The Intern: Tyler, The Creator

1. Back Again

"I'm just pissed he's forcing me to go. He treats me like a fucking child—I'm a grown ass adult."

"Nia...maybe it's for the best."

"Oh so now you're on his side?!" I stopped myself, calming myself down. "You don't understand."

"I'm just saying. If you don't do what he says now he's gonna send you back to rehab. Fuck that." I could hear Aaliyah grunt through the phone.

"Fuck, true. I just wish you were here."

"I know. Me too. I'm all the way over here though. I'm almost done with school..."

"Yeah in fucking Chicago," I sighed. "Whatever. I gotta get ready anyway. I just wanna get some cash and leave. I'm tryna move to New York or something. I hate it here."

I heard Aaliyah sigh over the phone.
"What about Brent? Y'all talked?"

"He texted me last night. I didn't reply though."

"If your dad finds out you still fucking with him he's gonna be pissed..."

"We not even talking no more."

"It's always on and off with y'all," I could feel her rolling her eyes through the phone.

Brent and I were on and off ever since our senior year in high school. He was mostly producing music now, but my dad never approved. Ever since he caught him in my room during prom night, things went south.

Last time we talked was the day before I left for treatment.

"Whatever girl. Just be glad your dad hooked you up with that job. Even just for a little while."

"Internship." I corrected, smiling to myself.

"Same shit. You getting paid either way. Girl bye, I'll talk to you later."

I hung up.

Aaliyah and I have been friends since middle school, but she moved out to college in Chicago to pursue business. She was always good at all that entrepreneurial shit. She used to sell stolen lip glosses and hot cheetos after school, she made some money off that. Later she figured she could probably start a business selling who knows what. She's always changing her mind about it.

On the other hand, I've never been good at anything. I struggled with OCD, always two steps behind everyone else. My mind was always focused on shit that didn't matter to everyone else. I had to wash my hands a certain amount of times, check the door five times before I left. Fuck, I was always late to shit.

That wasn't even the beginning of it.

I got sent to this treatment-rehab-facility therapy thing for six months, after my dad got tired of me being a twenty three year old with nothing to offer the world. I guess he made the right choice since it actually ended up helping.

I don't really think much about the stuff I used to worry about anymore. Whenever I get the urge to go back to those obsessive habits, I bite my lip, then my cheek, then my lip again. It's something the counselor taught me to try whenever I feel like I'm gonna give in.

It's worked so far.

I got out of my thoughts, quickly putting on something that looked somewhat professional, digging through my makeup box that I hadn't used for six months.

"Nia! It's almost 10!"

I rolled my eyes, grabbing my bag, phone, and made my way outside—only to lastly check that the door was locked about 6 times—to where my dad waited in the car.

"First day you already gon' mess it up, Nia."

"We're fifteen minutes early." I shut the door.

"You gotta show up early the first day. Especially since I got you this with no interview."

I didn't even reply, just looked out the window.

My dad was friends with someone at this advertisement company, they'd both went to college together but took different paths. My dad was a lawyer, and this guy became a cofounder at this agency.

Rogers, I think his name was.

So I guess it worked out in his favor.