CHAPTER 1
Sunlight pours through the slats in the blinds, forming narrow bars of light. I blink once, clearing the sleep from my eyes. Nerves don’t slither through my body the way they had yesterday. Today is different. Butterflies don’t erupt in my stomach and threaten to fly out my nose. My tongue isn’t dry and tangled. There is no frantic pounding in my chest. Not today. A slow grin spreads across my face as I stretch. Today is a means to an end.
After showering quickly, I slap on the outfit I selected the night before. Without glancing in the mirror, I head into the kitchen. The apartment is quiet. It’s Saturday and Emma is still asleep. At least I thought she was.
“Anna, what the hell are you wearing?” she asks groggily. My roommate is in the hallway, halfway into the bathroom. She stops and stares at me. A tattered robe clings to her narrow figure. Black hair is frizzed around her face, completely flat on one side. In a few hours, she’ll look like a model. It’s been like that since we started college. Emma is the hot one, and I’m “the hot girl’s friend.” Emma blinks several times, like her big blue eyes are broken. “Don’t you have an interview?”
I nod, grabbing an apple from the kitchen counter. As I sling my bag over my shoulder, I grab my keys and head toward the door, “All part of the plan.”
She doesn’t have time to respond before I’m out the front door, which is good because I would have lost my nerve. The entire time I’ve known Emma she has never let me escape unquestioned. I know she’ll pelt me with questions as soon as I get home. It makes sense that she’s a mass communication major. When she gets a job as a reporter, I know she’ll be good at it. Questioning people is in her DNA, and my outfit was sure to raise questions.
Sophia mentioned that she worked with Cole Stevens at one point and divulged some pet-peeves of his that will promptly end my interview. After the third interview is complete, only then can I get hired. University requirements.
I run down the stairs toward the street. Our apartment is a fourth floor walk-up, standard shoe-box-sized so that no one in their right mind would want to stay any longer than necessary. Emma and I rented it two years ago when we started graduate school.
Breakfast on the go isn’t a part of my ideal morning. Actually, getting up at the crack of dawn on a Saturday isn’t even sane, but this is the time slot I needed, the one where the interviewer is so tired that she needs to prop her head up with coffee mugs. Besides, who puts business meetings on Saturday morning at 7:00am? That makes this the worst interview time possible.
It’s just a formality, Anna, I tell myself. The past week has made me a jittery mess. The internship matters. The placements can mean getting a good job after college, and I need to be the best in my field to get anywhere in this field. Choosing the arts was insane enough, but being a photographer was even crazier. Everyone and their dog own a camera and claim to be awesome. Botching the internships could mean I’ll have to be some schlep trying to find work on Craig’s List, and I have sworn that won’t be me. Photography is art and I’m an artist.
Ambition got me this far. The rest of was guts.
My position with Sottero is cinched. I just have to finish this last task before I can take it. I stare straight ahead as I round the corner and descend underground to the subway. The air smells like burnt pretzels and blows my hair gently. I breathe deeply, relaxed—confident. When I went to my interview with Sophia Sottero, I was a mess. My palms were sweaty and I could barely stand still as the train clunked along the tracks. The same scenario occurred for my interview with Couture. Both are outstanding studios run by women that I admire. I want the internship with Sottero so badly. Couture is my fallback, and Le Femme—I can’t imagine the person who wants an internship at Le Femme. Probably some perv-with-a-camera like the infamous owner, Cole Stevens. Now, that isn’t totally accurate. The man has to have some talent to shoot high-end lingerie on nearly naked models. One of those barely-there panties costs more than my grocery bill. It isn’t my thing, but like I said—three is the magic number and this is my third interview—the one I don’t care about.
Glancing around, I notice that the subway is relatively empty, which is normal for New York on a Saturday morning. That’s the only bonus to the early interview time—I didn’t have to get up at 5:00am. I switch trains a few times and walk up into the sunlight. Structures of glass and steel tower above my head, but I don’t look up. New Yorkers never look up.
Checking my watch, I hasten my pace. Although I don’t want this job, the University still checks to make sure I apply myself, which means at least showing up on time. I find the building and exit the elevator onto the seventieth floor. A silver plaque hangs on a dark door: LE FEMME STUDIOS.