The Daily Bruin is as busy as the last time I saw it. Maybe even busier-if that's remotely possible. The open workspace houses at least forty small cubicles separating each occupied worker from the next. Although everyone here looks like they have enough work to keep two people busy, there's something about the atmosphere-the slight yelling on the phones and furiously fast fingers hitting the keyboard that builds up a giddiness in me.
"And this here is conference room B. It's back up when the main one is booked for something more important. As an intern, your job isn't to book meetings but to be at meetings and on time. No one likes a latecomer...This completes our tour. Have you got any questions, or are you still confused about anything?" Angie asks when we reach a grey door that reads Conference room B. I shake my head- she was thorough with her explanations.
She smiles, her bright brown eyes shining contentedly. "The chief editor is in a meeting in the other conference room but will be with you shortly."
I feel a tightness in my belly at the mention of Melissa Huntley. Not just because of nerves but also because the woman is a force to be reckoned with. She's like a Rosalie Hale meets Miranda Priestly-scary and bitchy. Not only is she the youngest chief editor the college has seen, but she has led the school paper to win multiple awards at state, regional and national levels. If you need to impress anybody here, it's her. I don't think my interview with her was particularly impressive, but my being here surely counts for something.
Right?
"Hey," Angie, the dark-haired woman who might have caught me having a full-blown panic attack in the bathroom following my interview, places a reassuring hand on my shoulder. She must have seen through all the nerves because there's a calming smile on her face. "I know this seems difficult since you had a hard time with the interview, but you'll be fine, trust me. You're doing great."
Her words seem to ease the butterflies in my stomach, and I feel a sense of happiness that I already have someone in here who understands me and would potentially have my back in the future.
"If you need anything, my office is right by the front." She gives me a slight nod before walking away.
Not wanting to look like an oddball by standing in front of the glass door, I enter the conference room, which isn't fancy. Sitting in the centre of the room is a largely white wooden table with comfortable-looking black swivel chairs around them. Spare chairs line the glass wall towards the whiteboard at the back of the room.
Cautiously taking a seat next to the window, I bring out a pen from my bag and ensure my phone is turned off.
I hope this goes well. Even though Angie has told me I shouldn't worry as the welcome meeting is to go through some paperwork and basic dos and don'ts, I can't shrug off the fear that's settled on my shoulder. Not when I'll be in the same room with Melissa Huntley.
The thought alone is making my palms sweaty.
Damn, I wish I could stop panicking.
Melissa Huntley is like any other person with an extra taste for criticism.
"Well, don't you look pretty?" Melissa walks into the conference room in a light peach pantsuit that looks like she should be on the front cover of Harper's Bazaar. I catch a whiff of her expensive perfume as she sits opposite me on the table, her shiny blonde curls bouncing as she does so. I can't help but think about how flawless she is. She's so flawless that I didn't even hear her coming into the room.
And the woman who looked like she had just stepped out of a shoot for Vogue's Most Independent Women complimented me, and I seriously did not know if I could accept her compliment.
But either way, I'm glad that I let Shadé doll me up before leaving our apartment this morning. I didn't make a great first impression; my second impression should at least be a solid 9.5/10.
I have a wide smile on my face even though I'm shitting myself, and my hands won't stop playing with each other under the table. "Thank you," I mutter thankfully before clearing my throat.
She humphs in reply; her vivid blue eyes, which are more eminent because of the smokey eyeshadow, watch me intently before sliding a brown paper towards me. "There is a copy of your contract and forms that you need to fill out. I would like you to fill that out and bring it in sometime next week." She explains while sorting through the rest of the papers in front of her. I pick up the brown envelope and take a peek inside but don't see anything.
Before I can pull it out, Melissa slides another paper towards me. I put the brown envelope on my lap with a slight frown. I glance at Melissa anxiously before turning to the paper on the table. I pick it up gingerly and scan through it.
Lorraine Perabo, Article on Basketball Prodigy, Charlie Murtaugh (Journey back to the court.) Due by the 31st of October.
"I-I don't understand." My forehead creases in confusion. "I thought that I'd be starting with the welcome-"
"I know we called you here for a welcome meeting, but that is what you're here for." She cuts me off abruptly, "I need you to write an article about one of our star players. His name is Charlie Murtaugh; I'm sure you've heard of him around campus."
I have heard a few bits and pieces about Charlie here and there. You know people talk, and sometimes I find it hard not to eavesdrop. Especially when the topic is about a certain Charlie Murtaugh sleeping with anything in a skirt on campus since his accident, I must admit he's got quite the reputation both on and off the court-not that he has been on a court in a while.
He has hurt a lot of girls, I'll tell you that much. But most of them don't seem to care, so that makes it okay? Or maybe it doesn't. It's none of my business. I don't know him, so I'm not going to start playing judge Judy.
"Yes, I have," I reply quietly, my face flushing slightly. She raises a perfectly laminated eyebrow at me, obviously sensing the inevitable 'but' coming. "But I'm not a sports person, you see, so I don't think I'm the perfect person for this task," I add quickly.
I'm not a fan of sports-at least not basketball. If there's any sport that I hate with a passion, it's basketball. I've not been to a basketball game since that one time in middle school. It was my first and last basketball game. The embarrassing story behind it makes me cringe whenever my mind, unfortunately, wonders down that memory lane. So I already know that this article that Melissa wants me to write will be a total disaster. I don't know anything about basketball apart from the fact that it's related to the NBA.
"I know that." She declares, "which is why I've chosen you to write the article."
"That doesn't make, um," I struggle to find a word that's not 'sense' but means the same thing-sighting Melissa's serious, why the hell is you talking expression. I swallow "-uh. I didn't think I'd be assigned to write an article so fast or that it'd be in sports. My resume specified that I'm leaning more towards crime/ investigative journalism."
"Are you going to let me speak, or will you keep giving your unwanted opinions?"
Ok, dang. I blink, forcing myself to keep eye contact.
"Sorry," I mumble, "carry on."
"This is an internship." Melissa starts, clasping her slender fingers that showcase her baby pink clad nails. "I've seen your articles, and I've spoken to your professors, so I know your strengths and weaknesses. I know everything that I need to know about you."
"You can't possibly-"
"I know you're a Journalism student; you live in one of the new complexes on the east side of campus with your three friends, Elle, an international relations major. Shadé, Art & Theatre and Samantha, Psychology. I also know you stalk the cute guy from Starbucks every Tuesday afternoon after your 8'o'clock stats class, which you failed the first year, and you want more friends, but you're too antisocial, and your anxiety-"
"Wow. I-I don't know what to-wow. How do you know all of this?" I rush, not knowing whether I should be impressed or extremely weirded out.
"As I was saying," she continues, blatantly ignoring my question, "an internship is not for you to be comfortable. You need to gain experience in every sense of the word. It would be best if you got out of your comfort zone. That is why I've chosen your first piece to be on sports."
I can't lie and say what she's saying doesn't make perfect sense because it does-everything Melissa Huntley says makes perfect sense. But the fact that this is new territory to me still stands. How in the world am I supposed to write an article on something I have no clue about-on someone I don't know. This will require a shit ton of research.
"That paper has everything that you need to include in the article. When I say everything, I mean it."
My frown deepens with every word as I skim through the paper in front of me "these are personal questions. There's no way stuff like this will be on the internet."
"Then set up an interview."
I choke on my spit. Like, I choke. Melissa watches me with a bored expression as I try to recover. "Sorry," I mumble before clearing my throat to find my voice. "I should set up an interview with who?"
"Charlie Murtaugh." She disclosed, "keep up, Lorraine."
"I-" I gulp ", you want me to interview him for real?"
"You didn't think you're writing based on shit people post on the internet, are you?"
"Well, I-"
"Look here, Lorraine, this is a very, very important article, and your internship depends on it. I don't know if you've heard, but sports is significant around here, so you need to make this article as perfect as possible because it will be everywhere. It's either you go big, or you go home."
***
"See, I told you it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world." Elle is the first person I see as soon as I step into our four-bedroom apartment. She's got a green face mask on, and her blonde hair is tied into a messy knot on top of her head with a few strands framing her small face. I eye her weirdly as I close the door behind me and take off my white airforces before strutting past her into our living room.
Our living room has floor-to-ceiling windows, which I love because not only does it allow maximum lighting into the apartment, but we also get a fantastic view of the campus which is not so depressing at night time.
We were fortunate to get this apartment. Almost two years ago, when I saw the complex on the school's website, I knew I had to get it even though I had to share my space with three strangers.
It didn't turn out too bad, considering they're the only friends I've made so far. They're the only friends I have. High school was not the best experience for a girl dubbed the mute.
I hated those four years of my life and wished I dared to stand up for myself.
"Were you waiting by the door so that you could tell me that?" I push my hair back and drop my empty Starbucks cup on the table and sink into our plush, off-white sofa with a satisfied sigh. I turn to Elle with a small smile "because that would be super weird."
She rolls her eyes dramatically before dropping next to me, one of her legs folded under the other "come on, how was the welcome meeting?" She asks with a genuine look of worry on her face.
Remembering my current dilemma, I sigh, "The welcome meeting wasn't even welcoming. It was, like, a total ambush." I put my legs on the sofa and wince at the sight of the hole in my socks, revealing my big toe. I make a mental note to paint my nails tonight before tucking my feet under the oversized woollen sweater Elle is wearing.
"Feet, ew." She pushes my legs away, and I scowl. It's freezing in here, which means Sam is in the house. Having lived in Vermont all her life, she hates the heat. Which unfortunately means her cranking up the air conditioning until the house feels like a meat freezer. "and what do you mean ambush?"
"Melissa Huntley, the chief editor, assigned me a paper that's near impossible to write."
"What's it about?" Elle asks, intrigued. "It's probably nothing too difficult, and you being a total overthinker." She adds before I can reply to her.
And damn, is she right?
"Well, it's a short article about Charlie Murtaugh," I mumbled reluctantly.
Elle's blue eyes widen before she lets out a spew of laughs. "Really? You've got to write an article on Charlie?"
My eyebrows furrow at how she says Charlie-like all those other lovestruck girls I've heard gossip about him in the women's room. "Do you know him?"
"Not personally if that's what you're asking. But I know of him. I mean, who doesn't?" She replies, which is true. Everyone knows UCLA's star player Charlie. But most people are still trying to figure out why the best player on the team got benched for the whole of last year's season. "I follow him on Instagram, Twitter and Snapchat."
"Of course you do." I roll my eyes.
Sam walks into the living room in nothing but a pink tank top, black shorts and too bright neon green ankle socks. How she can wear that, it's freezing in here. She's got messy bed hair that makes me giggle slightly. Samantha recently cut her hair because of some dickhead guy who broke up with her, but you've got to agree, it does suit her-when it's brushed, "You're back." She mumbles as she walks into the open-plan kitchen "how was it? Meet any cute guys?"
"Guess who she has to write an article about?"
"If it's not BTS, it can't be that special," Samantha replies in a deadpan tone that makes Elle roll her eyes. Samantha has been in a hot and cold mood since this 'guy' walked out on her. Sometimes she's the normal, happy Samantha, and sometimes we get sad, mopey Sam. I wish she would tell us about this secret guy we're not allowed to know about, but she's kept it a secret since first year. All we'll ever know is that he's a senior now.
"It's Charlie. Charlie Murtaugh." Elle stood up from the chair and walked to the kitchen, which I found annoying because she was warming up my legs.
"The basketball player who got in the freak accident two years ago?" Sammie questions, her eyes widening with recognition. "I heard he's getting back on the team this year."
Wait, hold on.
"Freak accident?" I ask in confusion as I watch Sammie pause, her hand stopping on top of the kettle button. I haven't read the briefing yet, so this is new information. "What freak accident?"
"Well, we're not sure, but some rumours have been going around about why he couldn't play last year. He crashed his car into a tree." Elle explains, "on purpose."