"I want us all to do a quick warm up exercise," Mr. Portier explained.
Chloe glanced over at the other interns. She noticed one in particular, a boy with deep brown who was grinning devilishly. He had that look about him, like he was good and he knew it. Like he could get anything or anyone he wanted in the snap of his fingers.
"I will give you a piece of paper," Mr Portier displayed a small stack of white pages, "each paper has a topic."
Chloe strained her eyes to see the boy's name tag. Parker. He suddenly looked her way and caught her staring. Heat rose into Chloe's cheeks as Parker smirked at her.
"I will give you an hour to write an article based on your topic. At the end of the hour, you'll hand it in to me." Mr. Portier then began to hand out the sheets of paper, ending with Chloe.
"Go." He said simply as he finished handing Chloe her topic.
The interns scrambled backwards into their cubicles, immediately opening their notebooks to begin writing. Chloe found the whole notebook thing old school. She was used to writing on her computer.
She turned over her topic and read the small font printed on its surface:
When: July 18th
What: Festival of Arts
Who: citizens of New York
Where: Central Park
Festivities include:
- Salsa, Ballroom, and Ballet performances
- Painting and sculpting
- Crepes, samosas, and nachos for sale
Chloe stared at the paper in disbelief. It was so vague— how could she possibly write an article based on this? She exhaled deeply, her brow furrowed.
Clara loved crepes, she thought suddenly. Chloe shook her head. Now was not the time to be thinking about Clara.
Chloe began to write. She imagined herself a writer for a newspaper, tasked with covering the event.
What was Clara doing right now, Chloe wondered. She pinched her hand, hard. The guilt of leaving Clara was eating her— but she needed to focus. If she left Clara to do this internship, she was determined to be a rockstar.
An idea suddenly struck Chloe, and it knocked the breath from her lungs. That's it. Diversity. Multiculturalism. Dance originating from Spain, France, and Latin. Art from renaissance Italy. Food from France, India, and Mexico.
She picked up the notebook, tore the page she had written out, and started fresh. She wrote about how the event encapsulated the many varying cultures that make up New York. Her pencil flew across the page and she had just finished writing when a sudden voice burst throughout the room.
"Time!"
It was Mr. Portier. Chloe set her pencil down. Sitting back in her chair and stretching her legs out in front of her. Her article was collected, and the interns were escorted out of the room.
Chloe didn't think the article was her best work. She was distracted, thinking about Clara.
The rest of the day consisted of an elaborate tour of the entire building. Chloe fell into step with Paige, who seemed to be one of the people here who didn't seem incredibly arrogant.
"Is it just me, or does that Parker guy walk like he has a stick stuck up his ass?" Paige asked.
Chloe glanced towards Parker. He was leaning so far back as he walked, it was amazing his back could handle it. Chloe snickered, exchanging a mischievous glance with Paige.
"Watch out, his uncle does business with Mr. Portier," the girl from beside Chloe suddenly spoke up.
"I'm Jasmine, by the way," she added with a smile.
"Wish I was that privileged," Paige murmured. The three of them all looked enviously towards Parker, who was following right at Mr. Porter's heels like a dog.
When the tour was over, Chloe learned that all the interns were staying in their own rooms on the same floor of a hotel right across the street from the magazine company. They were finally given time to unpack their bags, and Chloe was grateful for the time by herself.
She rushed to throw her clothes into drawers, put her toiletries in the bathroom, and hang up the single dress that she brought (the black one she wore to the gala, it seemed almost a comfort to have something to remind her of Clara).
When she finished, she sat down on the bed and pulled out her phone. Her fingers could hardly type in her mother's cell number fast enough, although she couldn't help but feel slightly scared.
She wanted to talk to Clara, she had been waiting all day for it. But she couldn't help but fear a twinge of fear that something had already happened in the short time that she was gone.
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