Chapter 5. Micah
MICAH
The girl hesitates before joining me in the side office. I leave the door open. Her knees won’t quit bouncing once she sits down.
“Do all of the interns have their own office?” She looks around, examining the gray room’s stark contents: a black Parsons table with a swivel chair on either side of it and a dusty bookcase with agency manuals.
Her eyes, an unusual shade of amber, rest on my face.
I blank for a moment. “I’m the head of the interns.
” I meant, I hire them. “I’m an associate creative director.
” I leave out the fact I’ve been working summers here since I was sixteen and know the intern position better than anyone.
The whole agency skews young. Scott McKenzie, our creative director and one of the partners, just celebrated his thirtieth birthday last week.
Still, I bet she’s thinking I’m too young to possess such a title. She’s right. Nepotism, baby. But titles mean squat anyway.
“I sit out there with my team.” I point to the tables outside. “We use this office for interviews.”
She crosses her arms over her navy suit jacket, squinting to read her resume and application before me as if I’m about to quiz her.
“So, what kind of name is Brynn?”
“Welsh.”
“You’re Welsh?” I have no idea why I’ve started down this path.
“Ah—no. My mom got my name from one of her favorite books. My family’s Peruvian.”
My brain stalls again. “What kind of accent do they have?” What? Why did I just say that?
“Brooklyn.” She stomps her foot and recrosses her legs. “Who else am I meeting with?”
Shit. “No one.” My head hangs heavy off my neck. Should have grabbed more coffee.
“What kind of accounts would I be working on if you hire me? I have a lot of experience—”
“Says here you graduated from LaGuardia, a performing arts high school?”
Her cheeks redden. “I can write. I’ve written ad copy for school events, concert and music reviews for my school’s paper. Um, lyrics too. Oh, I was also on the yearbook staff—”
“We get a number of applicants every week.” Though not quite like you.
Not even close. Stay on track, Micah. “The hiring process is very competitive. We only consider candidates with previous marketing or brand management experience. Have you interned anywhere else?” I already know the answer. She’s as green as they come.
“I’m looking to—”
“Even if you came with some marketing experience, you should know that summer interns at Kershaw McKenzie start at the bottom.” Saliva inexplicably floods my mouth, causing me to cough.
What is my deal today? “Excuse me . . . um, they fetch coffee and lunch for their team. Clean up after client meetings, pick up client samples, office supplies, dry cleaning, and so on. They record the minutes at team meetings. The smart ones take advantage of their time with us, absorbing all they can.”
Her lips twist. She sinks lower in her chair.
I try hard not to smile. “I’m not going to sugarcoat it. We work long hours. I reviewed your writing samples. Come back when you have a few years of college behind you. We don’t hire high school graduates.” Except for me, of course.
“I can do this. I need to do this.” She straightens up. Her eyes drill into me.
“I appreciate your enthusiasm, but like many who apply—”
“I’ll work for free.” She winces.
Typical. “We don’t need to fill this place with aimless bodies.”
“I’m ambitious, smart, and catch on fast. Coffee, dry cleaning—I’ll grind the beans and find the best eco-friendly, cost-effective dry cleaner in Manhattan.
I also specialize in tidying up conference rooms. Clients love me, coworkers request me because I get things done.
I’m no-nonsense and direct. You’ll only ever have to tell me something once.
Um, I also write jingles. Really . . . I can sing. People say I sound like Halsey.”
I lean back in my chair. “Halsey? That’s your pitch?”
“I thought it hit the mark.”
I pull a face like she’s smoking something.
She gazes down at her lap, her fingers curl around the edge of her skirt. Her eyes slowly rise to meet mine. “More like Annie Clark.”
“St. Vincent’s cool.” I rest my elbow on the arm of the chair, pressing the top of my pen to my lip. Meredith complained the other day about needing more support. This could get her off my back. “The senior account supervisor on my team could use some help over the next couple of weeks.”
“I’m in.”
“Before you accept: We can’t put you on the payroll. Due to your inexperience, it doesn’t make sense. You will, however, get to work with the best creative team in the business. Maybe score some samples for your book. You can say you wrote them even if you only helped brainstorm. We won’t tell.”
Her eyes tighten. “I would never lie about work I didn’t create.”
I bite back my response. Her indignation stems from her naiveté. Everyone lies in advertising. We lie to sell products. We lie more to sell ourselves or no sooner get replaced by the next bright kid walking through the door.
I gather her paperwork and rise. “Can you follow direction?” I snicker at my joke.
“Wait, what about my book?” She shifts her portfolio onto her lap, eyeing it.
“Like I said, I already looked at your writing samples.” I’m halfway through the door before she realizes I’m leaving.
She should be kissing my ass for allowing her to hang out for two weeks and shadow one of the most respected agencies in the country without any real experience.
I acted like a jerk earlier. Call us even, sweet cheeks.
I wait outside just past the doorway. Okay, new intern, when I asked if you could follow direction I meant can you follow me.
At last, she appears. Her jaw rigid.
Hot eyeballs track us across the open-floor workspace as I show her to one of the long tables and drag an extra black-mesh chair next to the printer.
The usual clamor of conversations and clacking keys comes to a halt.
People in the adjoining glass conference rooms crane their necks.
Outside, the window washer’s squeegee pauses.
“We’ll find you a laptop.” I point to the bottom drawer of a nearby filing cabinet. “You can put your bag in here.” May or may not be stuffed with client folders.
She doesn’t look at me. She might not last the two weeks.
I toss her an Adweek. “Team meeting in thirty.” I wheel back around.
The eyeballs drop back to their laptops. Feels like I’m serving up a baby lamb to a pride of hungry lions. Her new coworkers will want to know where she came from, the agencies on her resume, her previous accounts, and most of all—if she’s a threat. Won’t they be surprised she’s only eighteen.
They’ll test her and be mean to her at first. Some will try to get in her pants. Others will make up stories that they have. She’s rough around the edges, which may serve her. But if her Girl Scout act in the elevator is any indication, she may not be hungry enough to make it in advertising.
I don’t recall her writing samples and can’t fathom why we even brought her in for an interview in the first place. I wouldn’t have greenlighted her resume. Someone dumped her on me and now I’m passing her off. Good luck, Meredith. This should be interesting.
My phone vibrates. Not again. I shake my head and dismiss it. I look to see if my latest hire is still cozying up to the printer where I left her. I attempt to turn away again before she sees me looking.
Too late.