The Assistants(50)
An hour of mingling passed, most of which involved Ginger leering over me, with her breasts about to break free from their low-cut scoop neck, and removing alcoholic beverages from my hands. “Pace yourself,” she’d say. “You have a speech to give.” And then she’d down the drink herself.
By the time Emily appeared onstage to thank the crowd for coming, for their generous donations and their encouraging support, I’d managed to sneak just enough sips of booze to keep myself from throwing up in my mouth.
Emily was a presence onstage, confident, attractive, poised. All those years of acting training were finally paying off. She called my name with perfect elocution.
Kevin squeezed my hand once, twice, three times, and everyone else was clapping, so I knew it was time to drag my trembling ass to the stage.
I tried to breathe, but my heart was a bird that had just swallowed an Alka-Seltzer. I tried to remain calm, but the ruffled feathers of said bird had clogged all my airways. There were so many heads trained on me, each with a set of hopeful, expectant eyes.
The Titan assistants I’d gotten to know from our nights in the back room at Bar Nine stood out from the rest of the crowd. They were the ones whose dresses hung a little more cheaply, who hadn’t just sat for professional blowouts, who weren’t dripping with Harry Winston diamonds. They were the ones who’d volunteered to help out with the party planning in return for attendance. I still didn’t know most of their names, but they all knew mine. The group of them stood together at the center of the floor: the Latina woman with hair that was brown on top and blond at the bottom; the women wearing too-big and bigger glasses; the blond and brunette Zara girls.
The one I referred to as Accent Accessory was holding her cell phone up in the air like a lighter at a Coldplay concert, videotaping me. “Yeah, Tina!” she called out, which I understood meant I was taking too long to begin.
“Thank you,” I said, and forced a smile. I decided to focus on the chandelier hanging serenely above us, without falling down. How I wished to be that chandelier, or any inanimate object, really.
“Here are the facts,” I said, and then paused. “Money buys less than it did a generation ago, while at the same time paychecks have dwindled.”
These words, when I’d practiced them, had made me uneasy. (Who was I to be saying them, really? What did I know about any of this?) But hearing them now, amplified across this beautiful ballroom into the ears of all these flawless people, it felt like . . . well, honestly, it felt like singing.
“Add student-loan debt to the mix . . .” Pause. Eye contact with the audience. “The cost of a college degree in the United States has increased twelvefold in the past thirty years. That’s one thousand, one hundred twenty percent.”
Pause. Take a breath.
“Forty million Americans currently have outstanding student loans. Seven in ten college seniors will graduate with student debt. And forget about the six-figure graduate-school or law-school tuition debt so many of us take on in addition to our undergrad loans, as we race to super-educate ourselves, collecting more and more diplomas . . .” Pause. “For what?” Look up. “It’s honorable that today’s students think they’ll be able to rise above all this, that they accept the skyrocketing cost of a college education without question. That they refuse to give up on their dreams in spite of these debilitating obstacles. But as the years pass, they struggle to pay down their loans, while striving to find decent work at a fair wage, while fantasizing about one day buying a home or starting a family . . . and they are just buried. And do you know who they blame? Themselves. They wonder: Why can’t I get it together?”
The audience began to applaud. A few people whooped and hollered. This hadn’t happened when I’d rehearsed alone in my bedroom.
I had to raise my voice to speak over them. “Our country is failing to live up to its promise of opportunity and fairness. It used to be true that if you went to college and worked hard, you could count on having a decent middle-class life—but that’s just not true anymore. Economic and political changes that have occurred over the past three decades have made the middle-class American dream for today’s twenty-and thirtysomethings far less possible than it was for their parents’ generation. It’s not that we’re lazy, that we have no work ethic, or that we have outrageous spending habits. It’s that we’ve been screwed.”
The room roared. I felt it in my chest. In my loins, wherever they may be. Unintentionally, I smiled.
“So we’re taking things into our own hands. Our goal is to help all the women out there who’ve tried so hard to do everything right but still can’t get ahead. And maybe, just maybe, the people in power will take notice of what we’re doing here. What we’re trying to do. And then we can really spark some change.”
I stepped back from the microphone and flashbulbs exploded.
Kevin’s was the first face I saw, once I could see again. By the way he was beaming at me, smacking his hands together hard and high in the air, I knew I’d done a good job. Against all odds, I’d rallied this crowd. They better than liked me.
Emily joined me onstage, carrying a remote control. She adjusted the microphone to her height and pointed the controller at a giant screen behind us.
“And now the moment we’ve all been waiting for,” she announced as the screen came to life.