Four
Everyone gathers in the conference room after the break. The Manicotti opens a cabinet mounted on the wall to reveal a whiteboard. He grabs a marker and slashes out “The Rules” in black letters, then underlines it three times.
“Number one,” he says, writing quickly. “No cheating.” He glances over his shoulder. “That means no stealing other people’s ideas, no copying ideas that are already out there. Got it?”
Everyone nods. Ashley opens a grown-up portfolio and takes notes. I figure I should do the same, so I grab my Hello Kitty notebook from my messenger bag and start scribbling.
Note to self: buy a fancy leather notebook so I don’t look like a dork.
Mr. Mantoni resumes his hyperactive scribbling.
2. Be on time! 8:30-5:00, Monday - Friday. One hour for lunch.
3. Professional attire. Jeans okay on Friday, no torn ones.
He glances over his shoulder at Trish, who folds her arms. She isn’t taking notes. Neither is Jason—or at least he isn’t until he leans over to Ashley and asks to borrow a piece of paper. And a pen. I scribble in my notebook. Note: Jason, while adorable, is not very prepared. Get him supplies from the supply room. That’s something I should do as the assistant, right?
Across the table from me, Elijah and Carlos have unearthed laptops from backpacks and are typing quickly. I study Carlos’s laptop, which is covered in stickers for local bands, breweries, and a few cryptic acronyms I don’t recognize. He must feel me staring because he glances up. Embarrassed, I refocus on the Manicotti, who’s finished numbers four and five.
4. Deadlines must be met. NO excuses!
5. Confidentiality: You may learn of new business ventures or potential clients. These are not to be shared outside these doors!!
Mr. Mantoni is quite the fan of the exclamation point. My English teachers don’t allow them, so I’m surprised to see them sprouting like rabbits all over the whiteboard.
Trish lets out a long, bored sigh, and Mr. Mantoni’s shoulders bunch. Elijah slants her an amused look and she squirms in her chair. Note: Does Trish like Elijah?
Hello Kitty is going to fill up fast at this rate.
The Manicotti spins around and points at me. “You getting all this, Laurel?”
“Y-yes.” I try to look responsible, like I’m taking important notes, not gossipy ones.
“Good. You’ll be the first line of defense.” He studies everyone from behind his invisible glasses. “Laurel will report any rule violations directly to me.”
Omigod. Everyone side-eyes me suspiciously, even Jason. This can’t be happening. I’m supposed to be an assistant, not a mole. The Manicotti has just destroyed any chance I had at making friends. Or anything more than friends.
I sneak another glance at Jason, who’s watching Ashley. They share a look that isn’t hard to decipher: basically, I’m the devil. I drop my gaze and draw a spiral design in my notebook, or maybe it’s a whirlpool, since I can see my myself being pulled under, hands flailing for help.
Carlos clears his throat and raises a hand. Mr. Mantoni nods his permission to speak.
“What if one of us notices, uh, violations? Do we let Laurel know? Or you?”
Holy crapoli. No no no!! I want to yell, with all of the Manicotti’s exclamation points.
“Hmm, good question, Mr. Rubio. How about you start by letting Laurel know.”
“Will do,” Carlos says, shooting me a sly grin. I pick up my pen. Note: Carlos is trouble. Hot trouble, yes, but trouble nonetheless. I raise my hand.
“Yes, Laurel?”
“Mr. Mantoni, I…well, I don’t think this is a good idea. I thought I was supposed to help everyone. Not, um, spy on them.” I hate how wobbly my voice is, but I have to do damage control and stop this tattletale nonsense.
Also, I really need to talk to my dad about all of this because it’s too harsh, even for Dad Vader.
Mr. Mantoni glowers, looking a lot like his daughter. “Laurel, we will discuss this later. For now, everyone do as I say.”
I duck my head and draw a face with Princess Leia hair rolls and Xs for eyes because that’s me: sentenced to death and it’s not even lunchtime yet.
7. Winner takes all.
“At the end of your internship,” Mr. Mantoni says, pointing at the whiteboard, “you’ll each do a presentation on your project. Key staff will vote and the winner, as you know, earns one hundred thousand dollars. It’s an incredibly generous opportunity that will change the course of one intern’s life.”
My Spidey senses tingle. Is it wise to pit them against each other? I glance at Trish and she’s staring right at me like she’s read my mind. She shakes her head slowly, like she’s answering my unspoken question. Either that or she’s sending me a “don’t screw with me” message.
I sneak a peek at Carlos. If I had to vote today, I’d vote for him. He was so passionate when he spoke, and he did so much research and he—he— My brain shuts off as he raises his head and meets my gaze, one corner of his delicious mouth quirking up.
Delicious? What is wrong with me?
I cannot fall headfirst into another stupid crush. Dad will kill me if I waste my summer swooning instead of working, especially after the pressure I put on him to hire me. Plus, this scholarship is hugely important. I need to focus on that.
Ashley raises her hand. “Can you please explain how the voting will work? And how we can best position ourselves to win?”
I study her closely. She wouldn’t be here if she didn’t need the scholarship, even though she dresses and acts like the some of the richest girls at my school. I doodle a prom queen sash and a crown in my notebook, wondering what her story is.
“Are you sure you’re getting all this, Laurel?” Mr. Mantoni prods. He’s scribbled a matrix on the whiteboard, with columns labeled Effort, Creativity, and Leadership. “This is what you’ll be judged on.” He frowns pointedly at my hand, which isn’t taking notes.
“Got it.” I grab my phone and snap a picture of the whiteboard.
He sighs, probably at the laziness of my generation taking photos instead of notes. “All right,” he says, “I assume you’re all wondering who will cast the deciding votes for the scholarship.”
I stop breathing. Please God, don’t let him mention me.
He clears his throat and continues. “Just like in real life, we’re going to shake it up. You’ll be observed all summer, by myself, Mr. Kristoff, and other staff members.” He shoots me a knowing glance, but I quickly look away, hoping no one notices.
The interns all exhibit varying degrees of anxiety—even Trish, which surprises me.
“This is going to be a great summer.” Mr. Mantoni’s lips spread into what might be a smile. “I know I just scared you with all the tough stuff, but it’s important we set the tone for success. Everyone walks away with experience for your résumé, even if you don’t win the grand prize.”
Too little, too late, Manicotti, I scribble in my notebook. Then I add an exclamation point, since they’re encouraged here in the Empire.
“All right, interns, time to move to your work space. Grab your stuff and follow me.” Mr. Mantoni brushes his hands like he’s been using chalk instead of a dry-erase marker.
We traipse out of the conference room and follow him to the reception area. There’s a lot more activity in the office now. A few people nod and smile at me as we pass them like dancers in a conga line. We take the curving steel staircase from the lobby up to the second floor, then Mr. Mantoni leads us down another long hallway to a doorway opening to a narrow, steep flight of steps. This part of the building feels original, not retrofitted like the rest.
“The third floor is where we have room for expansion,” he calls over his shoulder as our footfalls echo in the stairwell. “Don’t think you’ll be unsupervised. We’ve got a few of our finance department employees up here, too, and they’ll be keeping an eye on you.”
That probably makes Elijah happy. I glance over my shoulder to smile at him but instead it’s Jason who’s right behind me. Distracted, I stumble on the steps and he reaches out to grab my arm, sending a few tingles from my elbow to my chest.
“Watch your step, Laura.”
The tingles evaporate. “Laurel. My name is Laurel.” Looming behind Jason, Carlos rolls his Hershey’s Kiss eyes.
“Right. Sorry.” Jason brushes past me to catch up to Mr. Mantoni.
Mr. Mantoni opens the door and we emerge into a huge open space full of exposed ductwork, glass, and metal everywhere I turn.
“Sweet.” Carlos whistles next to me, clearly captivated by the setting. I can see why; we have a great view, with floor-to-ceiling windows facing the Rocky Mountains, a dusting of snow visible on the highest peaks from a late spring snowstorm.
Ashley pushes past us, tossing me a blinding smile. Her perfume fills my nose. “Can we take any empty desk?” she asks, heading toward the windows.
“Winner takes all,” Carlos says softly, amusement threading his voice. “Gotta give her props for staking her claim.”
“I guess.” I tighten my grip on my messenger bag. Snagging the best spot isn’t my style. I steal another peek at Carlos, whose eyes are trained on the supermodel. Guys are so predictable.
“What are you waiting for?” Mr. Mantoni’s voice echoes in the room. “Stake your claim.”
“Ha.” I smirk at Carlos. “He stole your line.”
“Or maybe I’m a mind reader.”
“That’s a mind I wouldn’t want to read.”
His laughter curls around me, sending a not-unpleasant shiver up my spine.
“Don’t you want to grab a desk by the window?” I need him out of my personal space. Now.
“I’ll let everyone else choose first.” His eyes meet mine and I swallow. He’s…intense is the only word that fits.
“Why?”
He shakes his head. “Sorry, little spy. Can’t tell you my secrets.”
Embarrassed, I turn away, but not fast enough.
“Hey”—his voice softens—“I’m kidding.”
“Yeah, right,” I mutter. “You’re just the only one willing to say what everyone else is thinking.”
I step away from him, heading to a far corner of the room, selecting a desk off by itself. My sliver of a view includes part of Coors Field, so I can’t complain too much.
Everyone else chatters and laughs as they settle in at their desks, while the finance employees watch, bemused. I’m glad I’ve chosen an isolated desk so I don’t have to listen to the bantering and flirting, because I know that’s what this is going to turn into, once everyone gets past the rules freak-out.
Carlos chooses a desk halfway between the other interns and me. This must be part of his secret strategy. Weird.
“All right.” Mr. Mantoni claps his hands together and everyone goes quiet. “Go ahead and get settled, then it’s time for lunch. I expect you all back in the office at thirteen hundred hours.”
Military time? Great. I scowl out the window. I’m going to find Dad, so we can have lunch together. We need to discuss my role and the Manicotti’s rules. I wait until everyone else has fled before I leave the room. No one wants a spy trailing their every move.
…
Ms. Romero’s desk is located in Dad’s outer office like a protective sentry, but she’s not there. I knock on Dad’s closed door. Muffled voices rise, giving me pause, but this is urgent. The door swings open and Dad activates Vader mode when he sees me.
“Laurel? What is it?”
I almost lose my nerve.
“I, uh, well…I thought maybe we could have lunch together?” I whisper because now I’m embarrassed, like a little kid clinging to her parent’s leg on the first day of kindergarten.
Dad’s mouth tightens and annoyance flickers in his eyes. Crud.
“I have a meeting for the next couple of hours. Maybe another day this week.”
I swallow and nod, officially rebuffed. I turn away, but his voice stops me.
“Is everything okay, honey?”
Honey? What happened to Vader? I shrug and force a smile. “Everything is fine. I’ll see you later.” He closes the door, still frowning.
“Laurel?”
Ms. Romero has returned, carrying a large bag from Smiling Moose Deli.
“Hi. I was just…I thought maybe Dad and I could have lunch, but he has a meeting.”
She sets the bag on the credenza next to a multi-colored vase full of fresh flowers. It’s the only spot of color in the office.
“He’s got a working lunch meeting. Want to eat with me? There’s plenty here; I always order extra.”
I hesitate, then figure why not? It’s not like the interns asked me to join them, and I don’t feel like eating alone.
“Sure. Can I help you set up?”
“That’d be great. Grab some drinks from the kitchen and a serving tray.”
We prepare lunch quickly. “You can take it in,” Ms. Romero says when the tray is ready.
“Are you sure? I already interrupted him once.” I don’t want to rattle Dad Vader’s cage.
“It’s not an interruption when you have food.” She smiles encouragingly.
This time when Dad opens the door, his eyes light up, especially when he spots the cookies. “Just put it on the conference table, Laurel.”
Everyone thanks me as they reach for food. I wave at my dad as I leave and right before I close the door, I spot the hint of a Vader smile.
“Sit down, honey.” Ms. Romero has prepared two plates for us at a small corner table.
Two “honeys” in fifteen minutes. Trish would be appalled, but honestly it feels good right now. I’m reeling from the crazy morning, and my feelings are sort of hurt that none of the interns asked me to join them for lunch. But who wants to hang out with the boss’s daughter who’s supposed to report rule violations?
“So, how was the morning?” Ms. Romero pauses between bites of sandwich.
I release a defeated sigh; I can’t help it. Last summer when I worked here, she was nicer to me than anyone else, and I know my mom thinks she’s awesome, so I decide to confide in her.
“Weird,” I say. “Really weird.”
Her forehead wrinkles with concern. “What happened?”
“It’s…a lot of stuff. Mr. Mantoni is…super intense. And he has all these crazy rules for the interns. He wants me to report back to him whenever they break a rule or do something wrong.” I take a huge bite of ham and cheese to shut myself up.
Ms. Romero taps her manicured fingers on the table. “I know Mr. Mantoni can be intense, as you said,” she says carefully. “He’s very devoted to your father and this is the first time we’ve sponsored this program. The scholarship is a big deal; it’s gotten a lot of press. I’m sure he doesn’t want anything to go wrong.”
Maybe so, but Mr. Mantoni sure isn’t giving us the warm-and-fuzzy, go-team-go vibe.
“Do you want me to talk to your dad about it?”
I shake my head. “No, I will.” I need to tell him firsthand about the bizarre morning.
We finish eating, changing the subject to talk about my mom’s new clothing line, why my sister chose to stay in San Diego for the summer, and what colleges I’m thinking of attending.
I glance at my phone and realize it’s 12:55. “I’ve gotta go.” I jump up. “Mr. Mantoni will kill me if I’m late coming back from lunch.”
“You go on; I’ll clean up.” She waves me away and I practically sprint down the hallway, wondering if it’s faster to take the elevator or the two flights of stairs. I decide on the elevator.
“Come on, come on,” I mutter as I press the button. I glance toward Miss Emmaline, who watches me suspiciously. I wave and smile, but she doesn’t even blink.
The elevator opens, and I rush in, coming face-to-face with Carlos. I try to act nonchalant. “Where’d you come from?”
“Garage level.” He takes a drink from a large soda cup, eyeing me over the straw as the doors close. The elevator is suddenly very small. And very warm.
“Where’s everyone else? I thought you all went to lunch together.”
“Nope.” He doesn’t say anything else. I’m grateful it’s a short ride to the third floor.
The elevator stops with a lurching thud, then spits us out like human hairballs. We head into the giant room I’ve decided to call the sky box. Everyone else is already there, including Mr. Mantoni, who glances at his watch, then pins Carlos and me with a suspicious squint.
“Cutting it close.” He crosses the room and hands us each a glossy booklet. “Last year’s annual report.” He motions for everyone to gather around him, so we do.
“All right, interns.” The Manicotti crosses his beefy arms over his barrel chest. “Study this report, thinking about your areas of interest. We’ll reconvene at three o’clock in the room where we met this morning.” He glances at me. “Laurel, put another snack tray together for the meeting.”
My gaze slides to Trish. I expect to see her gloating, but she looks as annoyed as I feel. Working women solidarity, maybe? I can’t figure her out.
No one moves until Mr. Mantoni claps his hands together. “What are you waiting for?” Everyone scatters to their desks, including me.
I’m so glad I have my earbuds. I plug them into my phone and resume listening to a sci-fi thriller starring Qa’hr, a kick-butt heroine who’s been kidnapped and is trying to figure out how to escape from the kidnapper’s spaceship. It feels oddly relatable, especially the part with the aliens howling outside her door like mutant werewolves.
The Emergent Enterprises Annual Report is full of graphs and charts and buzzwords. Scattered throughout are pictures from successful ad campaigns, including local restaurants I recognize from when we come downtown for plays at the Denver Center for Performing Arts. Mom insists on an annual subscription to the theater to up our cultural IQ points.
As I flip through the pages, I pay more attention to the drama playing out in my earbuds than the words on the pages, until I come to the last page, when I groan out loud. There’s a picture from last year’s employee summer picnic––a close-up shot of me with a unicorn painted on one cheek, a sparkly rainbow on the other. Mom used me as the model for the face-painting table for little kids. The caption reads, “A Kristoff team member gets into the spirit at the company picnic.”
Team member? Seriously? And why isn’t there an equally incriminating photo of my sister? Probably because she’s smarter than me and avoided being photographed. I glance up, wondering how many seconds of peace I have before everyone starts laughing at me.
Stupidly, I glance across the room at Carlos, who meets my gaze, his dangerous grin trained on me. He holds up his annual report and points to my photo, then gives me a thumbs-up. I roll my eyes, so he adjusts his thumb, pointing it down and frowning. I shake my head, embarrassed. He shrugs and moves his thumb so it’s in the sideways neutral position. He makes his expression blank and I can’t help but smile as I turn away, cheeks flaming.
A smattering of laughter breeches my earbuds, indicating everyone else has seen the incriminating photo. I open my notebook and make a note: Bring camera and yarn to work tomorrow. And knitting needles for self-defense. Knitting is one of my favorite stress busters; Mom taught me when I was young and over the years I’ve gotten pretty good at it. If I’m going to spend lunches by myself and generally be ignored by the interns, I might as well make something pretty.
And it won’t hurt to be armed with a sharp weapon, just in case.