Young Jane Young(64)

“Not to me! Your first real job!”

“I don’t get paid,” you say. “So it’s not a real job.”

“Still, this is exciting stuff,” she says. “Tell me, my daughter. What do you do?”

“I answer phones,” you say. “I get coffee.”

“Aviva, come on, give me one good story to take back to Roz.”

“I didn’t take this job so you’d have stories for Roz Horowitz.”

“Something about the congressman.”

“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,”





35


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.”





36


“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, turn to page 40.

If you call Charlie and tell him you’re going to be late, turn to page 43.

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), turn to page 45.





45


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.