I can’t even read the last few lines of text—my vision is swimming with excited glee. I let out a squeal of joy, leaping out of my chair and dancing ecstatically around my dorm room. In a flash, Emma is right back in my doorway, staring perplexedly at me as I jump and jive all over the place.
“What the hell is going on?” she asks, befuddled by my outburst.
“I just got an email from Advance Media!” I cry, clasping Emma by the shoulders.
“Okay...?” she replies. Emma is not exactly the most plugged-in person on the planet.
“They own, like, every blog and online publication on the East Coast. At least the ones that are worth reading,” I babble on. “There’s an opening at one site, FootSolider, and they want me to come in for an interview!”
Emma may not have any interest in blogs, but even she recognizes the word “interview”.
“Logan, that’s wonderful!” she cries, throwing her arms around me, “I knew something was going to come through for you. You’re too brilliant not to get snatched up.”
“Well, I haven’t been snatched up yet,” I laugh, “But I’ve been reading FootSoldier for years. I really dig their aesthetic, and I think my writing style is right up their alley.”
“In other words, they’d be crazy not to hire you,” Emma grins.
“I’m definitely a good fit for the job,” I allow.
“Ugh. That modesty thing is going to be the death of you,” Emma laughs, releasing me from her bear hug. “This calls for a celebratory drink!”
“Weren’t we already going out for a drink?” I ask.
“Well yeah,” she shrugs, “But isn’t it nicer to be justified in it?!”
“I’ll say,” I laugh, grabbing my purse and trailing Emma out the door.
We step out into the warm May evening, arms linked. My body feels weightless as we make our way through the streets of Boston. It’s like I can breathe freely for the first time in months. Finally, I’ve got a lead on a job that might actually pan out, a job I’d kill to have. Maybe I won’t have to crash land into post-graduate life after all.
Chapter Three
The powers that be at Advance Media waste no time, that’s for sure. Mere hours after I respond to their first email, they schedule me for a meeting with FootSolider’s managing editor, Elliot Simmons, to take place the very next day. My stomach does a triple axel when I read my appointment time, and I hardly sleep a wink that night. I know that I have to walk into FootSoldier’s Boston offices with all the confidence I can muster, but I can’t help but be nervous. There’s so much riding on this interview going well, far more than I’d care to admit. But while I’m busy worrying about the impending meeting, the fitful night passes. Time to rise and—hopefully—shine.
“You’re going to kill it,” Emma assures me that morning, thrusting a cup of coffee into my hands. I raise the mug gratefully to my lips, running through all the typical interview questions in my head.
What are my strengths and weaknesses? Where do I see myself in five years? What made me apply to Advance Media in particular?
The only problem is, my answers seem pretty thin all of a sudden.
I’m great at stonewalling affection and terrible at emotional availability. Hopefully not sleeping on a bean bag chair in my parent’s basement. Because I really really really need a job please just hire me.
Yeah. This thing should go great.
I run my fingers through my artfully tousled hair. FootSoldier is an edgy, ballsy publication. Its stories are always one step ahead of public opinion and awareness. The writers who do well there are mostly millennial and slightly hipster, but also often female, which is a huge deal for any popular site. I tried to dress accordingly, in black skinny jeans, a white slouchy tee, and charcoal cardigan. And of course, a swipe of my favorite red lipstick—the one thing I never leave home without. I’ll just have to hope that I blend in with the natives.
“OK. Time to face the music,” I say, plunking my drained coffee mug in the sink.
“That’s the spirit. I think,” Emma replies, giving me a swift hug. “Don’t come back here until you’ve got yourself a nice, cushy job.”
“But no pressure, right?” I mutter, setting off to face the day.
By the time I arrive at the interview, my mind is racing a mile a minute. I’ve made the mistake of pinning too much on this one interview. I can’t psych myself out like this—if I do, it’s game over. Standing outside the unassuming refurbished warehouse that serves as the FootSolider offices, I force myself to pause and take a breath. You can do this, I coach myself. Remember, they called you in for a reason.
With my nerves as in check as they’re likely to get, I push open the heavy metal door and ride an industrial-looking elevator to the top floor of the warehouse. When the doors slide open again, I step out into the single coolest office I’ve ever set eyes on. The entire floor has been gutted and repurposed as an open workspace. Unfinished surfaces like exposed brick and untreated wood lend the place an edgy vibe, but the state-of-the-art laptops lined up along the community desk are anything but dated.
Even more impressive are the dozen people toiling away at those laptops. Each FootSoldier staff member is young, attractive, and hip as can be. I doubt if a single one of them is older than thirty. And even more remarkable is the fact that all but three of them are women who appear to be around my age. I knew that FootSoldier was a forward-thinking publication, but I had no idea their business practices were so progressive.
“You must be Logan,” says a voice from over my shoulder.
I turn around to find a tall, svelte woman standing behind me. She’s rocking an impeccably tailored blazer, wavy ombre hair, and thick-rimmed black glasses.
“That’s me,” I reply, tucking my portfolio under one arm and extending my free hand. “I’m here for an interview with Elliot Simmons.”
“Well, what luck,” the woman smiles, giving my outstretched hand a firm shake, “I happen to be Elliot Simmons.”
“You’re...?” I begin, before I can stop myself.
“A chick. Yeah,” Elliot laughs, “Relax, you’re not the first person who’s come in here expecting to see a dude behind the editor’s desk. It’s a symptom of the sick times we live in, my friend. I don’t hold people’s socially-conditioned sexism against them.”