Hmm. Now I’m picturing a young man who’s far from home. Maybe he’s just like me, struggling to adjust to the big city. Maybe he already made the mistake of getting on the downtown-bound subway when he needed to go uptown, and having to get off again to switch tracks.
We’re both rookies, I guess. This idea calms me down a fraction. Eventually I’ll figure the city out, right? And I’ll learn enough to be useful at my new job. Everything is so overwhelming right now. I feel lucky, but I’m just so intimidated. Every day is a struggle.
There’s a headshot in the Tankiewicz folder, too. I pull it out of its envelope, because a girl has to be able to match a name to a face, right?
And…jeez. This man is something else. He’s got a strong jaw and a serious, green-eyed stare. Thick hair. Long eyelashes. Wowzers. Wednesday’s dinner just became a whole lot more scenic. Happy Birthday to me.By Wednesday afternoon, I’m really looking forward to the occasion. I’m finally twenty-one years old, so I can have a glass of wine, and it won’t even be against the law.
Mr. Kassman asked me to meet him at Sparks at seven o’clock. I’m on schedule to finish all my work by five, though. What to do with those extra two hours?
These are my thoughts as I carefully punch a fax number into the machine. Then I hit the SEND button and listen to the phone dial the number. The machine at the other end picks up, and the first page of the document begins to draw through the scanner.
That’s when I happen to glance down at the other contract I’m holding. And I notice that the phone number on that contract matches the number I just dialed.
It takes a moment for all my synapses to catch up. Two professional athletes can’t have the same number. So that means the contract on the scanner is about to be sent to the wrong guy.
Holy shit!
I grab the remaining pages off the tray and then slap the CANCEL button. But the paper is still slowly moving through the machine. When I grab it, the machine holds on tightly. It stops the paper’s progress, but it doesn’t let go, either.
So, dropping all the papers in my hands, I reach over, pinch the connector of the data cable, and yank it out of the wall. The machine makes an unhappy sound and the word ERROR flashes on the display.
“Good lord. That was almost a total disaster,” I gasp.
“What was?” asks a clipped voice.
I whirl around and find Jane Pines—the only female agent at Kassman’s small company, and the agent who asked me to fax these contracts. She leans on the doorframe, staring at me.
“Nothing,” I say quickly. “No problem. I’ve got it handled.”
Her eyes narrow. “Did you really almost fax a contract to the wrong player?”
“I caught it just in time.” I’m dying inside, but I still stand up for myself. I need this job.
“But that would be a huge—”
“—Breach of confidentiality,” I snap. “Believe me, I understand the problem.” It comes out too forcefully. I’m in so much trouble now.
But Pines doesn’t start to yell. In fact, my outburst has exactly the opposite effect. She looks me right in the eye for the first time ever. “Well. I’m glad you caught the error.”
“Just so you know?” I pluck the sticky note off the machine—the one that had been affixed to the cover page. “This phone number was stuck to the wrong contract.” That means the mistake is the fault of Pines herself or her personal assistant.
“I expected you to verify the number against the cover sheet.” She shrugs. “And I guess you did, at the last possible second. Carry on. And then please make a coffee run.”
She doesn’t wait for my response. She just walks away, and I’m left standing by the fax machine, my heart trying its best to pound its way out of my chest. I just stood up to the boss, and didn’t get fired. And she liked it, I think.
God, this business is weird. I think I can make it here, as long as I wake up every day feeling like a hungry tiger.
Carefully, I reboot the fax machine to erase its memory. And then I start all over again.My adrenaline rush still isn’t over when I leave the office to walk across town. Killing time, I push through the revolving doors at Bloomingdale’s. I’ve never been here before, so it takes me a moment to look around. I see handbags in a million colors, and miles of cosmetics.
The whole store is out of my league. But I get on the escalator anyway. It glides past the makeup products that I can’t afford, and don’t know how to use, anyway.
As I float higher and higher through the perfume-scented fashion mothership, I realize that there isn’t one specific women’s department. There are several. I don’t know the difference between sportswear and casual wear. But I spot a sign reading SALE, so I get off the escalator to flip through the offerings.