Young Jane Young(61)

14


“What does that entail?” you ask.

“Oh, you know, if either of us gets access to the congressman or gets in trouble or whatever, we vouch for the other one.”

“Okay,” you say.

He gives you his phone number and his e-mail address, and you give him yours.

After lunch, you spend the rest of the afternoon on the phone bank, which is fun at first, like playing at grown-up work, but gets boring fast. At the end of the day, the supervisor of the interns calls you into her office.

You go into the office, wondering why you are being singled out.

“Aviva, sit down,” the supervisor says.

You sit, but your skirt is so tight, you can’t cross your legs. You have to mash your thighs together. You cross your arms over your breasts.

“How was your first day?” the supervisor says.

“Good,” you say. “Interesting. I learned a lot.”

“Well, I wanted to talk to you about something potentially awkward,” the supervisor says. “The thing is, there’s a dress code for the interns.”

You had read the dress code. It had only mentioned “professional work attire.” You feel yourself begin to blush, but you aren’t embarrassed. Mostly, you are angry. The only reason the clothes aren’t professional is because of your fat ass and your inconveniently enormous tits.

Okay, you are somewhat embarrassed.

“I thought it would be best to nip this issue in the bud,” the supervisor says.





15


You nod and try not to cry. You can feel your chin begin to stupidly quiver.

“No,” the supervisor says. “It’s not as bad as all of that, Aviva. Take tomorrow off. Get yourself something nice and appropriate to wear, okay?”

You go out to the interns’ room, and you gather your things. The other interns have left, and your eyes are beginning to spill over.

The hell with it, you think. No one’s here. It’s better that you cry before you drive. Miami’s confusing to navigate at night, and they haven’t invented Google Maps yet.

You weep.

There is a knock on the window. It’s Congressman Levin. You knew him when you were a little girl. He smiles at you.

“Are we treating our interns that badly?” he asks kindly.

“Long day,” you say. You wipe your eyes on your sleeve.

“Aviva Grossman, right?” he says. “We used to be neighbors in Forestgreen.”

“No, I don’t live there anymore. I’m in college now. I live in a dorm.”

“You’re all grown up,” he says.

“I don’t feel very grown up,” you say. “You just caught me crying in the break room.”

“How’re your folks?” he asks.

“Very well,” you say.

“Good, good. Well, Aviva Grossman, I hope your second day is better than your first.”

You had heard about the congressman’s charm. You must admit: his presence is warming.





16


You are leaving when Charlie Greene calls your name. He had been waiting for you in the love seat by the elevator banks.

“Hey,” he says. “Phone-a-Friend! Where’d you go?”

“I had to call my mom,” you lie.

“Well, I had a thought. What if we watched Conan together? You strike me as a Conan person. Maybe you’re a Letterman, though? You’re definitely not a Jay.”

“You can be a Conan and a Letterman person at the same time,” you say.

“That’s how it’s done, Grossman,” Charlie says. “Finish Letterman, flip to Conan. It’s how the ancient Romans did it.”

You laugh. You like Charlie Greene. He feels as comfortable as your Birkenstocks.

You both look up to see the congressman running toward the elevator. He has long legs. You think you read that he used to be a pole-vaulting champion and you can believe that. You imagine him in tight track shorts. “You left your keys,” he says. “Cute keychain.”

Your keychain is a spinning cloisonné globe, which was a gift from your father to commemorate a trip you took to Russia with your high school history class. The congressman spins the globe, and it strikes you how large his fingers are compared to the tiny world your father gave you.

“Thanks,” you say. When he hands you the keys, your fingertips touch the congressman’s, and through a curious feat of human circuitry, you feel his touch directly between your legs.

“Since I caught you, I was thinking,” the congressman says. “I don’t like the thought of one of my interns crying on the





17


first day. I definitely don’t like the thought of Dr. Grossman’s daughter crying on the first day. I mean, I have a lot of stress in my life. I might need a quadruple bypass someday. Let me take you for a falafel or something. There’s a café downstairs. They do other things, too, but I’d go with falafel or frozen yogurt.”

If you introduce the congressman to Charlie and then tell the congressman you already have plans, turn to page 20.

If you don’t introduce the congressman to Charlie – indeed, you forget Charlie is even there – and immediately leave with the congressman, turn to page 22.