Danger in the Streets

Work

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP

My alarm screams in my ear as I bolt upright. It's four thirty in the morning. Ungodly, but my new job starts at seven. I got up early so I could work out, and my running clothes lie innocently draped across a chair in my small bedroom.

I weakly flop my hand out towards the unused leggings and sports bra. My new running shoes seem to scream, "Wear me!"

Fuck it. I'm going back to sleep. My bed has claimed me as one of its own.

*  *  *

"VANESSA!"

"GAAARGH, what-," I yelp.

My roommate, Dariya, stands a foot away from the bed.

"Honey, guess what time it is?" she says when she calms down.

I try to read the digits on my clock, but everything's blurry. Fuck 30/60 vision. My contacts are all the way in the tiny bathroom we share.

"Uh...six?" I groan.

"Nope. It's six forty five. So get your ass out of bed. I guess I'll make breakfast for you. So you don't collapse of malnourishment on your first day." Dariya spins on her heel and walked out.

"Shit, shit, SHIT!" I grumble, digging through my tiny closet for some clothes. There's nothing to wear: Just twenty shirts and three dresses. A few skirts. Not good enough.

But wait...Aha! A short sleeved red dress with a white collar. Not bad, especially with a pair of flats. I rush to the bathroom to put my contacts in, brush my thick dark hair into a decent ponytail, and put on my makeup. A girl might as well have some war paint on as she heads to her death, right? I'm not just winging this thing. I'm ruby lips and mascara-ing this thing. Which I succeed in doing after stabbing myself in the eye.

Aand having seven minutes left. I run to the midget kitchen and grab my purse off the counter. "I'm gonna be late! Gotta go kick some interior design ass!" I cry.

Dariya is still in her Star Wars pajamas. She throws me a waffle, which I somehow catch on the way out. "Good luck with that. You'll just be the half white girl who sits in the back. Welcome to reality."

Good pep talk.

*  *  *

I jump off the subway and race down the already crowded streets of Manhattan. Even though I live about ten minutes away from this part of Manhattan, I don't come here often. Mostly because I can't afford anything, except for the necessities: frozen waffles, coffee ice cream, and tampons. (The prices these days...And the luxury tax on tampons? Do you think we WANT the lining of our vaginas pouring blood and disgusting shit everywhere each month?!)

"East 82nd Street...," I mutter. I look up. A decent sized building with "BRIDGES DESIGN" in the window looms before me. I immediately notice art nouveau finishes through the window. But there's something else I notice, reflecting through the window, with a Beaux-Arts front featuring fantastic pillars and archways.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art, the crown of the Manhattan art world. I'm getting in there. Somehow.

But not now. I swing open the door. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry I'm late-"

"You're Vanessa Madera, correct?" a stiff voice to my left says.

I turn. A guy a couple years my senior with perfectly styled silvery blond hair and a pressed button down is staring me down, arms crossed. I immediately hated him.

He checks his shiny silver watch that I couldn't even dream of affording. "You're...fifteen minutes late."

"Yes....Aaron," I say, peering at his silver name tag. Aaron Sterling. Even that sounds rich and disgusting.

"You may call me Mr. Sterling. Your ranking is far below mine," Asshole Aaron scoffed. I mean, Mr. Sterling.

"So...Where do I go?" I inquire, looking around hopefully at a large empty glass desk, a dark wood coffee table, and a fantastic black chandelier with curved arms.

"In the back. Follow me," Asshole Aar-Mr. Sterling-sighs impatiently.

I tear myself away from the furnishings and follow Asshole Aaron (I'm calling him that in my mind now. That asshat deserves it.) down a long carpeted hallway with white lights.

"In here. My office is across the hall." I want to strangle him.

I peer inside. "Oh," I say quietly.