The New Yorker

Article 2

"Avery?" A small woman calls my name. She has her hair up in a French twist which is probably why she appears older than she must be. Or it could be the librarian-like glasses. One or the other I assume.

I jump up from the stiff waiting room chairs. The whole waiting room is rather intimidating. Absolutely amazing photographs are hung all around the room almost making me rethink myself and my decision to come. The room is all white, very modern, with hard edges and lines. Articles are framed and hung, scattered about the room.

I follow the woman through the swing door and into a world of hustle and bustle. The first thing I hear is the click of people's nails on a keyboard. My favorite noise. I have never been one for silence. Too.... Quiet I guess. But that's obvious. Anyway, I become quickly at home, until we approach an office door with the name Coleen Jones. My mouth drops in aw, but I quickly shut it, biting my tongue in the process.

The door is held open by the questionably aged woman and I enter. The woman behind the large oak desk has her head down, reading what I presume to be an article of some sort. It's not until the door clicks shut that Mrs. Jones looks up at me. She doesn't say anything, but her larger hazelnut eyes look at me harshly. She motions for me to take the seat in front of her. My boots click on the hardwood floor and I sit down in the plush desk chair.

"Avery?" She says, looking back down at her paper. My résumé.

"Yes." I say. I can hear the shaking in my voice. Geez. I didn't think I was that nervous.

"Born in New York I see. Attending Columbia University as well. Smart young woman to be at an Ivy League. Especially when you want to write."

"Yes ma'am. This is my first year at Columbia. Just got settled in a few weeks ago."

"Yea I didn't ask for details, not writing an article on you. Thanks though. So how old are you exactly?"

"18 at the moment." I say, still slightly flushed from the extremity in her voice. She is so intimidating.

"Young," she says aloud "almost too young." She adds under her breath.

Oh no. I knew it was a risk to come here at such a young age. Even for an intern. They don't usually accept jobs from newbies.

"I will take any position you are willing to give me. I am looking for preferably an internship. But I will take whatever I can get!" I try and end it cheerily, but I am just so nervous that it comes out more desperate than anything.

"I know. I have interviewed a few other aspiring writer/reporters today. What makes you so special? There are definitely a generous amount of people who have much more experience than you." Mrs. Jones says, I can sense the judgement in her tone.

"I know I don't have any experience, other than high school news papers, but I am so invested in this business. The New York Times is the only thing I have ever wanted to be a part of. If I don't make it here, I'm not sure I want to continue on this career choice. Of course that will take a lot, A LOT, of tries before i decide that. I don't give up. I will finish any task given, no matter how challenging. I.."

"You won't give up, you will give it all you've got. Yada yada yada. If you write the same as you speak your articles must be dreadful!" She interrupts with an added eye roll.

Well that was harsh. I feel as though she may have just crushed my hopes of getting this internship.

"Anything else you would like to add?" She says sharply, annoyance ringing with every word.

If I'm not getting hired now, I guess I'll just have to make it on my own anyway. Anger fills inside of me. All the hard work I have put into this. All the time I have spent writing articles and debating word choice. All the dates I have turned down just to stay home and work. Just kidding. If anyone asked me out I would be willing to stop writing for a few hours.

Maybe.

But still. I have spent so much time alone working on perfecting my writing. I even have flash cards for words that enrich my vocabulary. 2 a week, and I have to use them at least once a day each. But that's beside the point. The point is, I am not giving up.

"I would just like to say that no matter how much you would like to tear me down and rip me up, I won't let you. You are just a mean woman woman who sits behind that desk of yours and judges everyone else. You edit and read articles all day, written by amazing, amazing, writers and reporters. Telling them that what they do is trash, and they should be disgraced. No. I may not be as experienced with professional writing, but I work hard and sure as hell will not let you tell me that I mediocre!" My face is hot with anger and my brow is furrowed. My hands stay folded in my lap as they always do when I get anxious, twisting the tan bracelet I never take off.

All Mrs. Jones does is look up at me. Her mouth opens as if to reply, but she doesn't speak. Uh-oh. I really didn't mean to say all that. I have a problem where I say a lot of things before I filter them. Kind of an issue. But hey, this is New York.

She picks up a blue pen off her desk and scribbles something on her paper.

"That will be all." She says in a smooth, calm tone, a smirk playing with the sides of her mouth.