Karina lifts her head and spies me coming, her dark eyes narrowing into slits, probably gauging my mood the same way I gauge hers. There are days when I simply deliver her tuna on whole wheat and leave. Today is not one of those days.
No. After last night, I’m even more determined to make the Times job happen. I need to know I’m capable of having aspirations, pursuing them and succeeding. I can’t take another failure or halfway accomplishment without my self-worth dwindling down to nothing. I’m dangerously close already. Not to mention my parents, who only gave me a tired smile when I informed them I was going to be a reporter. They’ve had it with me.
I never thought I would see the day. As long as I worked hard, they never cared if my efforts went into ceramics or coding. Hard work always pays off, they would tell me—and that advice came from experience. My mother emigrated from Mexico as a teenager. After months of teaching herself English by watching talk shows and sitcom reruns, she found work as a bilingual nanny, a position in high demand in southern California. Eventually she tutored children in her community so they could have an easier time finding their own opportunities. Now she operates her own childcare service. She’s dedicated. Amazing.
And my father, an Irish-American boxer turned marine, is the most reliable human I’ve ever met in my life. He’s never not answered his phone when I call. His handyman skills are unmatched—he can fix anything that’s broken. When he makes a promise, he keeps it.
How did these remarkable people end up with a commitment-phobic daughter?
“Ah, there she is. The bringer of nourishment herself.” Karina bounces a few times on the exercise ball, stretching her limber brown arms high above her head and letting them drop with a thud onto her desk. “Since you have wheeled your entire cart into my office and closed the door, rather than simply deliver me the mediocre tuna sandwich, I can only assume that you have a story idea you would like to pitch to me. Again.” She holds up her hand when I try to speak. “Here is a story I would like covered. Why no celery in the tuna? Why does the deli have against texture?”
“Excellent question,” I say brightly, laying a napkin down in front of her and presenting the boxed sandwich with a flourish. “You obviously have a discerning palate.”
“I know when you’re buttering me up.” She pauses in the act of popping open the cardboard tabs of her sandwich box, shrewd eyes zipping to the lanyard dangling around my neck. “Is that a new badge?”
That simple question is all it takes for the tram incident to come roaring back in surround sound audio. I can feel Gabe behind me, thick and sturdy, his breath on the back of my neck, Banks and his hungry mouth slanting over mine, a groan growing louder and louder in his throat. Tobias rucking up my skirt. What would have happened if the electricity hadn’t returned when it did? Would I have been intimate with them? All of them?
“Um…” It takes some work to bring my voice back to even. “Yes, this is my new ID. The picture was old.”
Karina holds the sandwich in front of her mouth, preparing to bite in. “You’ve only been working here for a month, Elise.”
“I know, but I had a mole removed and I wanted the picture to reflect the current me, so…” She’s getting ready to debunk that easy-to-verify lie, so I rush to continue. “Anyway, that’s neither here nor there.”
“Just like the mole,” Karina says around her first bite.
My laugh is cringingly loud. “Good one.” I park myself in the chair facing her desk, pretending I don’t notice her eyeroll. “There is something you should know. I’ve been following a story for a couple of weeks. Really, it just started as a hunch—”
“Elise, I appreciate your tenacity, but you are not employed here as a writer.” She gestures to the gigantic cubicle graveyard behind me. “All of those reporters and staff writers out there have paid their dues. Most of them suffered through J-school and a master’s degree to belong in these hallowed halls. This is the goddamn Gotham Times, sandwich girl. I like you, but you can’t just cut to the front of the line.”
My throat tightens like a zip tie has been pulled taut around it. She’s right. I know she’s right. But I’m not cut out for long hauls. I’d make it through one year of journalism school, tops. Forget about a master’s. I don’t have that kind of dedication inside of me. I’m not a sticker. I never stick. The consequences of my modus operandi were made very obvious earlier this year when I attempted to join the military, like my parents. To become a marine. I was running out of time to make them proud and this? It was surefire.