Chapter 12
TWELVE
I stopped in the reception area to straighten my clothes.
That morning, I’d pored through the remains of my StyleList stash and settled on a Dolce insightful features on social issues, relationships, career, and health; and access-driven coverage of the hottest celebrities.
Sugar is the new voice for young urban women who want to set big goals, achieve their wildest dreams, have full and fun lives, and look fly while they’re doing it. ”
The concise little paragraph summed up so much of my conviction and my own wildest dreams. I was certain everyone would be inspired, but instead of the standing ovation I’d hoped for, there was silence. “Come on, people,” I said, looking around the room. “I know some of you have plenty to say.”
There was some throat clearing, then the Asian guy piped up: “So what does ‘urban women’ mean?”
“Glad you asked,” I replied. If they were talking, they were engaged. “Make no mistake, Sugar will be written for Black women. But Black people drive urban culture, which drives pop culture, and we drive style. Any woman interested in culture and fashion might want to check out Sugar.”
“So, you are Black?” came a high-pitched nasal voice to my right that I immediately recognized as one of the women kiki-ing at my expense in the bathroom on Friday.
As she drummed her fingers on the table and popped her gum, I took in her smooth tawny skin stretched over wide cheekbones, short red twists, and large hazel eyes.
“Without a doubt,” I pronounced, looking around the room, then directly at her.
A second harsh voice to my left cut in: “Why do we need a new mission statement, anyway? Isn’t this”—she waved the paper I’d given her in the air, then slammed it back onto the table—“what we already do?” I swung around to see a petite woman with purple locs and a nose ring.
“Yes and no. Listen, Sugar has the potential to impact culture and be a real voice for women across the country,” I said. “We just need to build off what you guys are already doing and raise the bar, starting with a top-to-bottom redesign.”
I was on a roll, but she interrupted again, this time standing as she spoke. “Ain’t this a bitch,” she exclaimed, her locs cascading over her crossed arms. “Why do we need to redesign a brand-new magazine?”
I’d had about enough of her. “Because the way it looks right now isn’t advertiser-friendly, and it won’t reach the entire audience we could attract. Tell me, what is your position here?”
“I’m the art director,” she flung back, “and I don’t think my magazine needs a redesign.
” Von was seated next to her and tried to put a calming hand on her arm, but she shook it off, telling him, “Look, you know the only time I hold my tongue is when I’m at the dentist.” She turned back to me.
“Even if I did want to do a redesign, I’m not at all convinced that you would have a clue how to make Sugar better.
Honestly, I don’t even know how you got this job since you sure aren’t Barbara’s type. ”
I stood as well and examined her coolly. “Then I guess it’s fortunate that you are no longer the art director at Sugar.”
Someone in the back loudly whispered, “Oh snap,” while everyone looked at each other, wide-eyed and frozen like a troop of lemurs.
“Are you actually firing me?” she sputtered. “You can’t be serious.”
“As a heart attack. This is your last day. You can leave.”
As she stormed out, dead silence fell over the room. “Anybody else?” I scanned each person in the conference room, but no one so much as blinked. “Good, then let’s get started. We have a lot to do to close June.”
That was the understatement of the century. I had just over two weeks to ship the June issue to the printer, and the Wall—the uninspired name for a literal wall where magazine editors affixed pages of whichever issue they were currently closing—was disturbingly empty.