2. Malcolm
MALCOLM
P rofessional. Stay professional. Act like you’ve got no idea who he is because it’s not like he looks anything like someone you’d ever associate with anyway.
I’m sitting next to a butch lady named Bailey who smells like she bathed in coffee grounds, which puts me out of Ryan’s direct line of sight.
If he looks at me, I’ll notice, and I’ll shut it down right then and there.
For the purposes of getting through the next three months and landing a job at this firm, I don’t fucking know him. Never have, don’t plan to.
This is fucking unbelievable. The horoscope Kaylin read to me this morning over FaceTime should have been my first clue to brace myself for something like this.
It sounded like all the bad ones do—the position of the planets would be clouding a “certain issue”, and I might have to make “difficult decisions.” I told her I didn’t need that kind of negativity, and she argued that it wasn’t bad—like how getting the Death card in a tarot reading is supposedly a good thing?
I was already nervous enough about today. I felt better when I ran into Lisette in the elevator—she and I were in grad school together. I also know Nathan. We played basketball in an informal summer league I joined last year before quitting after two weeks.
Ryan is a major blindside, though. The last time I saw him, he looked like he was preparing for a long career ringing up groceries at a Trader Joe’s—not like a Tom Ford model at one of the most prestigious internships in California.
I’m not thinking about it. As far as I’m concerned, he’s not here.
When the roundtable introductions begin, I’m less listening to anyone else, more practicing my own in my head.
I’m Malcolm Walsh. I went to Stanford where I also got my MBA.
I want to get rich by making other people richer.
No, not that—I’m here to learn from the best and build a career that’s not boring—no— a career that challenges me .
Ryan’s melodious tenor of a voice knocks my thoughts clean off the rails.
“I’m Ryan Vale. I’m twenty-four. I grew up around here, but I went to school at Portland State.
I helped run a club where I taught other students to build out their savings accounts by investing in stocks, 401K style.
Mixed risk, mixed yield. Talked a bunch of people out of crypto.
I like the idea of making wealth possible for anybody no matter what their income or education is. ”
I find my mouth hanging open slightly, and I close it immediately.
As he spoke, memories surged. The way my dad and his mom had their worst fights about money, and the look of terror when I told my father I wanted to go to Stanford.
And further back to the minimalist birthday parties with homemade cakes, totally unlike the parties the other kids would have at indoor play areas with bowling and rock climbing and laser tag—all-you-could-eat pizza and huge, pretty cakes.
Our parents weren’t broke or anything—there was always food on the table, and the lights only went out during storms, but my dad’s an economics teacher, and his mom’s a nurse, so we weren’t rolling in it either.
Georgie responds to Ryan’s introduction. “You’ll enjoy this summer then. Nathan?”
I stare at my former stepbrother while he’s looking down at his notebook.
I can’t get over how different he looks from three Christmases ago.
That dude was tatted, shaggy, skinny, and reeked of weed.
He looked exactly like what anyone would picture when they hear someone goes to Portland State.
Today, his nearly black hair is in a slick, expensive cut styled away from his face.
All his tattoos are covered by his perfectly cut suit, and he looks almost—normal.
He’s not skinny anymore, either. He’s not bulked up like my friend Jake who looks ridiculous, but Ryan’s filled out his six-foot frame like his weight finally caught up to his height.
He glances up, and the flash of his dark hazel eyes startles me into looking quickly away, even though he isn’t looking at me.
Given the fact that he didn’t mention me in his intro, I’m gonna take that as permission to proceed as if he and I are total strangers and didn’t share parents for more than a decade.
Nathan makes a joke that has everyone but me and Ryan laughing. Too late, I add my laugh, too, but it comes out sounding awkward and fake. I need to sharpen up.
My intro goes about how I planned. I manage to only “um” once, and I don’t sound like a totally mediocre white guy, although I don’t think Bailey is convinced.
I can feel her judgmental side-eye as much as I would be able to feel if she suddenly leaned over and started licking my face.
I want to tell her she’s not my type either, but I know how well that would go over at this firm.
I’ve lived in the Bay Area my whole life, and I get how people are around here.
You can’t go anywhere without seeing a Pride flag, same sex couples, or gender nonbinary folx .
My first roommate at Stanford was gay, and he had more than a thing or two to say to me Freshman year about my supposed “homophobia,” which mostly consisted of my sneering at his guests before I left the room.
It’s not like I ever said anything. I just didn’t need to see that shit.
And I wouldn’t call myself homophobic in general—my homophobia is extremely specific—but I did learn what triggers people of that particular persuasion, so I learned to school my expression and use my words more judiciously, which is a useful skill to have in a place like San Francisco where being a cis-straight-white man puts me in a minority.
Even at this table, I’m outnumbered. Three women, two gay guys—Ryan and Miguel, a they/them, and Nathan, the Black dude. At least he’s straight. I think.
I’m all for diversity in the workplace, but my life outside school and work is likely something this lady Bailey would roll her eyes at.
I’ve had the same girlfriend since high school, and all our friends are straight couples—all white.
My gym is kinda gay, but there are plenty of women there, too.
I believe in live and let live, but that shit goes both ways.
I don’t need people questioning my identity or my sex life either.
We take a ten minute break before one of the partners is set to come greet us and answer questions. I immediately go to the bathroom to check my hair, which is fine and will stay fine if I manage to keep from touching it.
When I get back to the conference room, it looks like Ryan hasn’t moved except to scoot his chair back from the table to give himself room to look up at Miguel who’s standing and leaning back on the conference table, smiling down at him and speaking with elaborate hand gestures.
When Miguel hands Ryan his phone, it looks very much like Ryan puts his number in it.
It could be an intern thing—we’ll probably all have each other in a group text by the end of the week.
Or it could be that gay dudes just move that fast .
I fight the sneer that wants to twist my mouth.
It’s none of my business. Stay professional.
I clear my throat, and Ryan’s shoulders stiffen, but he doesn’t turn. Miguel smiles brightly at me. “I was just telling Ryan that I have a friend who did this internship six years ago—apparently there’s a big team project involved.”
Awesome. I love team projects. Kidding. I fucking hate them. “What was the project?” I ask.
“They had to take on a failing business in the neighborhood and make it profitable, but they said the project changes every year.”
“Sounds fun,” I say, in terms of resurrecting a business. I love a good project. Just not teams. I’ve always been told I’m not a team player, hence leaving the basketball league after only a couple of weeks. But I also hate losing.
Georgie returns, accompanied by one of the partners, Jonathan Baker.
He’s a good-looking white dude in his forties with a diamond earring and a few stray silver hairs in his otherwise thick, dark hair and beard.
His wire-rimmed glasses make him look intelligent and approachable, but he’s one of the richest men in this city, and he’s got the future of everyone in this room in his hands.
He pulls up a seat next to Georgie’s at the head of the table and introduces himself.
“I’m excited for this group,” he says. “We’re expecting great things.
You’ll each be paired with either one of our junior advisors or analysts.
They’ll work with you one-on-one to show you the ropes and expand your knowledge of the field.
At the end of this meeting, Georgie will take you around the office, and you’ll meet your summer mentors. Sound good?”
We all murmur that it does. But I hear the leading edge in the question, like he’s not finished with us yet .
“In addition, we like out of the box thinkers here. When an intern impresses us, we’re more likely than not to offer them a job at the end of summer, provided we have positions available. We like to give you opportunities to distinguish yourselves, which is where the summer project comes in.”
I tense internally, the shitty horoscope sounding more like a curse than one of Kaylin’s tired daily rituals.
Jonathan continues. “The only rule in this summer’s challenge is there are no rules.”
In an overly dramatic pause, he lets his words sink in, and I get the sense we’re all collectively holding our breaths.
“I’m giving you each one hundred dollars. Whoever turns that hundred dollars into the most money by the end of the summer wins. I want to see your work at the end. If you lose your money in a week, you’re out, but I expect you’ll invest wisely.”
“They have to be investments?” Bailey asks with a slightly raised hand.
“What was the first rule, Bailey?” Jonathan responds.
“No rules,” she says.
“Any other questions?”