“Mom,” you say impatiently. “Thank you for the clothes, but honestly, there’s nothing to tell. I should get back to Miami.”
When you return to work, you are more acceptable to your hypocrite supervisor. “Looking good,” she says.
You thank her and you hate yourself for thanking her. You want to say something sharp like, “I’m glad you no longer have to be repulsed by the sight of my flesh straining cheap fabric,” but you don’t. You want to do well at this job. You don’t want to screw this up. You want to have a good story for your mother to tell Roz Horowitz. You cross your arms in front of your chest, and the suit jacket doesn’t pull at all, and it feels like your mother is hugging you, and you could almost cry for gratitude. You wonder what girl interns who don’t have doting, wealthy mothers do when they are caught in such a situation.
You settle into life as an intern. Sometimes, you read the mail from the public. Sometimes, you get coffee for the office. Sometimes, you fact-check and research the congressman’s speeches. The year is 1999, and you seem to be the only one in the office who knows how to perform an Internet search properly. “You’re a wizard, Aviva,” says the supervisor.
You become known as the “Fact-Check Girl.” You become the official Young Person in the Office, expert on youth-related matters. You become invaluable. You have heard the congressman himself say, “Put Aviva on it.” You suggest that the congressman start a blog to talk to the younger voters, and your suggestion is adopted. You love being important. You love your work.
Charlie Greene asks you to come to his grandparents’ house for his birthday. You agree because, despite your relatively meteoric rise, Charlie is still your only friend in the office.
On the night of Charlie’s dinner, your supervisor asks if you could do some research for the congressman.
“What kind of research?” you say.
“Something for his speech on the environment this weekend,” the supervisor says. “It’s super important that this speech go well as I’m sure you know.”
“No problem,” you say, “I’ll get to it first thing tomorrow.” You explain about Charlie’s birthday.
“Could you stay just a little longer? I know the congressman wanted it tonight. He’ll tell you exactly what he needs when he gets here.”
“I can come back as soon as the dinner is over,” you say. You don’t even want to go to Charlie’s house, but you said you would.
“The congressman specifically asked for you. You’ve made a real impression on him,” the supervisor says.
“That’s nice to hear,” you say. You look at your watch. If you don’t leave in five minutes, you’ll never make it to Century Village on time. You look at Charlie’s present, which is sitting on your desk: a collection of Letterman top ten lists.
“Charlie’s a great kid. He’ll understand. And we’re all in this together, aren’t we?”
If you tell the supervisor to screw himself, you’re going to dinner and you’ll be back at ten.
If you call Charlie and tell him you’re going to be late.
If you don’t call Charlie (you don’t want him to talk you out of staying) and you stay at work (you’ll get there when you can).
You fall asleep in your cubicle. You miss Charlie’s dinner, and the supervisor must have gone home, and the congressman hasn’t even asked you for whatever it is he wants.
You feel a hand on your shoulder.
It’s the congressman.
“Hey, sleepyhead,” the congressman says, “what are you still doing here?”
You take a moment to orient yourself and then you say, “They told me you needed me so I stayed!”
“No, they shouldn’t have done that. I’m not anywhere near done,” he says. “I’ll be able to tell you what I need tomorrow.”
You shake your head, and you take a deep breath, and you say more harshly than you mean to, “Well, I guess I’m going home then.”
“Wait,” he says. “Aviva, what is it?”
“It won’t matter to you, but I missed my friend’s birthday to stay here. My only friend, and he probably hates me.”
“I’m sorry about that,” the congressman says.
“No,” you say. “It’s not your fault. I should have left. I’m an adult. I should have read the situation better.”
The congressman nods. “That’s an admirable attitude,” he says.
“I stayed because I wanted to stay. I really like working here,” you say.
“Everyone thinks you’re doing a great job,” the congressman says. “We’ve had excellent feedback on the blog. Very forward thinking. Embeth and I were both impressed with the response.”
For a second, you forget what blog he is talking about. You are drowsy, and you wonder if he’s read your blog and how he knew it was yours, and then you remember that he’s talking about his blog, the official blog of the congressman. “Great,” you say. “I’m glad.”
He watches you gather your things—your floral JanSport backpack, your cloisonné keychain, your pen that looks like a flamingo—and you wonder why he hasn’t left yet.
“Cute keychain,” he says.
You wonder if he remembers he said that to you before.
What a lousy night.
You can’t stop thinking about Charlie.
You don’t like Charlie that way even though you know he likes you that way. Nonetheless, he has been a good friend to you. You are amused by the same things and you enjoy his company and you have a lot in common. You have spent hours talking about the campaigns you would run for yourselves, and whether you should get master’s in public policy degrees or go to law school, and whether it was better to do higher-level internships or try to get promoted within a lower-level internship (like you consider the one you are currently in), and which cities would be the best ones to establish yourselves in, and what your campaign slogans would be. You particularly love coming up with good, bad campaign slogans with him, like Politics Is a Dirty Business. Sometimes You Need a Grossman to Do the Job.
The fact is, you have spent more time talking about the future with him than with anyone else in the world.
When you were twelve, you threw a birthday party, and you invited everyone in your class, and only three people came because another girl in your class had a party the same day. Granted, Charlie is turning twenty-one, but still. You can imagine Charlie and his grandparents, sitting around the table. Should we eat without her? Charlie says, No, let’s wait. He keeps saying it, until finally, he gives up on you. You feel like a heel.
You need to do something to blast the guilt out of your brain.
If you call your roommate to see if she wants to go clubbing.
If you call Charlie to apologize profusely and to ask him if he wants to watch Letterman/Conan.
If you eat your feelings.
If you kiss a handsome congressman.