Chapter 1 #2
“Only me,” I muttered, plopping down in the first available chair while trying to avoid the fashionistas’ critical gaze.
Unfortunately, the seat happened to be next to my boss, Tara Kinney, the temperamental and rebelliously unkempt head of the features department.
Even though she dared to wear fisherman sweaters, baggy blue jeans, and run-down loafers to the office, the fashion girls left her alone.
She rarely smiled or complimented others on their work, using her impressive vocabulary to rip apart anyone who trespassed into her features territory.
And her bite was as bad as her bark: Tara had once fired someone for using your instead of you’re.
Despite successfully pitching, writing, and editing more articles than anyone else in the department, I got the same treatment.
Luckily, Tara only had a second to glare at me disapprovingly before Lucinda swept in and took her place at the head of the table.
“Morning, dolls.”
“Morning, Lucinda,” everyone dutifully replied.
I scrunched down in my seat, hoping to blend in, but Lucinda’s eye briefly caught mine as she said, “I hope everyone got plenty of sleep last night.” The other editors looked around, not sure how to respond, but Lucinda went on before they had to come up with something.
“Well, good, dolls, because we have a ton of work to do today. First up, the theme of our January issue: I hate, hate, hate it.”
There was an audible gasp in the room.
“But Lucinda, the annual style horoscope package is one of our most successful, and we’ve been working on it for months,” ventured Margaret Lowell, StyleList’s executive editor and Lucinda’s number two.
I always figured Margaret (Muffy to her friends) put up with Lucinda because she truly didn’t have to.
Along with a duplex penthouse on Fifth Avenue, the Lowells owned mansions in Bridgehampton, Newport, and Nantucket.
Muffy preferred Chanel ballet flats and a wide headband in her blond hair and would turn the golf ball–sized diamond on her ring finger toward her palm when she left the office so she wouldn’t get robbed by a “thug” in the twenty-three seconds it took to walk from the door to her waiting town car.
“Don’t care, doll,” Lucinda responded, drumming her fingers on the glass table. “It’s yesterday’s news. We need something new, hot, sexy.”
Immediately, everyone started throwing their pitches into the ring, hoping to capture Lucinda’s elusive favor: “The travel issue.”
Lucinda rolled her eyes. “Wrong season.”
“New year, new you.”
“Too boring. I said sexy, ladies.” Lucinda sighed and leaned back as if bored by this very meeting.
“The jewelry issue.”
“Hmm, too narrow.”
“Shopping issue?”
Lucinda rolled her eyes again. “Too pedestrian.”
Tara threw an idea out: “The health issue.”
“Interesting, but not sexy enough.”
“The body issue,” Tara tried again.
“Warmer, but not hot. I need heat.”
There were resounding collective groans when a hapless editor from the largely disregarded website department ventured, “How about a Y2K theme, like technology and style?” We were all exhausted with the endless coverage of the potentially disastrous glitch that could occur in a few months when computer systems moved from 1999 to 2000.
“Fabulous idea: global chaos and shiny low-slung jeans,” Lucinda snapped as the digital editor shrunk in her chair.
Before I could stop myself, I raised my hand like I was in kindergarten.
“Yes, Nikki? Would you like to come to the blackboard to write down the correct answer?” Lucinda laughed and the whole room, naturally, cracked up with her.
“The ageless issue,” I said, undaunted. “We could do a fashion feature on clothes for different ages or looking sexy without overdoing it. And a health story about how celebrities of all ages take care of themselves. We could run a diet story since everyone loves those.” I felt Tara’s ire growing as she shifted in her seat next to me, her eyes locked onto my profile, but I was on a roll.
“And we could do a package of stories on sex and relationships along with a comprehensive survey. You know, the sexual behavior of modern women at every age with a sidebar on how to keep it hot in bed.”
Lucinda looked at me appraisingly, then stood up and slammed a palm onto the table. Smelling blood, the fashionistas got ready to jump into the fray. I braced myself for the feeding frenzy.
“I love, love, love it!” Lucinda yelled instead. “Let’s get on this right away. Nikki, you’re in charge of the sex-and-relationships package.”
Instantly, the attitude of the room toward me changed. People started talking all at once.
“Yeah, awesome idea!”
“So cool!”
“You rock, Nikki! We’ll totally need your help fleshing out the rest of the issue.”
Only Tara silently glowered at me. I had the nerve to pitch an idea that Lucinda liked better than hers, so I knew I was in for it later.
“One more idea,” I said, taking a chance, hoping I could keep riding this positive wave.
“We should do an AIDS story.” The room went silent again.
“AIDS is a huge issue for women along with the gay and Black communities, and fashion titles rarely do in-depth stories on it. We could break the mold and really blow it out, make it a cause StyleList embraces.”
Lucinda sat back down. “That’s not sexy, doll.”
“We could do a whole safer sex story—and have a chance to make an impact,” I responded, knowing I was losing Lucinda, and therefore the room, by the second.
“Um, doesn’t Elton John or somebody have a charity for that?” Lucinda asked dismissively.
“Maybe, but don’t you think we could—”
Lucinda shook her head, irritated by my earnestness. “Call Elton’s people,” she said vaguely, then motioned toward her fashion editors. “Okay, I need a list of January issue designer names by this afternoon. Who screams sex, dolls? Cavalli, Dolce…”
Aware that my time in the spotlight had come and gone, I sat back.
Though doing so always made me feel even more self-conscious at being the only chocolate chip in the StyleList snickerdoodle, I still tried to pitch one story having to do with people of color at almost every editorial meeting.
The reactions I normally got ranged from perplexity to outright derision, reminding me over and over that I was the only, while making me more determined to keep trying.
How confusing my very presence must have been to those well-connected dilettantes, erudite Ivy Leaguers, and fabulous fashionistas.
Only the gay guys in PR laughed at my jokes, though they did so while snickering at my outfits.
But no way was I going to let any of them hold me back. So, they would have to stay sick of me.
Tara dug her elbow into my side. “Since you’re the genius that came up with the sex survey idea, you will have to figure out a way to execute it along with the rest of the relationship package,” she whispered, her coffee breath clouding the air between us.
“You have two weeks to get a draft on my desk.”
I gasped. “Two weeks! I’m not sure that’s even possible.”
Tara lifted one shoulder. “Anything is possible if you want it bad enough. And you certainly seem to want it badly.”
I spent the rest of the day researching recent sex surveys, emailing sexual health foundations for information, drafting questions, and begging market research firms to take on this monumental project that would require two straight weeks of relentless grinding.
I worked through lunch, barely noticing the hours slip away.
When I finally glanced at my watch, it was already after seven.
I was supposed to meet my boyfriend, Joseph, for dinner at eight.
I sped down the hall to the elevator banks and came face-to-face with Lucinda for the second time that day. She was impatiently jabbing the down button.
“Looks like we’re on the same schedule today.” It was the most innocuous thing I could think of, but Lucinda was obviously in no mood for my awkward chatter.
“Next time get here before me,” she scowled as the elevator doors finally slid open.
I had no choice but to follow, standing a little behind her so her eyes wouldn’t have to be assaulted by my lowly presence.
Lucinda folded her arms and, after a few seconds, rolled her shoulders and said, “Solid idea today, doll.”
I got my nerve up and stepped forward. “Thanks,” I replied, inwardly wincing at my bright tone. “I’ve been working on the sex survey all day. I really think you’re going to be pleased.”
Lucinda said nothing, just nodded, tapping one boot hard on the elevator floor as we were silently whisked to the lobby.
I had a critical choice at this point: Stay quiet and let our reasonably positive exchange be the last of the day, or try to chat her up some more.
I knew she wasn’t exactly in a receptive mood, but my mouth had a mind of its own.
I blurted, “So, I have one more idea for you.”
I thought I saw her eyes roll behind her sunglasses, but since she didn’t cut me off, I pressed on.
“Tyisha would be a great January issue cover model.” We’d hit the lobby by this time, and I scurried after her.
“She’s been modeling for years, and her new reality show, America’s Next Cover Girl, premieres right after the issue comes out—plus she’s an AIDS activist.”
Out on the street, Lucinda paused. She didn’t look up as she took a small silver case out of her bag, pulled out a cigarette, lit it, then blew a long stream of smoke into the crisp evening air.
For a second, it seemed as if she might be contemplating my idea.
Then she took another hard drag, exhaled practically into my face, and said with finality, “Black girls don’t sell magazines. ”
I watched her take a couple more drags, grind her cigarette under her boot, and climb into the shiny black town car waiting for her at the curb.
After her tutu and motorcycle boots disappeared into the back seat, the uniformed driver closed the door and they pulled off with only her profile in view.
I didn’t say another word, and she never looked back.