick one! You want to be a big roller, you gotta go from your gut. What does your gut say?’

‘Well …’ I get a flash of a Dickensian sea of soot-smeared faces, hands stretching towards me.

‘I don’t have all morning. If you’d rather, I can have Stan pick one—’

‘Magdalene.’

‘Magdalene?’

‘Magdalene,’ I sputter without conviction.

‘What do they do, rehab hookers?’ he asks, tapping it into his BlackBerry.

‘They help young women caught up in international human trafficking.’

‘Great, I trust you.’ He yawns again, circling around to walk me to the door.

‘The other option would be to spread out the donation in smaller allotments. That way you could help more than
one cause,’ I say, feeling like Fagin kicking nine of the ten urchins away from my ankles.

‘Nope. One is plenty. That’s it, Girl. I don’t want to spend any more time on this.’

‘So what exactly is the time frame for this donation?’

‘We’re workin’ on that,’ he smiles, his eyes watering. ‘But you keep a lid on it.’

‘Okay. Um, also, Guy, the woman I emailed you about, Moldova, any more thought on hiring her for the admin staff?’ I ask his broad back as he pulls his shirt over his head and walks into his washroom.

I hear the tap running.

‘What did she do again, clean houses on Long Island?’ he calls out.

‘Right! Yes, she was on Long Island, but she was … kidnapped and forced into prostitution. She was in a house, though. So, what do you think? She’s really … passionate. And she’s desperate to find legitimate work. It’s a great opportunity to put our money where our mouth is.’

I hear his electric razor turn on. ‘I’m giving you a million dollars I barely have, Girl,’ he yells over the buzz.

‘She could just answer the phones.’ I walk hopefully towards the bathroom. ‘I’m sure she’d take minimum wage.’

Guy’s half-shaven face re-emerges, his nose nearly bumping into mine. ‘No, and I don’t want to have this conversation again. It makes you sound … dissatisfied.’ He clicks off the vibrating shaver. ‘Are you? … Dissatisfied?’

‘No.’ I step back, forcing a beaming smile of satisfied from every pore. ‘No, not at all.’

‘Good.’ He slides the door shut with his foot.

The following afternoon I chug over to collect Stacey at her desk, lugging shopping bags filled with focus group questionnaires. ‘Ready to roll?’