Chapter Nineteen Lucy
Chapter Nineteen
Lucy
I always wear a variation of the same outfit to work: dress and a jacket, mid-heel pumps, hair up and off my face.
It’s my uniform. My armor. Since the pandemic, business casual has become the new normal, but after lockdown, I came back to work exactly how I’d dressed my last day in the office: ready.
I take my job seriously, and I want people to take me seriously.
I don’t want to be distracted by what I’m going to wear to the office on any given day.
I always know. Because it’s always the same.
My boss’s boss, Sharon, is coming toward me from her office. “Oh, Lucy, there you are. Thanks for that report you sent through. Can I talk to you about it?”
I might have been heading to the bathroom, but I’m sure I can hold it.
“Sure.” I don’t know why she wants to talk to me.
It was a straightforward report about the team of paralegals I manage, how many cases we’re working on, the WIP, amount billed.
It was a standard system report, but I added information about who’s working what case and what their rates are.
I follow Sharon into her office and take a seat in front of her desk.
I don’t have a notepad, but I pull out my cell from my jacket pocket.
I’m pretty strict about using my cell in the office.
I don’t even pick it up unless it’s an emergency.
When I swipe it open to get to my notes app, I notice a message each from my sister and Hunter.
My stomach roils, and I have to fight the urge to open the messages and find out why Hunter is in contact.
Hunter and I haven’t seen each other since we shared a cab back into the city from LaGuardia after the Martha’s Vineyard trip.
He carried my suitcase up the three flights of my Brooklyn walk-up, and we hugged each other goodbye like old friends.
For a few days, maybe even a few weeks, I wondered if he’d call or message.
I wondered if I should call or message him.
But he didn’t and neither did I. Every day it’s gotten a little easier to stop myself from reaching out.
“Did you want to add to the report?” I ask. “Most things I can get easily from the system.”
“No,” she says as she takes a seat behind her desk. She’s one of the more junior partners, so her office isn’t big, but it’s still an office, and she has a window. “The report was fine. I wanted to talk to you about something else.”
My heart sinks a little bit. I’m always getting pulled onto new projects. I’m seen as a safe pair of hands, and I like that, but it does mean that my workload can spiral a little.
“Did you ever think about being a lawyer?” she asks.
It’s the last thing I expected her to say. I’ve never been asked the question before. People just assume that if you’re a paralegal, you’re not clever enough to be a lawyer.
I swallow, trying to buy some time to think up a convincing answer. “I guess I did at some point,” I say.
“Because you’re smart. I brought up your education record. You got good grades in college.”
“Right,” I say.
“But you never considered law school?”
I smile, trying to keep it together. “I thought about it. But I already had a chunk of student loans, and the job market for law school graduates back then wasn’t great. I could get a paralegal job right away, and so . . . it didn’t happen.”
“I see that happen for a lot of women,” she says as if she’s talking in code. “I think it comes down to the fact that sometimes, women don’t believe in themselves like men do.”
The words hang in the air, waiting for a hook.
She doesn’t need to know about the conversations I had with my parents about law school.
She doesn’t need to know my mom told me it would be really expensive, and that most people don’t pass the bar, and most of the ones who do don’t get jobs and end up working in Starbucks.
Sharon doesn’t need to know how Mom suggested becoming a paralegal and “seeing how I felt about things in a couple of years.”
“Do you know about our program to mentor junior women in the firm so they become senior women in the firm?” she asks.
“I think maybe that’s a thing for the lawyers,” I say. “Not the paralegals.”
“Maybe,” she says. “Did you know that fifty-two percent of law school graduates joining our firm are women, yet only eleven percent of those lawyers become partners?”
“Well, I haven’t examined the statistics, but that sounds about right to me.” You don’t need to count heads to see the discrepancy in this and every other firm in New York City.
Sharon smiles. “Yes, well, we all see it, because we all live it. It takes statistics to convince some of the men of this firm that there’s a problem. Anyway, we’re trying to address the discrepancy in different ways. I’d like to mentor you, if that’s something you’d be interested in.”
“To help me . . . progress? Get a raise? That sort of thing?”
“Lucy, you’ve done really well at this firm. You’re clever and organized, and you use initiative. But I think you’re capable of more. Much more.”
My stomach fizzes with excitement. “Really?”
“Yes, really. I think you’ve been overlooked. I’m not sure why. But I thought we could work together to help you realize your full potential.”
A lump forms at the back of my throat. I can’t remember ever feeling so .
. . like anything but a number at work. That’s how it goes.
You’re paid a salary and you have to do a job.
Talk of potential and mentorship . . . I don’t remember ever having had this kind of conversation with anyone before.
“I would like that,” I manage to croak out.
“Obviously, I don’t want to push you onto a path you’re not comfortable with,” she says. “But my alma mater has an evening program where students can attend law school on a part-time basis. It does mean the whole thing takes longer, but you might want to investigate the program.”
“Oh, really? Where did you go to college?”
“Fordham.”
My eyes nearly pop out of my head. “Fordham? Well, there’s no way I’d ever get into a program at Fordham.”
“Why not?” she asks.
“Well, because . . . that’s an elite school, and—”
“I’ve seen your grades. I’ve seen your work. You’d need to sit for the LSATs, but don’t write yourself off. Don’t count yourself out before you’ve even tried.”
“Even if I did, in some magical fantasyland, manage to get into Fordham, I could never afford it. No offense, but my salary pays my living costs and not a lot else. Certainly not enough to be able to handle Fordham Law’s fees. Or even the repayment plan on those fees.”
I expect her to agree with me and accept that I’m not the right person to mentor. She’ll understand it would be a waste of time. But she doesn’t.
“Like I said, the firm has created this program to enable women to get to more senior positions. We have the financial means to do that. I’m not saying we’d be able to pay for the entire tuition, but depending on your LSAT score and the college you get into, we’d definitely consider paying a portion of it.
And, of course, you’d have a job here as a lawyer guaranteed when you graduated. ”
My jaw hits my knees. “You’d give me a scholarship or something?”
“It depends on the circumstances—as I said, your LSAT and the program you get into would be factors—but we’d consider it. I would advocate for you. And obviously I could help you source other financial aid if I can. I know a lot of people in this city.”
It feels like there must be a huge catch. Maybe she’s mistaken me for someone else. Maybe my file has been mixed up with one of the other paralegals. “And you know that I went to U-Mass?” I ask, just in case she’s confused me with someone else.
“I do. My husband went there. Go Beacons!”
I raise my fists in the air like I’m gripping pom-poms.
“This has come out of the blue,” she says. “And you might have other priorities. But maybe it’s worth some consideration.”
“You’re right, it is a surprise. But I’d definitely like to look into it.”
“Why don’t you do that,” she says. “Then get some time in my diary in a couple of weeks, and we can talk about it. There’s no pressure, so if you decide that going to law school is not for you, that’s fine. I can still support you in your current role, if that’s what you want.”
“Thank you.” I kinda want to hug her. Just the idea that she’d look at me and think I was worth having a meeting with about my career is more than I could have ever hoped for.
The fact that she wants to mentor me and thinks I have potential?
I can’t remember anyone ever thinking I had potential.
At school, I was constantly compared with Katherine, and I always came up wanting.
With my parents it was the same. I’m sure at some point or other they tried to be supportive and encouraging, but I just can’t remember.
Sharon picking me out of my colleagues and saying I get to be the one feels slightly uncomfortable—like a gorgeous dress you find in the sale that’s slightly too small.
You know that if you just lost five pounds you’d look like a million bucks.
But right now, I want the dress, no matter the extra five pounds.
I’m excited-slash-terrified. But my heart is full of hope.