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  “Hello. I’m Pia Santore. I’m reporting for my first day of my internship. Colin Cohen told me to ask for him when I arrived.”

  The receptionist, who looks to be in her late fifties, with shoulder-length, raven-colored hair and thick, though impeccably groomed, eyebrows, puts on the reading glasses that are attached to a long, crystal-studded chain she’s wearing around her neck.

  “Leah . . . Leah,” she keeps repeating as her finger follows a list of names on her clipboard.

  “It’s Pia, ma’am, with a ‘P’ as in ‘Peter.’”

  “Whad-ya say?”

  “Pia. P-I-A.”

  “No, no, I heard that. You called me ‘ma’am.’ How old do you think I am? I’m not old enough for you to be calling me ‘ma’am.’ Get that straight and we’ll get along.” She lowers her gaze back to her clipboard, resuming her search for my name.

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “Pia. Here you are. Okay, have a seat. I’ll ring him.”

  I walk over to the plum and silver chairs and decide to sit in a plum one, feeling foolish that I actually mulled for a second which color I would choose as if I were a five-year-old child.

  “Yes, yes. I’ll tell her, Col.”

  Col? Not Mr. Cohen or even his full name. I’d heard that the creative industries were more informal, but I never imagined them to be this casual.

  “You’d better make yourself comfortable, honey. He’s in the editorial meeting, and Lord knows those can go on forever.”

  Now I feel like telling her not to call me “honey” and “we’ll get along just fine,” but that’s the least of my problems at the moment. I try to conceal the disappointment in my voice as I simply murmur, “Okay, thank you.”

  The knot that’s been in my shoulder since I woke up is twisting even tighter. But now in addition to my anxiety I’m feeling something else: irritation. Granted, I know I’m just an intern, the lowest man on the totem pole here, but still. What would it have taken for Colin Cohen to interrupt his meeting for five minutes and take me to the cubicle where I’ll be sitting? Or even to have his assistant do it?

  Well, if I’m going to be waiting a while, I might as well make myself as comfortable as possible.

  “Excuse me?”

  The receptionist looks up at me, clearly annoyed, and holds up her index finger. She begins speaking into the creamy-colored headset, which looks more like a headband holding her dark locks in place.

  “Yes, sir. I’ll transfer you immediately to Mr. Cohen’s line.”

  Huh? I thought he was in the editorial meeting? Obviously, Colin—or Col—was blowing me off. The receptionist hangs up and looks at me as if she’s telepathically communicating with me.

  “Is there a restroom I can use?” I ask her.

  “Behind that wall, make a sharp left.”

  My two-inch stacked-heel pumps click-clack noisily on the shiny black marble tiles. Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies” is streaming through invisible speakers in the restroom. I’m surprised they don’t also have music in the reception area. Maybe it’s too hard for the receptionist to hear her calls? I can imagine her making a stink about it. Then again, as Andrew put it, she’s just a receptionist, so they probably wouldn’t take her seriously.

  I check my makeup in the mirror and am relieved to see it’s still in place. Normally, I wear little makeup—just a deep nude lip gloss by L’Oréal, Nars’s Outlaw blush, which gives my cheeks that dewy, rosy look, and under-eye concealer. But today I decided to lightly line my eyes in a smoky gray pencil and wear mascara. It has to be a very special occasion for me to wear eye shadow. The last time I wore shadow was at my high school prom. The bun I had pulled my hair tightly into earlier this morning is already loosening, so I take out the bobby pins and begin winding my waist-length hair back into the coil I had it in. Two women storm through the door, giggling loudly. At the sight of me, they both stop laughing and blatantly stare.

  I pretend not to notice and keep my back turned toward them. Though my makeup hasn’t run, I take out my compact and lightly pat my nose, hoping their fascination with me will soon wear off and they’ll go into the stalls. But instead they stand over the sinks as one of them brushes her hair and the other applies lip gloss. I can still feel their eyes on me.

  I turn around and walk past them, but the one applying lip gloss says, “Are you here for an interview?”

  Vanilla blond highlights are streaked through her dark brown hair, which is ironed super straight. She’s almost as tall as me. Like Andrew, she too sizes me up from head to toe. I glance sideways at her friend, who’s staring at my sensible two-inch Nine West black pumps that go with my black pants suit. I’m wearing a sky-blue button-down shirt and a pearl choker Erica and my mother gave me for my sixteenth birthday. Suddenly, it hits me why Lip Gloss Chick thinks I’m interviewing. I’m wearing the typical interview outfit—the “safe black suit” one can’t go wrong with. They’re dressed nothing like me.

  Lip Gloss Chick is squeezed into a super-tight mini pencil skirt. Her four-inch nude stilettos make her legs, which are bare, look even longer. A sleeveless wrap top with a plunging neckline reveals her more-than-ample bosom. Bangle bracelets loop around her right arm, and on her left, a chunky gold watch gleams in the fluorescent lights. There’s no way she bought that from the watch guy selling knockoff Rolexes at the corner.

  Her friend looks Indian American. She, too, has super-straight hair, and her sideswept bangs reach to her thick eyelashes. A ruched emerald-green dress hugs her sleek, box-shaped body. A size zero, I’m guessing without a doubt. Her cheekbones stand out in her face, and her wrists are just as painfully thin. She takes off her shoes and massages the big toe of her right foot. I notice the signature Christian Louboutin red soles of her stilettos, which look even higher than Lip Gloss Chick’s heels.

  “No, I’m not here for an interview. I’m actually interning for the summer.”

  “That’s what we thought, but we weren’t sure since you don’t look as young as most of the interns do.” Lip Gloss Chick locks eyes with Louboutin Chick, and they both smile.

  “I’m actually twenty-five.” Oh, great! Why did I just tell them my age?

  “Twenty-five? And you’re interning?” Louboutin Chick asks me, not even attempting to conceal her disgust.

  “It’s a long story,” is all I offer. It’s none of their damn business why I am interning only now in my mid-twenties.

  Lip Gloss Chick raises her brows at Louboutin. They finally stop staring at me and go back to applying their makeup and brushing their hair.

  I’m not sure what to do next. All I want is to escape, but since I’m going to see these women in the office on a regular basis, I figure I should make an attempt at being social. “I’m Pia Santore,” I say, extending my hand.

  Lip Gloss Chick looks at my hand as if I have swine flu or some other ghastly contagious illness. She then hunches her shoulders, holding up her lip gloss bottle and wand, and says, “Sorry! My hands are kind of full at the moment.”

  Right on cue, Louboutin Chick flips her head over and begins brushing her hair.

  This has to be one of the worst feelings in the world, being left hanging with my hand extended in midair. I draw it back and say, “It was nice to meet you,” and quickly make my exit.

  As the door swings shut, I can hear their high-pitched laughter. They couldn’t even wait a few seconds more to be sure I was out of earshot—not like they cared. I’m sure they wanted me to hear. “Freaks!” I mutter under my breath.

  So far in the half hour that I’ve been at Profile, I haven’t been left with the best impression. Maybe this is all a mistake?

  I walk back into the reception area, where a man wearing a black sports jacket and denim jeans with chocolate-brown leather boots is pacing back and forth. He glances at his watch and checks the time against the clock that’s hanging on a parapet near the reception desk. The click-clack of my heels diverts his attention toward me.

  “Pia Santore?
”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, there you are. I thought you were never going to come out of that restroom.”

  I frown, knowing I wasn’t gone for more than five minutes.

  He holds out his hand. “I’m Colin Cohen, senior editor. But of course you know that already.”

  He notices the surprise in my face.

  “I know I look different from when we Skype’ed. My stylist has been on my case about updating my look.”

  First, I’m shocked that he actually introduced himself to me and shook my hand. The receptionist hadn’t even bothered telling me her name. Second, he has shaved off most of his long, tousled locks that had given him what I thought was the perfect “editor look” when I interviewed with him via Skype. Now only a superfine haze of reddish stubble can be detected. His beard is also gone, making him look much younger, hence, my not recognizing him.

  “Hi. Nice to meet you.”

  “I’m out an assistant today, and I’m more crazed than usual. Follow me.”

  At 6’5 ”, he’s quite tall. I walk quickly, but with his long stride I can’t keep up with him.

  “You’ll be sitting in this cube. I know it’s a bit messy, but you’ll only be here for the summer, so there’s no sense in wasting time cleaning it up.”

  A bit messy is a huge understatement. Piles and piles of past issues of Profile wrap their way around the cubicle. There are even two piles on the floor near my chair. Stacks of papers are crammed next to the magazines. Not an inch of free space is visible on the desk. Post-it notes are stuck all around the computer’s monitor and the cabinets that hang above the cube. Coffee stains are splattered on the keyboard and even on the back of the Mac’s monitor.

  “So, why don’t you get yourself settled and look through these page proofs. You’ll be the last person proofing them, so just make sure all the previous correx were made and that there aren’t any other glaring errors anyone else missed. I need to run back into the editorial meeting. I’ll circle back with you after it’s over. Sound good?”

  “Sure.”

  “Great, great. I can tell already you’re going to work out just fine.” With a nod of his head, he bolts off back toward the reception area.

  My heart sinks as I take in once more my surroundings. I’m a notorious neat freak. Having this much clutter just unnerves me. I sigh as I struggle to push the stacks of magazines that cover the floor, trying vainly to add some space to my suffocating quarters. But the stacks won’t budge. Something’s blocking them. I bend over, peering behind them. An old Dell computer stands behind the magazines. It’s hopeless.

  I begin perusing through the proofs Colin has left for me, asking myself repeatedly, “What the hell did I get myself into?” So much for my glamorous internship.

  Though I’ve always heard the first week of a job is the most brutal, I had never imagined it could be this bad. I’m on the N subway, making my way back to Zia’s house after another long day at Profile. Thank God it’s Friday. My bones ache and the knots in my right shoulder are tangling themselves even tighter together as I hold on to the overhead bar on the subway. I’m still not used to all the walking and standing one does in New York City—and I don’t know how long it will take for me to get accustomed to the subway.

  Don’t get me wrong. I’m not your typical spoiled California blonde who’s used to her creature comforts. But living in New York City definitely demands a lot from you. The crowds alone test one’s patience regularly. Then there’s all the waiting you do. Whether it’s for the subway, for a seat at a restaurant, or for traffic to clear, waiting is the norm here.

  People’s superior attitudes are a whole other beast, but I’m used to that, having lived so close to L.A., where acting phony is actually considered a desirable trait. Though I had often hung out in L.A. with my friends, I’d never developed a liking for it. I’d always been grateful we lived in Carlsbad, a suburb of San Diego, where people are more down-to-earth. I’ve only been at my internship for a few days, but it’s quickly become apparent that people at Profile take themselves way too seriously and suffer from the same conceited affliction people in La La Land suffer from. But in L.A., the superficiality and arrogance are much worse than what I’ve encountered so far at Profile or on the streets of Manhattan. At least in the Big Apple, there’s variety and not everyone is dressed the same or has their locks dyed the same shade.

  “Lexington Avenue and Fifty-Ninth Street,” the subway conductor’s voice booms overhead. I look at the people surrounding me. From affluent Upper West Side women toting their Prada handbags to restaurant workers and students, all walks of life are represented on the subway. Initially, I had wished my parents were rich so that they could have given me the money to rent an apartment in Manhattan for the summer. Who doesn’t want to live in Manhattan? But after spending eight hours, five days a week, trying vainly to fit in with my status-conscious coworkers and order the right trendy cocktail of the moment on the two nights I’ve been invited to go to happy hour, it’s nice to escape to Astoria and be around real people.

  “Queensboro Plaza!”

  Just as quickly as the car empties, it becomes full again with the teeming crowds who are on the platform. I’m about to take a seat that’s become available at the other end of the car when a young woman jumps in front of me and drops into the seat. I’m momentarily thrown off-balance. I shoot her a dirty look, but she averts her eyes, acting as if she hasn’t even seen me. I can see why so many New Yorkers get into confrontations with people. The stressful conditions of living in the largest city in the country with a population of eight million people make it easy to lose your cool and blow up at your neighbor. But just when I’m wondering why people can be so rude here, I’m pleasantly surprised.

  “Excuse me, miss? Would you like to sit down?” An elderly man rises from his seat. Obviously he’s witnessed the hijacking of my seat.

  “No, thank you.” I smile reassuringly, but the man still gets up and pats my arm imploringly to sit down.

  “Go ahead. I’m getting off soon anyway.”

  I feel awkward taking his seat since he obviously needs it more than me, but I also sense that he’ll be offended if I don’t take it.

  “Thank you very much.”

  “My pleasure. Chivalry isn’t dead anymore.” He winks at me.

  “That’s kind of you. Thank you again, sir.”

  “You’re not from around here, are you?”

  “It’s that obvious?” I laugh.

  “A little. Nothing to be ashamed of, though. Before you know it, you’ll blend in, and soon you’ll be the one jumping like a panther into someone else’s seat.” He glances over his shoulder at the young woman who’s stolen my seat. She’s listening to her iPod and flipping through the pages of Cosmo. I can’t help but notice one of its glaring storylines: “Give Him His Best Orgasm Ever!”

  Yeah, New Yorkers do get a bad rap from the rest of the country. But like my elderly knight in shining armor has just proven, there are also plenty of other New Yorkers who are kind and willing to help a stranger in need.

  My stop finally arrives—Ditmars Boulevard—the last one on the N line. I descend the stairs of the “el,” as New Yorkers refer to train tracks that are elevated above the street as opposed to those underground. As I make my way up Ditmars Boulevard, the aromas from several restaurants reach my nose. Pizza Palace is at the corner, an establishment that has been in the neighborhood for three decades now. I remember coming here a few times with Erica when we visited as kids.

  My stomach is growling. I’m tempted to buy a slice to take home for dinner, but I don’t dare. Zia insists on cooking dinner for me every night. She won’t even let me eat leftovers. Of course, Zia’s thrifty nature doesn’t allow her to waste the leftovers by throwing them out. She eats the leftovers herself for lunch.

  The steam coming from the souvlaki stand on 36th Street engulfs me in its scent of juicy lamb and sweet herbs. This is the toughest of all the foods to resis
t on Ditmars, especially since a second souvlaki stand is just two corners away from the first one. Though I’ve had Greek food in California since I’d first visited Astoria as a child, it’s never measured up. Zia can’t stand Greek food and had seemed miffed whenever my mother had bought Erica and me souvlaki sticks or gyros. “Why aren’t you feeding them your own food? Italian is no longer good enough for you?” Zia would ask my mother critically. It was as if my mother had defected to Greece and was rejecting her Italian citizenship and heritage. My mother just ignored her. I’ve always been in awe of how my mother can avoid conflict so easily simply by refusing to defend herself. Erica was the same way. I, on the other hand, take after my father and am always ready with a sharp retort of my own if necessary.

  With the largest Greek American population in the United States, Astoria is known as Little Greece. Gyro shops and souvlaki stands are a dime a dozen. Owners of Greek restaurants and specialty food shops sport the blue and white flag of their motherland proudly in their storefront windows, even if it’s just a small flag. A few restaurants paint their interiors in blue and white, again in homage to their native country.

  As I approach the second souvlaki stand, the temptation becomes unbearable. I’ve been waiting all these years since I was a child to return to Astoria to eat souvlaki again. Just one stick. That shouldn’t ruin my appetite, and I can eat it on the street as everyone else does. Zia won’t have to know.

  I glance in the direction of Antoniella’s Bakery, making sure Zia isn’t sweeping out front or even checking to see if I’m making my way back from the subway station as she has done already on two evenings. The coast is clear. Of course, there’s a line at the souvlaki stand. The woman roasting the sticks is alone, but she has her multitasking skills down to a tee as she turns over the souvlaki, takes money from customers, and keeps the line moving along. I keep glancing toward the bakery, nervous that Zia will come out at any moment. Finally, it’s my turn.