The Opposite of Me Paperback - 2010

Summary

Excerpt

One
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AS I PULLED OPEN the heavy glass door of Richards, Dunne & Krantz and walked down the long hallway toward the executive offices, I noticed a light was on up ahead.

Lights were never on this early. I quickened my step.

The light was on in my office, I realized as I drew closer. IâÈçd gone home around 4:00 A.M. to snatch a catnap and a shower, but IâÈçd locked my office door. IâÈçd checked it twice. Now someone was in there.

I broke into a run, my mind spinning in panic: Had I left my storyboard out in plain view? Could someone be sabotaging the advertising campaign IâÈçd spent weeks agonizing over, the campaign my entire future hinged on?

I burst into my office just as the intruder reached for something on my desk.

âÈêLindsey! You scared me half out of my wits!âÈë my assistant, Donna, scolded as she paused in the act of putting a steaming container of coffee on my desk.

âÈêGod, IâÈçm sorry,âÈë I said, mentally smacking myself. If I ever ended up computer datingâÈ'which, truth be told, it was probably going to come down to one of these daysâÈ'IâÈçd have to check the ever-popular âÈêparanoid freakâÈë box when I listed my personality traits. IâÈçd better buy a barricade to hold back the bachelors of New York.

âÈêI didnâÈçt expect anyone else in this early,âÈë I told Donna as my breathing slowed to normal. Note to self: Must remember to join a gym if a twenty-yard dash leaves me winded. Best not to think about how often IâÈçll actually use the gym if IâÈçve been reminding myself to join one for the past two years.

âÈêItâÈçs a big day,âÈë Donna said, handing me the coffee.

âÈêYouâÈçre amazing.âÈë I closed my gritty eyes as I took a sip and felt the liquid miracle flood my veins. âÈêI really needed this. I didnâÈçt get much sleep.âÈë

âÈêYou didnâÈçt eat breakfast either, did you?âÈë Donna asked, hands on her hips. She stood there, all of five feet tall, looking like a rosy-cheeked, doily-knitting grandma. One who wouldnâÈçt hesitate to get up off her rocking chair and reach for her sawed-off shotgun if someone crossed her.

âÈêIâÈçll have a big lunch,âÈë I hedged, avoiding DonnaâÈçs eyes.

Even after five years, I still hadnâÈçt gotten used to having an assistant, let alone one who was three decades older than me but earned a third of my salary. Donna and I both knew she wore the pants in our relationship, but the secret to our happiness was that we pretended otherwise. Kind of like my parentsâÈ'Mom always deferred to DadâÈçs authority, after she mercilessly browbeat him into taking her point of view.

âÈêIâÈçm going to check in with the caterers now,âÈë Donna said. âÈêShould I hold your calls this morning?âÈë

âÈêPlease,âÈë I said. âÈêUnless itâÈçs an emergency. Or Walt from CreativeâÈ'heâÈçs freaking out about the font size on the dummy ad and I need to calm him down. Or Matt. I want to do another run-through with him this morning. And letâÈçs see, who else, who else . . . Oh, anyone from Gloss Cosmetics, of course.

âÈêOh, God, theyâÈçre going to be here inâÈëâÈ'I looked at my watch and the breath froze in my lungsâÈ'âÈêtwo hours.âÈë

âÈêHold on just a minute, missy,âÈë Donna ordered in a voice that could only be described as trouser-wearing. She bustled to her desk and returned with a blueberry muffin in a little paper bag and two Advil.

âÈêI knew you wouldnâÈçt eat, so I got extra. And youâÈçre getting a headache again, arenâÈçt you?âÈë she asked.

âÈêItâÈçs not so bad,âÈë I lied, holding out my hand for the Advil and hoping Donna wouldnâÈçt notice IâÈçd bitten off all my fingernails. Again.

When Donna finally shut my door, I sank into my big leather chair and took another long, grateful sip of coffee. The early-morning sunlight streamed in through the windows behind me, glinting off the golden Clio Award on my desk. I ran a finger over it for luck, just like I did on every presentation day.

Then I stroked it a second time. Because this wasnâÈçt an ordinary presentation day. So much more was riding on today than winning another multimillion-dollar account. If I nailed my pitch and added Gloss Cosmetics to our roster of clients . . . I squeezed my eyes shut. I couldnâÈçt finish the thought; I didnâÈçt want to jinx myself.

I leapt up and walked across the room to look at my pictures of my babies, another one of my superstitious rituals on big days. One of my walls was covered with simple but expensive black frames, each showcasing a different magazine ad: a dad in a red apron barbecuing hot dogs; a preppy couple sinking their bare toes into their new carpet; a young executive reclining in her first-class airline seat. Blissfully reclining.

I smiled, remembering that campaign. It had taken me two weeks and three focus groups to decide on the word blissful instead of peaceful. Yet my whole campaign was almost torpedoed at the last minute because the model IâÈçd chosen had the exact same hairstyle as the airline ownerâÈçs ex-wife, whoâÈçd convinced him that true love didnâÈçt require a prenup. If I hadnâÈçt spotted a five-dollar tub of hair gel in the makeup artistâÈçs case and begged the client for thirty more seconds, our agency wouldâÈçve lost a $2 million account on account of a chin-length bob. Clients were notoriously fickle, and the rule of thumb was, the richer the client, the crazier.

The one I was meeting today owned half of Manhattan.

I grabbed the mock-up of the magazine ad my creative team had put together for Gloss and scanned it for the millionth time, searching for nonexistent flaws. IâÈçd spent three solid weeks agonizing over every detail of this campaign, which IâÈçd get maybe ten minutes to present in our conference room inâÈ' I looked at my watch and my heart skipped a beat.

Unlike other ad shops, it was the culture of my agency to blur the division between the creative work and the business side of our accounts. If you wanted to succeed at Richards, Dunne & Krantz, you had to be able to do both. Of course, that also meant all the responsibility for this presentation was mine alone.

The worst part, the part that gnawed at my stomach and jolted me awake at 3:00 A.M. on nights when I managed to fall asleep, was that all my work, all those marathon stale-pizza weekend sessions and midnight conference calls, might be for nothing. If the owner of Gloss rejected my adsâÈ'if something as simple as the perfume I was wearing or a splashy adjective in my copy rubbed him the wrong wayâÈ'hundreds of thousands of dollars in commission for our agency would slip through my fingers like smoke. Once a Japanese tycoon who owned a chain of luxury hotels sat through a brilliant, two-months-in-the-making campaign presentation our agencyâÈçs president had personally overseenâÈ'IâÈçm talking about the kind of creative vision that wouldâÈçve won awards, the kinds of commercials everyone wouldâÈçve buzzed aboutâÈ'and dismissed it with a grunt, which his assistant cheerfully translated as âÈêHe doesnâÈçt like blue.âÈë That was it; no chance to tweak the color of the ad copy, just a group of stunned advertising execs with the now-useless skill of saying, âÈêKonnichi-wa!âÈë being herded like sheep to the exit.

I gulped another Advil from the secret stash inside my desk drawer, the one Donna didnâÈçt know about, and massaged the knot in my neck with one hand while I stared at the mock-up ad my team had created for Gloss.

After Gloss Cosmetics had approached our agency last month, hinting that they might jump from their current agency, our agencyâÈçs presidentâÈ'a forty-two-year-old marketing genius named Mason, who always wore red Converse sneakers, even with his tuxedoâÈ'called our top five creative teams into his office.

âÈêGloss wants to kick some Cover Girl ass,âÈë Mason had said, swigging from a bottle of Lipton iced tea (they were a client) and tapping his Bic pen (ditto) against the top of his oak conference table. Mason was so loyal to our clients that he once walked out of a four-star restaurant because the chef wouldnâÈçt substitute Kraft ranch for champagne-truffle dressing.

âÈêGlossâÈçs strategy is accessible glamour,âÈë Mason had continued. âÈêForget the Park Avenue princesses; weâÈçre going after schoolteachers and factory girls and receptionists.âÈë His eyes had roved around the table so he could impale each of us with his stare, and I swear he hadnâÈçt blinked for close to two minutes. Mason reminded me of an alien, with his bald, lightbulb-shaped head and hooded eyes, and when he went into his blinkless trances I was convinced he was downloading data from his mother ship. My assistant, Donna, was certain he just needed a little more vitamin C; she kept badgering him to go after the Minute Maid account.

âÈêWhat was the recall score of GlossâÈçs last commercial?âÈë someone at the other end of the table had asked. It was Slutty Cheryl, boobs spilling out of her tight white shirt as she stretched to reach a Lipton from the stack in the middle of the conference table.

âÈêCan I get that for you?âÈë Matt, our assistant art director, had offered in a voice that sounded innocent if you didnâÈçt know him well.

Matt was my best friend at the office. My only real friend, actually; this place made a sadistsâÈç convention seem cozy and nurturing.

âÈêI can reach it,âÈë Cheryl had said bravely, tossing back her long chestnut hair and straining away as Matt shot me a wink. YouâÈçd think that after a few hundred meetings sheâÈçd have figured out an easier way to wet her whistle, but there she was, week after week, doing her best imitation of a Hooters girl angling for a tip. By the purest of coincidences, she always got thirsty right when she asked a question, so all eyes were on her.

âÈêCover GirlâÈçs last commercial, the one with Queen Latifah, hit a thirty recall, and GlossâÈçs latest scored a twelve,âÈë Mason had said without consulting any notes. He had a photographic memory, which was one reason why our clients put up with the sneakers.

I could see why Gloss was testing the waters at other agencies. Twelve wasnâÈçt good.

The recall score is one of the most effective tools in advertisingâÈçs arsenal. It basically tells what percentage of people who watched your commercial actually remembered it. Cheryl, whoâÈçs a creative director like me, once oversaw a dog food commercial that scored a forty-one. She ordered dozens of balloons emblazoned with âÈêForty-OneâÈë and blanketed the office with them. Subtlety, like loose-fitting turtlenecks, isnâÈçt in her repertoire. And I swear IâÈçm not just saying that because IâÈçve never scored higher than a forty (but just for the record, IâÈçve hit that number three times. ItâÈçs an agency record).

âÈêI want five creative teams on this,âÈë Mason had said. âÈêHave the campaigns ready for me three weeks from today. The best two will present to Gloss.âÈë

As everyone stood up to leave, Mason had walked over to me while Cheryl took her time gathering her things and pretended not to eavesdrop.

âÈêI need this account,âÈë heâÈçd said, his pale blue eyes latching onto mine.

âÈêIs the budget that big?âÈë IâÈçd asked.

âÈêNo, theyâÈçre cheap fucks,âÈë heâÈçd said cheerfully. âÈêName the last three clients we signed.âÈë

âÈêHome health care plans, orthopedic mattresses, and adult protection pads,âÈë IâÈçd rattled off.

âÈêDiapers,âÈë heâÈçd corrected. âÈêUgly trend. WeâÈçre becoming the incontinent old fartsâÈç agency. We need the eighteen to thirty-five demographic. Get me this account, Lindsey.âÈë His voice had dropped, and Cheryl had stopped shuffling papers. She and I had both leaned in closer to Mason.

âÈêI donâÈçt have to tell you what it would do for you,âÈë Mason had said. âÈêThink about the timing. WeâÈçre presenting to Gloss right around the time of the vote. You bring in this one on top of everything else youâÈçve done . . .âÈë His voice had trailed off.

I knew what Mason was implying. It wasnâÈçt a secret that our agency was about to decide on a new VP creative director. The VP title meant a salary hike and all the sweet side dishes that went along with it: a six-figure bonus, a fat 401(k) plan, and car service to the airport. It meant IâÈçd be able to buy my sunny little one-bedroom apartment on the Upper West Side, which was about to go co-op. It meant first-class flights and obscene expense accounts.

It meant success, the only thing that had really ever mattered to me.

âÈêIâÈçm on it,âÈë IâÈçd said, scurrying out of the office and diving into the world of Gloss Cosmetics.

Now I was surfacing for the first time in three weeks.

I gulped more coffee and finished scanning my ad. Something as simple as a typo could mean professional death for me, but our ad was clean. This ad was my 3:00 A.M. baby, born from the unholy alliance of too much caffeine, an entire bag of potato chips (but eaten in small handfuls, with the bag primly sealed up and put back in my pantry between handfuls), and my old reliable bedmate insomnia. Gloss wanted to steal a chunk of Cover GirlâÈçs market, but they didnâÈçt want to pay for celebrity models like Halle Berry and Keri Russell. I was giving them the best of both worlds.

Mason loved it; now I just needed to perfect my pitch to the owner and CEO of Gloss. I glanced at my watch again. Ninety-six minutes until their limo was due to pull up in front of our building. IâÈçd be downstairs in seventy-six, waiting to greet them.

I pressed the intercom button. âÈêDonna? Have the caterers arrived yet?âÈë

âÈêDonâÈçt you think I wouldâÈçve told you if they hadnâÈçt?âÈë she snapped. She hates it when I second-guess her. âÈêThey bought red Concord grapes, though.âÈë

âÈêShit!âÈë I leapt up so quickly I knocked my coffee to the floor. I grabbed a handful of napkins from my top drawer and swabbed it up. âÈêIâÈçll run out to the deli right nowâÈ'âÈë

âÈêRelax,âÈë Donna said. âÈêI already did. Green seedless grapes are in our freezer. TheyâÈçll be ready in plenty of time.âÈë

Red grapes instead of green. ItâÈçs the simple things that can annihilate a career.

âÈêThank you,âÈë I breathed as my heart slowed its violent thudding. I reached for one more Advil and promised myself with all the sincerity of a street junkie that it would be my last hit. At least until lunchtime.

I couldnâÈçt be too prepared. Cheryl and I had won the two chances to present our Gloss campaigns, and she was a wild card. Many of her campaigns were uninspired, but when she nailed it, she was spectacular. I was dying to sneak a peek at her storyboard, but I knew she was guarding it like a hostage. As I was mine.

Cheryl was thirty-three, four years older than me, and she worked hard. But I worked harder. I lived, breathed, and slept my job. Seriously; if I werenâÈçt so chastened by DonnaâÈçs disapproving huffs when she noticed the imprint of my head on my couch cushion, IâÈçd barely have any reason to go home at night. Even though IâÈçd lived in New York for seven yearsâÈ'ever since Richards, Dunne & Krantz came recruiting at my grad school at Northwestern and made me an offerâÈ'IâÈçd only made one real friend in the city: Matt. My job didnâÈçt leave time for anyone or anything else.

âÈêLindsey?âÈë DonnaâÈçs head poked into my office. âÈêItâÈçs your mom on the phone. She said sheâÈçs at the hospital.âÈë

I snatched up the phone. Could something have happened to Dad? I knew retiring from the federal government wouldnâÈçt be good for him; heâÈçd immediately begun waging a vicious gardening war with our next-door neighbor, Mr. Simpson. When I was home for ThanksgivingâÈ'two years ago; last year IâÈçd missed the holiday because I had to throw together a last-minute campaign for a resort in Saint Lucia that was suffering a reservations lullâÈ'IâÈçd had to physically stop Dad from climbing a ladder and sawing off all the branches of SimpsonâÈçs trees at the exact point where they crossed over our property line.

âÈêOh, honey, youâÈçll never believe it.âÈë Mom sighed deeply. âÈêI bought a subscription to O magazine last month, remember?âÈë

âÈêYe-es,âÈë I lied, wondering how this story could possibly end in a mad rush to the hospital to reattach DadâÈçs forearm.

âÈêSo I bought the November issue and filled out the subscription card that comes inside,âÈë Mom said, settling in for a cozy chat. âÈêYou know those little cards that are always falling out of magazines and making a mess on the floor? I donâÈçt know why they have to put so many of them in. I guess they think if you see enough of them youâÈçll just go ahead and subscribe to the magazine.âÈë

She paused thoughtfully. âÈêBut thatâÈçs exactly what I did, though, so who am I to cast stones?âÈë

âÈêMom.âÈë I cradled the phone between my shoulder and ear and massaged my temples. âÈêIs everything okay?âÈë

Mom sighed. âÈêI just got my first issue of O magazine today, and itâÈçs the November issue! Which, of course, IâÈçve already read.âÈë Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper: âÈêAnd so has your father, but you didnâÈçt hear it from me. That means I get only eleven issues and IâÈçve paid for twelve.âÈë

âÈêLindsey?âÈë It was Donna again. âÈêMattâÈçs here. Should I send him in?âÈë

âÈêPlease,âÈë I said, covering the mouthpiece.

Mom was still talking. âÈê. . . almost like theyâÈçre trying to trick you because they say âÈæSave fourteen dollars off the cover priceâÈç but if you end up with two of the same issue and you paid for them both, youâÈçre really only saving ten forty-five with taxâÈ'Dad sat right down with a paper and pencil and did the mathâÈ'andâÈ'âÈë

âÈêMom,âÈë I cut in. âÈêAre you at the hospital?âÈë

âÈêYes,âÈë Mom said.

Pause.

âÈêUm, Mom?âÈë I said. âÈêWhy are you at the hospital?âÈë

âÈêIâÈçm visiting Mrs. Magruder. Remember, she had a hip replacement? She wonâÈçt be able to manage stairs for six weeks. Last time I was here I noticed the waiting room only had copies of Golf Magazine and Highlights and I thought, No sense in me having two copies of O magazine. Maybe someone else can enjoy it. And thereâÈçs a recipe for low-fat cheesecake with whipped creamâÈ'the secret is applesauce, of all thingsâÈ'âÈë

âÈêMom, IâÈçll take care of it.âÈë I cut her off just before the pressure in my head began boiling and shrieking like a teapot. âÈêIâÈçll call OprahâÈçs office directly.âÈë

Matt stepped into my office, one eyebrow raised. He was wearing a black blazer, which looked good with his curly dark hair. IâÈçd have to tell him black was his color, I thought absently.

âÈêThank you, honey,âÈë Mom said, sounding the tiniest bit disappointed that she couldnâÈçt milk it a bit longer. âÈêItâÈçs so nice to have a daughter who knows the right people.âÈë

âÈêTell Stedman we should go fly-fishing again sometime,âÈë Matt stage-whispered as I made a gun out of my thumb and index finger and shot him in the chest.

âÈêBy the way, did you hear about Alex?âÈë Mom asked.

I shouldâÈçve known it would be impossible for us to end our conversation without a mention of my twin sister. If she compliments me, Mom has to say something nice about Alex. Sometimes I wonder if Alex and I are as competitive as we are because Mom is so scrupulously fair in the way she treats us. Probably, I thought, feeling comforted that I could reliably blame my personal failings on my parents.

I sighed and squinted at my watch: fifty-eight minutes.

âÈêOprah,âÈë Matt croaked, rolling around on my office floor and clutching his chest. âÈêRally your angel network. IâÈçm seeing . . . a . . . white . . . light.âÈë

âÈêThe TV station is expanding AlexâÈçs segments!âÈë Mom said. âÈêNow sheâÈçll be on Wednesdays and Fridays instead of just Fridays. IsnâÈçt that wonderful?âÈë

When people learn I have a twin, the first thing they ask is whether weâÈçre identical. Unless, of course, they see Alex and me together, in which case their brows furrow and their eyes squint and you can almost see their brains clog with confusion as they stutter, âÈêTwins? But . . . but . . . you look nothing alike.âÈë

Alex and I are about as unidentical as itâÈçs possible to be. IâÈçve always thought I look like a childâÈçs drawing of a person: straight brown lines for the hair and eyebrows, eyes and nose and mouth and ears generally in the right places and in the right numbers. Nothing special; just something to pin on the refrigerator door before itâÈçs covered by grocery lists and report cards and forgotten. Whereas Alex . . . Well, thereâÈçs no other word for it: sheâÈçs flat-out gorgeous. Stunning. Breathtaking. Dazzling. Apparently there are a few other words for it after all.

She started modeling in high school after a talent scout approached her at a mall, and though she never made it big in New York because sheâÈçs only five foot six, she gets a steady stream of jobs in our hometown of Bethesda, in suburban Washington, D.C. A few years ago, she got a part-time job for the NBC affiliate covering celebrity gossip (or âÈêentertainment,âÈë as she loftily calls it). For three minutes a weekâÈ'six now that her appearances are being doubledâÈ'sheâÈçs on camera, bantering with the movie review guys and interviewing stars who are shooting the latest political thriller film in D.C.

I know, I know, I hear you asking what she looks like. Everyone wants to know what she looks like. Alex is a redhead, but not one of those Ronald McDonaldâÈ'haired ones with freckles that look splattered on by Jackson Pollock. Her long hair is a glossy, dark red, and depending on the light, it has hints of gold and caramel and chocolate. She can never walk a city block without some woman begging her for the name of her colorist. ItâÈçs natural, of course. Her skin defies the redheadâÈçs law of pigmentation by tanning smoothly and easily, her almond-shaped eyes are a shade precisely between blue and green, and her nose is straight and unremarkable, the way all good, obedient little noses should be. My father can still fit into the pants he wore in high school; Alex got his metabolism. My mother hails from a long line of sturdy midwestern corn farmers; I got hers. But no bitterness here.

âÈêIâÈçll call Alex later and congratulate her,âÈë I told Mom.

âÈêOh, and she booked the photographer for the wedding,âÈë Mom said, winding up for another lengthy tangential chat. AlexâÈçs upcoming wedding could keep our phone lines humming for hours.

âÈêIâÈçve got to run,âÈë I cut her off. âÈêBig morning. IâÈçm going after a new account and the clients are flying in from Aspen this morning.âÈë

âÈêAspen?âÈë Mom said. âÈêAre they skiers?âÈë

âÈêThe really rich people donâÈçt go to Aspen to ski,âÈë I told her. âÈêThey go to hang out with other rich people. My clients have the mansion next door to Tom CruiseâÈçs.âÈë

âÈêAre they movie stars?âÈë Mom squealed. The woman does love her People magazine. And so does Dad, though heâÈçd never admit it.

âÈêEven better,âÈë I said. âÈêTheyâÈçre billionaires.âÈë

I hung up and took a bite of blueberry muffin, but it tasted like dust in my mouth. It wasnâÈçt the muffinâÈçs fault; it was the unpleasant thought tugging at me like an itch. IâÈçd told Mom about my presentation so the message would get back to Alex: YouâÈçre prettier, but donâÈçt ever forget that IâÈçm more successful. DonâÈçt get me wrong; I love my sisterâÈ'she can be generous and outspoken and funnyâÈ'but no one can push my buttons like Alex. Around her, I light up like a skyscraperâÈçs elevator control panel at rush hour. WeâÈçre complete opposites, always have been. ItâÈçs like our DNA held a meeting in the womb and divvied up the goods: IâÈçll trade you my sex appeal strands for a double dose of organizational skills, my genes mustâÈçve said. Deal, AlexâÈçs genes answered, and if youâÈçll just sign this form relinquishing any claim to long legs, you can have my work ethic, too.

If Alex and I werenâÈçt related, weâÈçd have absolutely nothing in common. The thing about Alex is that she doesnâÈçt just grab the spotlight, she wrestles it to the ground and straddles it and pins its hands to the floor so it has no chance of escaping. And it isnâÈçt even her fault; the spotlight wants to be dominated by her. The spotlight screams âÈêUncle!âÈë the second it sees her. People are dazzled by Alex. Men send her so many drinks itâÈçs a wonder she isnâÈçt in AA; women give her quick appraising looks and memorize her outfit, vowing to buy it because if it looks even half as good on them . . . ; even cranky babies stop crying and give her gummy smiles when they see her behind them in the grocery store line.

If Alex werenâÈçt my sister, I probably wouldnâÈçt be nearly so driven. But I learned long ago that itâÈçs easy to get lost and overlooked when someone like Alex is around. In a way, she has made me who I am today.

I pushed away my muffin and glanced over at Matt. He was sprawled on my couch, one leg hooked over the armrest, half-asleep. How he always managed to stay calm amid the chaos and frenzy of our agency was a mystery. IâÈçd have to ask him for his secret. When I had time, which I didnâÈçt right now, since I was due downstairs in forty-four minutes. Mason was letting me greet the clients, since I was presenting first, and Cheryl would get to walk them to their car afterward.

âÈêCan we do one more run-through?âÈë I begged.

âÈêWe did twelve yesterday,âÈë Matt reminded me, yawning. He opened one sleepy-looking brown eye and peered up at me.

âÈêYouâÈçre right, youâÈçre right,âÈë I said, lining up the pencils on my desk at a perfect right angle to my stapler. âÈêI donâÈçt want to sound overrehearsed.âÈë

âÈêKnock it off, OCD girl,âÈë Matt said, pulling himself up off the couch and stealing a bite of my muffin. âÈêMmm. How can you not be eating this?âÈë

âÈêI had a bowl of Advil for breakfast,âÈë I told him. âÈêHigh in fiber.âÈë

âÈêYouâÈçre beyond help,âÈë he said. âÈêWhat time is the party tonight?âÈë

âÈêSeven-thirty,âÈë I said. âÈêIs Pam coming?âÈë

Pam was MattâÈçs new girlfriend. I hadnâÈçt met her yet, but I was dying to.

âÈêYep,âÈë he said.

Tonight was our office holiday party.

Tonight was also the night the name of the new VP creative director would be announced.

âÈêNervous?âÈë Matt asked me.

âÈêOf course not,âÈë I lied.

âÈêStep away from the Advil,âÈë Matt ordered me, slapping my hand as it instinctively went for my desk drawer. âÈêLetâÈçs get your storyboards into the conference room. You know youâÈçre gonna kick ass, Madam Vice President.âÈë

And just like that, the cold knot of anxiety in my stomach loosened the tiniest bit. Like I said, Matt was my only real friend at the office.

Âû 2010 Sarah Pekkanen

Media reviews

Citations

• Booklist, 10/15/2009, Page 35
• Kirkus Reviews, 01/01/2010, Page 12
• People Weekly, 03/22/2010, Page 67
• Publishers Weekly, 11/02/2009, Page 32