A/N: Surprise! New fic time. Instead of working on part of my dissertation proposal that I have to submit tomorrow, last night I decided to start writing a new SQ fic that's been plotting around my brain for a few months. I had planned to wait until I finished Queen to Play and/or A Montreal Excursion to start working on this, but you know, procrastination of real work got the best of me. Those fics will both be wrapping up soon, so I decided to go ahead and start playing with this idea. It will be an epic slow burn, so have patience :). This is also the first fic I've ever written in first person or in present tense (it's told from Emma's perspective), so it's a fun change and challenge for me. I hope you enjoy it!
I was thirteen when Avenue Q opened on Broadway. It was the summer between seventh and eighth grade, and my parents had taken me to New York City for vacation. The show had just premiered and my poor parents hadn't done their research, so they assumed a show with puppets would be perfectly appropriate for a middle school teen girl. I will never forget looking over at my dad in the middle of the first act and seeing his fair complexion turn bright red in embarrassment as the puppets sang about masturbating to internet pornography. I would have been mortified, too, if I didn't find the entire situation hilarious. During intermission I had begged them to stay through the end of the performance, because despite its raunchy content, I was loving the show. I won the fight and we stayed until the end, and my parents even gave a standing ovation during the curtain call. But, we never spoke about the show again once we left the John Golden Theatre that evening.
The reason I mention this story, aside from it being one of the last vacations we ever had as a family, is because the plot is so fucking relatable. The show's opening song begins with the line "What do you do, with a B.A. in English?" and perhaps my wide-eyed big-dreamer teenage self should have listened to that lesson a little more closely, because not only did I, in my early adulthood naïveté, get a B.A. in English, but I then went on to get my MFA in creative writing. Because really, when you can't find a "real" job with an undergraduate English degree, why wouldn't you go back to school for two years of graduate school in the exact same field? Like I said — I was naïve and had big expectations for myself. All I needed was that piece of paper with those three letters to prove my legitimacy, and then I would be set.
I had really thought that after finishing my MFA at one of the best writing programs in the country I would be well on my way to writing the next Great American Novel, or if not that, then at a minimum I would get a multi-book deal for a YA fantasy series with vampires or fairytale heroes. At the very least, I thought I would get to work at the boutique literary agency where I had interned for six months after finishing my graduate degree. I had packed up my entire life from the house I shared with my roommates in Iowa City and moved into a charming and cozy studio apartment on the North side of Chicago, ready to take on the world.
The agency was everything I could have hoped for in terms of a "real" job, except for the fact that I wasn't being paid. The office was in a converted loft, and it was the kind of place where we would have all-office champagne celebrations after successfully landing a book deal for one of our clients, no matter the time of day. My second day there I remember my supervisor sending a cork torpedoing into the wall, narrowly missing my head, a little before 10 o'clock in the morning in celebration of snagging a major author she wanted to represent. Every day I learned something new, and I thrived. I learned how to talk to authors and publishers and how to quickly identify what could be a bestseller from what should go straight to the slush pile. I worked there 20 hours per week and paid my rent by teaching a GED prep course at a community college during the days when I wasn't working at the agency, bartending at night, and tutoring wealthy prep school kids on the weekends. It was grueling, but I made it work, and I wanted nothing more than to be part of the full-time team as my internship drew to a close. I had emailed my supervisor my updated resume two weeks before the end of my internship, and I had been so excited when Ingrid called me into her office the morning after I had sent it. I was quickly hit with the reality of the situation as soon as Ingrid began speaking: "I'm sorry, Emma, but we don't have any room for you. We don't have the money to take on any additional salaried staff at this time. You have been a wonderful asset to the group, and I wish we had something to offer you. I'm happy to be a reference as you apply for jobs."
So, the lofty dreams I had once held couldn't be farther from my actual reality. Instead of working at Fire and Ice Literary Agents LLC., I'm working at Enchanted Education, a midsize textbook publishing company in a sales position requiring me to work far too many hours for far too little pay. My "9-to-5" job is more accurately described as an "8:30-to-7". By the time I get home at night I'm too exhausted to work on my own writing, so more often than not I crash on my couch watching Netflix and drinking five-dollar wine from Trader Joe's (at least I've upgraded from "Three Buck Chuck"…I'll take any small adulting victory that I can). I'm still in my studio apartment in Lakeview, but I no longer find the miniscule size cute and cozy, but instead it's cramped and making me claustrophobic. While I at one time enjoyed being close to the excitement of Wrigley Field, now I can't stand the constant screaming of fans. Even worse are the drunk former frat bros who occupy every building within a square mile of my apartment and the accompanying puddles of vomit that often line the sidewalks on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday mornings. But, I can't afford to move to any place bigger or in a less obnoxious area, so this is home for the time being.
I know I should be lucky that I even have a full-time job with a salary and decent benefits. Some friends of mine from grad school are still waiting tables, nannying, or working retail jobs to pay their bills. I know I should feel grateful that I am at least working in a job somewhat related to my field, but I never wanted to work in sales. I loathe salespeople on principle, and now I'm one of them. Working for a textbook publisher might not be so bad if I were proofreading copy or selecting content for the books, but instead I spend my time talking to prospective schools and faculty members trying to sell them on our products. This afternoon I was catching up on my call list and spent 15 minutes at the end of my day trying to convince Professor Schmidt at the University of Chicago to buy our version of Introduction to College Biology instead of the new edition from our rival publisher. Truth be told, all textbooks have the exact same information anyway, so it really won't make a difference to the students or the professor one way or another. In case it isn't obvious, I'm super passionate about what I do.
I could probably put up with the shitty sales job if my coworkers were at least fun people, but they're not. Interning at Fire and Ice had led me to have false expectations about what this industry would be like. Ingrid and her co-founder Mal were the coolest women I could ever imagine working for — they were immensely supportive of each other and all their staff, and the working culture was extremely healthy and vibrant. My coworkers there routinely went out for happy hour or ordered lunch to share family-style in the open conference room. At Enchanted Education, I'm not sure anyone even knows the name of anyone who works outside of their direct team. I'm surrounded by corporate lemmings who couldn't care less about the creative side of publishing and instead are focused solely on numbers. I've always hated numbers, which is why I went into writing in the first place. Clearly, this is not a good fit, and I am looking for any opportunity to get out.
The only slightly redeeming aspect of my job is my boss. Regina Mills-Locksley is nothing like Ingrid or Mal, but she is a badass in her own right. She's hot and fierce as hell, and she has managed to make a name for herself in a company dominated by misogynistic assholes. As a result, she's not particularly personable, and she can be a bitch when she wants to be (which is most of the time). But, I secretly admire her, even though she makes my life a living hell more often than not. She has her shit together, and if I didn't want to get the hell out of the sales world, I would probably aspire to be her. She graduated at the top of her MBA class at Stanford and became the Vice President of Higher Education Sales and Marketing for Enchanted Education when she was 34, a position she's held for nearly three years now. Her husband is a well-respected Chicago alderman, easily bringing in a six-figure salary, which I'm sure is a nice complement to Regina's similar compensation package. Every time I deliver my weekly report to her in-person, as she requires, I notice the framed photograph on her desk of her two perfect sons. Her office is relatively plain, likely not wanting to draw attention to the fact that she's the only woman in the executive suite, but that small frame holding boys' school pictures is the one touch of personalization she allows.
Some nights when I come home from a horrendous work day, I find myself secretly holding out hope that Ingrid will call me and offer me a job, that maybe someone will have quit or they'll suddenly have the financial means to hire an additional agent, or even an assistant job. But, every day that passes I know that's less and less likely, because by now they've had two more batches of interns walk through their doors since I walked out. Soon, they'll forget I ever existed and any opening will go to someone more fresh in their minds. I try not to let myself fantasize about that phone call too often, because it will just depress me when it doesn't happen.
One of these days, I might just be brave enough to quit my job. But, that day is not today. I keep telling myself that eventually one of the resumes I've been sending out to other literary agencies or publishing companies will manifest into something, but I haven't had as much as a phone screen for any other positions. So for now, I'll keep my head down and let my soul get crushed by Enchanted Education a little more each day, so I can pay my bills and keep working on my writing on days where I can find some sliver of creative motivation.
*.*.*
When my alarm goes off in the morning, I accidentally knock my phone off my nightstand and onto the hardwood floor. I pick it up and pray that it still works, because the last thing I can afford right now is a replacement. I hit the round "home" button and the iPhone screen lights up, causing me to sigh in relief as I silence the alarm. The existing crack across the top of the glass screen has a new small branch radiating from it as a result of the collision with the floor, but it still appears to be functional. I can make my peace with a cracked screen.
I suppose one positive thing about living in an apartment under 300 square feet is that it only takes three steps for me to get from my bed to my coffeemaker in the morning, since my bed is practically in my kitchen. I fill the carafe with water and pour it into the top of the machine before I fumble with the switch to turn it on. It's mornings like these where I wish I would have spent the extra money for a coffeemaker with an automatic timer feature. At least I've started preparing the coffee grounds the night before, because in my half-asleep clumsiness I have accidentally dropped them on the floor far too many times. Now I just do it the night before and save myself the headache.
After watching the first few drops of the amber liquid fall into the clear glass, I force myself to get ready for the day. Unlike Regina, who always looks put together and polished, I am not important enough nor do I care enough to find a perfect suit dress or pantsuit. And, I sure as hell don't own any Prada heels or those cute Gucci mules that I see on every thirty-something woman on the L train each morning. Instead, almost my entire shoe collection comes from Target, except for my three big "splurges": a pair of Toms I bought from Nordstrom Rack, my grey Converse I've had since college, and a good pair of black Nikes that I use when I go running on the lakefront four days per week. I have unintentionally adopted a capsule wardrobe, which I like to pretend is because I'm as trendy as the women I see on Instagram, but the truth is that I just don't own more than thirty-five items of clothing. I'm about to throw on my go-to black ankle-length skinny pants when I remember that today is a casual dress day, thanks to the company picnic planned for this afternoon. I won't pass up the opportunity to wear jeans, so I put the slacks back on their hanger and reach for my medium-wash Levi skinny jeans that one of my roommates back in Iowa gave me when she regained the "Freshman 15" as a graduate student. They're well-loved but sturdy, and they have molded to my thighs and hips over the years. I must admit, I love the way my ass looks in these — not that it's a consideration for a work function, because God knows I don't need the creepy Killian from accounting staring at my backside all afternoon, but nonetheless I could use the shallow boost of confidence they give me on occasion.
I abandon getting dressed halfway through when I hear the coffeemaker finish brewing, opting to start working on my first cup so I can finish waking up. I meander the five steps from my closet to my kitchen and pour myself a cup in my The New Yorker mug, trying not to let it depress me that I still haven't had any of my pieces published in their magazine yet. I quickly throw two frozen Eggos into the toaster and put away a few dishes that I left out on the drying rack overnight while I wait for the waffles. I take a sip of my coffee and look down at myself, realizing what a vision I must be in jeans and a black lace bra, with my hair falling out of its poorly-tied bun. Fortunately, the one small window in my apartment faces a solid brick wall, so no one can see in. My apartment's natural lighting is utter crap, but at least I have privacy. Silver lining.
I smother the waffles in strawberry preserves and quickly inhale them when I notice I'm already running behind schedule. Regina has asked us to come in a half hour early this morning because we will all be leaving early for the picnic and have some end-of-the-month call quotas to complete, and I had forgotten to adjust my alarm to account for the earlier time. I quickly grab a faded Cubs tee shirt I picked up in a secondhand store earlier this summer when I was feeling the need to be part of World Series mania in a shallow attempt to feel more connected to this city, even though it was months after the historic win. I don't bother to brush my hair, instead finger-combing it and tying it up into a slightly more tidy knot on the top of my head. I quickly apply tinted moisturizer and some concealer to help cover up the residual eyeliner that didn't completely wash off last night and then add a quick coat of mascara and lip balm.
Shoving my feet into my trusty navy blue Toms, I grab my bag, phone, keys, and red cardigan to survive the blasting AC of the office and head out of my apartment. I'm halfway to the red line L stop before I realize that I forgot to fill my travel coffee mug and there's half a pot of coffee left on my kitchen counter at home. I don't normally operate on any less than three cups in the morning, and I didn't even finish all of my first, so today is going to be brutal. At least I remember unplugging the machine, so I won't burn my apartment down.
I push my way onto a crowded train car and manage to grab onto the pole as it lurches forward toward downtown. Looking at my watch, I consider my options: I can walk to the Dunkin Donuts that's three blocks in the opposite direction of my office once I get off the train and save some money, or I can grab a cup in from the overpriced cold brew place on the first floor of my office building. I don't even consider Starbucks as a viable option, because I know it will be way more crowded than Dunkin or the hipster place in my building, and I don't have time to wait in their line.
The train comes to a stop a few minutes later and I quickly claw my way out of the throngs of people trying to get on, making my way to the street-level and dodging commuters taking up the width of the sidewalk. I check my watch again and note that I was technically supposed to be at my desk ten minutes ago, so I forgo the coffee run all together and resign myself to waiting at least an hour for the one Keurig in the break room to become available, knowing that I'll have to choke down the artificially flavored coffee to get my requisite amount of caffeine. I scan my ID card at the turnstile in the lobby of the building so I can head upstairs, but the scanner doesn't recognize my card. "Damn it," I mutter under my breath, apologizing to the older gentleman in a poor-fitting suit behind me as I slide past him and move to the next turnstile over, hoping that one will let me through. When it doesn't, I'm forced to go to the security desk to have them check my ID, and there's already a line of visitors waiting to get access. "Just great," I huff, joining the queue.
Another five minutes pass by and I'm finally in the elevator heading up to the fourteenth floor offices of Enchanted Education. "Miss Swan. You're late," I hear a voice behind me say after the other occupants of the elevator exit on the sixth floor. I would know that voice anywhere.
"My apologies, Ms. Mills-Locksley. My ID badge wouldn't let me swipe through the entrance, so I had to wait in the visitor's line until Leroy could check my card and let me through," I reply, sparing a quick glance back to my boss. She is looking down at her phone, typing out a message to someone probably just as important as she is. Although this job is hardly going to be my long-term career, I still find her intimidating, even when she's not looking at me.
"I see. I trust you got it taken care of so this won't happen again?"
I bite my tongue, wanting so badly to point out that she was the one who asked us to come in at 8am, and yet she, too, is strolling in closer to our usual 8:30 start time. But, I resist, knowing that would be a comment I would come to regret. So instead I settle for a simple, "yes, Leroy thinks he fixed it. I'll be sure to test it before I leave this afternoon so there are no further problems."
"Good," Regina replies, her clipped tone designating the end of the exchange and we ride the rest of the few floors in silence. As the doors open on the fourteenth floor, we're greeted with the large "Enchanted Education" wood plaque on the wall that features an embossment of the apple tree that serves as our logo. Even though Regina has been standing behind me, she exits the elevator first, purpose evident in her strides as her heels click across the marble tile of the office foyer. Even though it's a casual dress day, Regina still looks more put-together than any of us entry-level plebeians ever do, even on our best day. Surprisingly, she has opted for denim, though it's a dark wash that still screams sophistication. She has a black v-neck silk blouse tucked beneath the black Gucci belt around her waist. Her structured black blazer fits her like it was hand-carved around her shoulders, just as her jackets always do. Today she has the blazer sleeves rolled up slightly, revealing a subtle leopard-print lining. It's more bold than she usually is at the office, but it just adds to her air of being a true HBIC, especially when coupled with her powerful steps across the floor.
I follow a healthy distance behind her shadow and make my way from the elevator to my desk, poking my head into the break room along the way to see how many people are still waiting for their turn at the Keurig. I sigh when I see the length of the line. I had hoped that we would be the only team called in early today, but it appears everyone had the same idea. It figures…everyone here is a corporate suck-up, happily showing up early to get extra work done before getting the afternoon off to attend the company outing. That's the other thing I hate about this place —I'm all for respecting one's superiors, but the blatant ass-kissing is nauseating. At Fire and Ice, Ingrid and Mal would have called out anyone who was trying to get ahead by sucking up. Here, it's a perpetual competition as to who can be the biggest brownnoser. I refuse to play that game.
When I log into my computer and open my email, I see that Regina has emailed me the list of contacts I'm required to call before I leave for the day. Half of the names on the list are professors who specifically contacted us to inquire about our materials. Of all the calls I make, those are the easiest because they are at least interested in what I have to say. I always save those for the end of the day, because they suck a little less than the rest. The other half will be pure cold-calls, a list composed by our interns who scour university faculty directories and paste names, phone numbers, and email addresses into a massive spreadsheet divided by subject area. My coworker Cindy and I are responsible for everything in the sciences, because it would be too much to ask to be assigned the English category where I would at least be in my discipline.
"You look like you need this." I look up at Ruby, the tall brunette who works in the K-12 science sales division, who is now leaning on the wall of my cubical and placing a cup of coffee on my desk.
"Oh my God, you have no idea. Thank you, Ruby," I reply, graciously taking the coffee. I'm so exhausted that I barely notice the slightly plastic taste from the K-cup. "How is your call list for today?"
Ruby shrugs. "Not too bad. We have a standing team meeting this morning, so our call volume will be a little lower today. We might even get out a little early, so I may swing by H&M on Michigan Avenue before heading to the picnic. What about you?"
"It's manageable, but I definitely won't have time for shopping. If I'm lucky, I might get out of here early enough to actually be on-time to the picnic. And I need to be, considering Regina already called me out for being slightly late this morning."
"How are you late? It's barely 8:45."
"Well, you know that we're all expected to be in at 8:30, even though everyone else's day doesn't start until 9. But Regina asked everyone on her teams to be here by 8am to compensate for the lost productivity time this afternoon. I forgot to set an earlier alarm, and then my ID card wouldn't swipe me through so I had to wait for Leroy to fix it. Of course, Regina was in the elevator with me so she saw me come in at 8:20."
Ruby rolls her eyes. "She needs to chill. She needs a good drink, lay, or joint or something."
"Don't let her hear you say that," I chuckle. Even though Regina isn't Ruby's boss since they work in different divisions, Regina is good friends with Daniel, the VP of the K-12 sales teams and Ruby's supervisor.
"Miss Lucas," a foreboding voice rings out from the doorway a few cubicles down the aisle.
I bite back a laugh as I watch Ruby straighten at the sound of her name. "Good morning, Ms. Mills-Locksley."
"Why are you distracting my employee?"
"I apologize. I just wanted to drop off some coffee for Emma and double check that I would see her later at the picnic."
"Of course you will. Everyone is required to attend the afternoon of family fun," Regina replies. I can't quite tell if that last sentence was intended as sarcasm. The executives here have had the company party lines hammered into their minds for so long that I often think they truly believe their pathetic attempts at morale-building are effective. But, something about Regina's delivery makes me think she might not be buying what Enchanted Education is selling.
"Right. I'll see you later, Emma," Ruby says before turning toward Regina and nodding. "Good day, Ms. Mills-Locksley." She scurries off down the hall back to her own cubicle, sending me one last look of pity over her shoulder as she does so.
"The coffee here is shit," Regina says as she approaches my desk.
I try to hid my surprise at her declaration. It's completely accurate, but nonetheless I'm yet again surprised that Regina is showing any discontent for any aspect of the company — people have been fired for lesser offenses. I'm a little impressed…maybe she really hasn't been drinking the company Kool-Aid. I manage to shrug my shoulders and say "it could be worse," purposely taking a sip of my coffee to prove my point as I'm internally wondering why she is paying a visit to my desk this early in the day.
"Your year-end evaluation is due next week. I've prepared the preliminary report of your sales statistics, and I would like you to look it over and make sure it's accurate before we meet on Monday."
I suppress a groan, because that is one more thing I'll have to do before I leave today. I barely expect to get through my call list, but I'll find a way to get it all done. "Of course," I reply, taking the stapled stack of papers from Regina's hands and placing it next to my computer. I can't believe I've been here for a full year already. It's quite a depressing thought.
"I trust you saw your list of calls for today?" Regina asks.
"Yes. I've already put them in order and am ready to start."
"Good. Get to work," she says, leaving my cubicle and heading back toward her glass-walled office at the end of the hall.
I shake my head as I force myself to look away from the departing brunette and refocus on my work. I pull out my headset and prepare to dial the first number, not looking forward to the next four hours of soul-sucking monotony.
A/N: Thanks for reading! Yes, Regina is married to Robin. No, he won't be a real character in this fic/he'll barely make an appearance, so don't worry if you're not a Robin fan. He'll barely be a blip on the SQ radar :)
