Missy’s a pageant coach and also volunteers for the Miss Colorado State Organization, so I expected nothing less than to be instructed on proper posture. However, her expression grows serious, and she puts her hands on both my shoulders. “Listen to me. You are smart, you are talented, and you are going to wipe the floor with your competitor’s butt.”
Missy’s heels make a satisfyingclick-click-clickagainst the tiled floors at work, and I can almost hear her affirmations in rhythm with her shoes.You are smart. Click. You are talented. Click. And you are going to wipe the floor with your competitor’s butt. Click. Click.
The magic of the shoes radiate through my feet and up my body, giving me the confidence boost I need. In just a few minutes, Iwillbecome the next full-time copywriter for Wonderman & Fleck.
I straighten my tan blazer just as a melodic voice calls my name, and I pivot to see Zia, the friendly receptionist who moved here several months ago, waving at me.
“Hey, Paige,” she says. “I have a message for you.”
I walk to her desk. Zia's bright-pink lips lift in a smile, and it’s very apparent why this company made her the first face you see when you walk into the office. She looks like Meghan Markle with a designer wardrobe to match, but her lipstick choices in particular always make my jaw drop. They’re bright and beautiful and probably have names like Coral Cabana or Fiesta del Fuego. They’re the kind of lipstick colors 99.9 percent of the human race can’t pull off, but she can. She’s that stunning. If she weren’t so nice, I would probably hate her.
“You look beautiful, Paige,” Zia says, smiling. “Are you presenting today?”
I wish.One day, I’ll be an advertising executive who gets to present to clients, but for now, I’m happy taking baby steps toward that goal. “No.” I lean in. “But I have the big promotional meeting.”
“Oh, that’s right. I think I heard Jay mention that.”
Jay.Jay is my competitor, and according to Missy, I should be wiping the floor with his butt. The confidence of earlier seems to dim momentarily as a new wave of nerves breaks through me. Jay is two years older than me and has been an intern with Wonderman & Fleck for an entire year.
My toes curl in the heels, and I channel the Lucky Louis mojo. Jay may be established, butmywriting is what’s been chosen for our last two campaigns. Mine. Not his.
I. Can. Do. This.
“Here it is.” Zia pulls one of six sticky notes off her desk. “Someone named Jordan called and said he’ll drop off your phone as soon as he can.” She squints at the writing. “And he also said, ‘Break a leg, Devons. StubHub and I are betting on you.’”
I smile, remembering his comment about Andy-Randy and my rhyming genius.
“Aw.” Zia puts a hand over her heart. “How sweet. Is he your boyfriend?”
Yes. Yes, he is.I want to say it, but of course I can’t. “No, just my friend.”
“Oh.” Zia looks a little too pleased by that statement.
I take the sticky note from her hand. Okay, I rip the sticky note from her hand. I have one half of the message, and Zia has the other. She arches a perfectly micro-bladed eyebrow at me.
“Sorry, I’m so nervous.” I laugh a little too much, trying to overcompensate for my weirdly savage moment. Then, I pivot on Missy’s heels and rush toward my meeting.
A long black table stretches across the glass-walled conference room. Jen, my cubicle neighbor, sits beside me, setting her Starbucks cup on the table. She’s the last person in before our boss, Vanessa, enters the room.
Vanessa’s six-foot-one frame is usually daunting enough, but today, she might as well be the Iron Giant with all the intimidation she’s packing. My fate rests squarely in those long fingers of hers.
When I look down at the table, I spy Jay, who smirks at me. He’s confident. Too confident. Suddenly, his confidence is playing chicken with mine. I’m about a second away from clicking my heels together three times and asking for a one-way ticket home.
Vanessa sits at the head of the table. “I’m not one for delaying news, so I’ll get right to the point,” she says.
The air in my lungs seems to vanish.Already? She’s announcing the promotion now?I sit up straighter and paste on a smile that says,I just want what’s best for the company.
“After deliberating between our candidates,” Vanessa says, “we’ve decided that Jay Mullins will be our newest copywriter and Angeline Jackson will become our new senior art director. Congratulations, Jay and Angeline.”
My co-workers begin a round of applause as my heart deflates.I didn’t get the job.An unpleasant heat courses through my veins.I didn’t get the job.The sting of rejection hits hard—I feel like I just got the wind knocked out of me.
Jen elbows me, and I immediately start clapping, but the intensity of my claps must be mirroring my pounding heartbeat because a few people glance in my direction. Their faces contain an array of pitying expressions.
I tone my claps down a notch and force a smile of congratulations at Jay, who’s about as puffed up as a male peacock at mating season.
Once the applause dies down, Vanessa wastes no time. Suddenly, we’re talking about new clients coming down the pipeline and the success of old campaigns. I keep eyeing the mini fridge in the corner. I could really use an ice-cold blast to the face right now—anything to stave off the heat from my cheeks and the burning behind my eyes. I grip the arms of my chair, my nails digging into the soft material. I cannot cry in front of my co-workers.I cannot cry.
I look up at the clock. It’s only ten minutes into the meeting, but I don’t think I can hold on much longer.
