My cubicle-mate, Mercedes Trowbridge, aka summer associate “Allred,” flashes me a razor-edged smile. “Do you mind?” She nods at my foot, which I realize I’m mindlessly tapping against the back wall of my desk. Her strawberry-blond hair is as mirror smooth as it was on orientation day, and she’s wearing her signature color—red. Except today her blouse is more poppy red than yesterday’s port wine red or Monday’s crimson. Turns out I was spot-on with the “Allred” nickname.
Her long, delicate fingers hover over her keyboard as she stares at me expectantly, eyebrows raised.
I slow my tapping, and the dull tunk tunk quiets. I recross my legs. “Sorry.” The smile I flash is as tight-lipped as her own.
Exhaling briskly through her nose, she flicks her hair over her shoulder as she turns to her screen and begins typing. Grumbling, I swivel to face my own desk. Chalk it up to my rotten luck to be assigned to the same two-person workspace as the most unfriendly, daggers-out law student I’ve ever met.
After her attempt at a chair coup on Monday, I’d desperately hoped I was wrong about her—and not just because we have to share a cubicle. There are few enough women in law as it is, and even fewer who stick it out, rise through the ranks, and make partner. I say let’s lift each other up instead of bat each other down. Out of the twelve summer associates at Smith & Boone, there are only two other women besides me and Mercedes—a middle-aged career switcher and an aspiring patent attorney who’s quieter than a Pet Rock. I’d hoped that once Mercedes and I got to know one another, we’d find some common ground. Maybe even be—well, probably not friends—at the very least, mutually respected colleagues.
But no. Every single attempt to crack through her icy shell has ricocheted like putty. If she’s not actively ignoring my lunchtime small talk, she’s passive-aggressively clearing her throat or dramatically sighing every time I so much as sneeze. And when I deigned to make a peace offering yesterday of a blueberry scone I picked up from the coffee shop down the street, she looked at me like I’d offered her arsenic. Her nostrils flared and her mouth twisted when I shrugged and took a bite, like I was the most revolting person on the planet for enjoying carbs and sugar.
At least our desks face away from each other in the snug three-walled cubicle, so I don’t have to see her constant expression of haughty disapproval that she reapplies as often as her power lipstick. A small mercy.
My phone vibrates and I sigh. Fifty bucks says it’s Brie psyching me up for tonight. Or else it’s my mom texting me for the umpteenth time for an update on my first week at the firm. The name on the screen makes me jolt so hard I nearly knock over my water. My heart leaps like a ballerina. It’s Devin.
Still on for Junction @7?
I can’t stop my fingers from trembling when I text him back.
Absolutely! I have my magnifying glass packed and ready to go!
As soon as I hit send, I cringe. Oh God.
I mean, like, to solve a mystery
Groaning, I bury my face in my palm. Nearly a year of little to no social contact other than family, Brie, and doctors must have zapped any flirtatious texting prowess I previously possessed—weak as it was.
A dull knock reverberates against the wall of my cubicle. Dropping my phone into my lap, I take out my earbuds. Andréa Miller, a senior attorney at the firm and the leader of the litigation group, is standing beside my desk, deep brown eyes crinkled in a smile. Her white button-down is rolled up to her elbows, exposing her dark, toned forearms, and the pleat in her tailored skirt is so sharp it could cut glass.
Warmth fills my chest. Andréa is the reason I landed an offer from Smith & Boone in the first place. She was my mentor at the US Attorney’s Office when I clerked there after my first year of law school. We stayed in touch, and when she landed a job at Smith & Boone as a senior litigator two years later and found out I’d applied for a first-year associate position, she put in a good word for me with the hiring committee. And now that I’m a summer-but-hopefully-soon-to-be-first-year associate, she specifically requested me for her practice group: litigation, one of the most well-respected—and lucrative—groups in the firm.
“How’s the memo for the Beckley appeal going?” she asks.
I flick my gaze to the open Word document on my screen. The rough draft is done but still needs to be properly formatted with citations and a hefty dose of proofreading. Mercedes has stopped typing. She appears to be checking her email, but her back is unusually straight. She’s totally eavesdropping.