I steeple my fingers, cheeks getting warm.
Take a few deep breaths and click open my email, find the last email exchanged with the art department, and click compose. Now, I’m not saying their refusal to take my suggestions is intentional, but it’s becoming habitual, and I have to wonder if it’s because of my age.
I’m young—one of the youngest ad executives in the company—but I earned this position the same way they did: hard work and the occasional long night.
Before graduating at the top of my class, I’d been taking college courses since my thirteenth birthday. By the time I graduated from high school, I was already a sophomore in college, and by the time I graduated from college, I had two degrees.
I’m a giant nerd.
The fact that my grandfather’s name is on the outside of the high-rise is neither here nor there. The fact that my last name is on billboards and in magazines shouldn’t be an issue.
Initially, no one was supposed to know. Technically, when I was hired, I used my mother’s maiden name à la Tori Spelling when she was trying out for that television show in the 90s a billion years ago. Not wanting to be hired because of nepotism, she used a stage name so producers wouldn’t know her father created the show.
Got the part.
Obviously.
I’m not lazy, and I’m not a snob. I earn my salary and bonuses like everyone else in this building. So what if my family owns it?
“Easy for you to say, asshole,” I grumble as I pound out a curt reply to the art department’s latest mockup of a billboard that will be plastered in Times Square. “You’re the one who was born with a silver spoon in her mouth, and they hate you because of it.”
Don’t choke on it.
I have no desire to kiss anyone’s ass because I was born into a family who owns a business, but I am wary of their reaction to it. That, plus my age.
I’m twenty-four. Most of them think I’m way too young to be in this position, and sometimes, they might be correct. But I stay off social media, I don’t post anything on Instagram, and I don’t twitter. Or tweet. Or whatever you want to call it.
The last thing I need is someone from work following me and seeing the stupid shit I get up to on the weekends. Well, me and Duchess Desdemona, my amazing cat.
Grabbing my phone, I thumb through my music and open a moody playlist. I must be hormonal. There is no rational reason this mockup should make me emotional. It’s just a stupid graphic sent up by an artist who thinks she’s right.
Bambi Warner always thinks she’s right.
Unfortunately, the Times Square account is mine, and the graphics that go up there are my responsibility—so if she wants her work represented, she better tweak the shit she keeps sending me until she nails it.
Or I’ll…
I’ll…
Well, I’ll probably do nothing but send her email reminders, too passive-aggressive to confront her in person—which is something I’m working on.
But, baby steps. First, I’m going to conquer middle management, then I’m going to grow a spine.
Goals!
There is a banana on my desk and I grab it, peel it, and stuff one end in my mouth. Chew while the entire thing hangs. A knock at my door jars me from my troubles with Bambi and I jolt in my desk chair, banana still dangling from my lips—a move that would leave my mother needing her smelling salts.
Dale, my counterpart, stands in the doorway, watching me.
I avert my eyes, because never make eye contact while deep-throating a banana.
I risk a glance up—his brow is furrowed, mouth downturned into a frown.
Shit.
Frickety frack.
Also something to work toward: cursing like an adult and not a teenager.
I pull the fruit from my mouth, chew, and shoot Dale a wobbly smile. “Hey. What’s up?”
“Has the art department sent you the specs for the TS ad?”
He has the verbiage all wrong; I send the art department specs, not the other way around.
“Um…if you’re asking about a mockup, yes, they just sent it through. I was just emailing Bambi my feedback.” Without a napkin, I’m forced to wipe banana on the leg of my slacks. “I noticed she didn’t copy you on it. Want to have a look?”
“Sure.”
Dale enters my office, hands jammed in the pockets of his pressed navy pants. His shirt is a hot pink, gingham check. Fun and not at all stuffy, unlike a lot of the other guys walking around this office.
Dale is younger, too, and creative. He makes his way around my desk as I swivel my computer monitor.
The ad is center screen, bright and punchy.
Dale leans in. Hesitates before pulling back. “It’s missing something.”
It is.
I nod.
“The color isn’t right.”
“I know.” I push the monitor back into place. “I gave them the exact pink I wanted, but she has yet to use it.”
“How many times have you told her?” He knows who’s working on the draft, knows what Bambi can be like.
“Twice.”
“Fuck.” He glances down at me. “Shit, sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. I just… How much fuss do I make over a simple color?”
He walks back around my desk and rests his hand on the back of a chair. “May I?”
I hold a hand out. “Please do.”
Dale plops down across from me, the tension leaving his body. “Can I be honest?”
Well this is something new—someone on the staff about to confide in me. I lean forward, tamping down my excitement. “Yes, absolutely.”
“That whole department pisses me off. Why hasn’t Linda done anything about it?”
Linda is their direct supervisor, though I am technically Bambi’s boss.
Linda is rarely around, spending tons of her time networking at lunches with magazine editors and salespeople to get the accounts we need that generate our revenue.
“Linda is clueless.” I slap a hand over my mouth. “Oh my God, don’t repeat that to anyone.”
I’m going to hell for talking shit behind her back. Either that, or Dale is going to repeat it and I’m going to get my ass chewed out.
This is what I get for being socially awkward and only hanging out with my cat during the week. I need to branch out and hit up happy hour.
Dale crosses his arms and grunts. “I need a stiff drink.”
I’m more of a wine girl, but I agree. “Same.”
My co-worker leans forward and fiddles with the silver spheres on my desk, plucking one so it swings on the pendulum it’s suspended from. “So other than that, what’s going on with you? What else are you working on?”
“Times Square, a new development on Bell Air Avenue, and something for the NBA.” No small potatoes.
Dale whistles. “Nice.”
“What about you?”
He pauses. “Arena, a series of bus ads for this author with a huge book coming out, and one cool spread in Men’s Health for a fitness line. Pretty pumped about that one.”
Dale sits up straighter in his chair, and it seems like he’s puffing out his chest a bit, but I can’t be sure. Is he…showing off for me? Surely not.
Not a single soul in this office has ever flirted with me, let alone come into my office to do it.