Hayley has encountered this sort of prejudice since her earliest days in the army. Typically, she wouldn’t bother justifying to anyone what was a profoundly transformative life experience. But, in this instance, encouraging the cooperation and affinity of her fellow interns strikes her as important. “Enlisted out of high school, discharged about a year ago,” she tells the others. “And here I am.”
“But I thought … ?” Sophia’s question dies in midsentence.
Becca lays it out for the USC girl’s benefit. “White House interns must be a current college student, recent grad, or veteran with high school diploma.” With that explanation, the judgment of the intern kangaroo court is final. Hayley is nothing but a carbon-based organism taking up valuable space and time. On first sight, Luke had privately mused on the potential of fucking Hayley, her sex appeal undeniable. Knowing what he does now, however, the Georgetown student decides to keep his focus on the brighter sparkle of Sophia. Luke instinctually assesses that his dad would have a shit fit if he took up with this baby-killing white trash from West Virginia.
As Hayley continues organizing her work space, the other interns utterly ignore her. Not one says another word to Hayley the entire day. Luke departs first, at four thirty, for an appointment with a personal trainer at an Equinox on NW Twenty-Second Street. Sophia and Becca leave together at 6:05 p.m. for a double drinks date with two congressional pages at Black Jack near Logan Circle. Hayley’s workday, therefore, ends peacefully and gloriously alone. She finishes organizing the pile of documents on her desk, then turns to other stacks of position papers, memos, and briefing binders stacked throughout the cluttered office. At eight forty-five that night, her work is finally complete. The CoS Support office has been meticulously organized. Hayley puts on her jacket, turns off the lights, and begins her commute via the 38B Metrobus to her modest intern housing at the Henry House.
* * *
AFTER A WEEK and a half in the West Wing, Hayley has yet to leave the former janitorial closet. History may be made in the White House, but the real action might as well be happening on Mars for all Hayley knows. Her primary duties and responsibilities have consisted of maintaining the organization she had brought to the interns’ office and preventing it from sliding back into a persistent chaos. Becca, Luke, and Sophia are perfectly satisfied with this new arrangement. The West Virginian’s diligence has allowed them to cherry-pick assignments while receiving glowing performance reports for work actually done by the newcomer. In effect, Hayley is the interns’ intern.
Karen Rey occasionally drops by for a few minutes but deals exclusively with Becca, who has achieved this elite status through sheer force of personality and Machiavellian cunning. Luke and Sophia never really had a chance. Since their first encounter in Hall’s office suite, Rey has exchanged only a few desultory words with Hayley. Confined to the CoS Support office, the West Virginian toils in abject anonymity, a real-life Cinderella. If there’s a silver lining to her exploitation, it’s that the other interns rarely include Hayley in their feckless chatter.
Their immediate task on this particular morning is responding to emails sent to POTUS, electronic missives that range from outraged condemnation to idolizing approval of administration accomplishments, real and imagined. Whatever the category, each email receives the same cordial and appreciative reply. Even messages threatening harm toward the president are given respectful response while simultaneously being forwarded to the Secret Service. The volume of these disturbing missives fluctuates, depending on the news of the day and latest presidential statement or action. The record for actionable emails was set one week earlier, after Monroe gave a speech at a national VFW meeting in which he attacked NATO as a relic of twentieth-century geopolitics having no relevance to a twenty-first-century world. In proposing an alternative, eastern European alliance reflective of the new world order, Monroe generated a total of thirty-five active threats in the span of twenty-four hours, all of which were meticulously investigated by the Secret Service.
But answering emails isn’t met with abundant enthusiasm. Becca, in particular, is feeling underutilized, her ambitions roadblocked. Frustrated, she shakes her head in disbelief as she types. “Freaking morons are driving me crazy! This lady wants POTUS to help her son get a liver transplant. What does she expect Monroe to do, invade Mexico and harvest some?!”
“That’s actually not such a bad idea,” Luke muses, already attuned to exploitative opportunities in every facet of human existence. He doesn’t know it yet, but he’ll prove to be an even more successful hedge fund manager than his dad.
Sophia is more cursory in her response to the emails, with replies reading more like Zen koans. Some of these marvels of epistolary brevity have been printed and tacked to the office bulletin board. “Sir, the President appreciates the concerns of every citizen of this great country but cannot discern exactly the nature of yours. God totally bless the United States of America” was an early example. In straightening up the interns’ office, Hayley had considered taking down Sophia’s little gems, but even she had to appreciate their value as morale boosters and left them in place.
“I might as well be doing product support at Apple and actually get paid for my talents,” Sophia surmised, resisting a habit of reminding the others that her semi-famous father once hosted Steve Jobs for dinner. On that occasion, the Apple founder gifted a ten-year-old Sophia with the first model iPhone before the device’s official release, an event Sophia naturally mentions in telling the story.
“It’s either this or studying for the GREs. Frankly, I’ll take this,” confesses Luke, reflecting his country-club work ethic.
Becca glances toward Hayley, who has been quietly loading briefing binders. The job is not without its significance, and the other interns have come to rely on the flawlessly conscientious military veteran to handle the job.
“What about you, G.I. Jane? What’s your plan B?”
Hayley is surprised to be included in the discussion. Her response doesn’t require meditation. “Long as I can serve my country, I’m good.”
The other interns exchange a look, barely restraining their guffaws. Before one of them can get off a snarky remark, however, there is a quick rap at the door, and it’s pushed open, revealing White House Chief of Staff Peter Hall. Without his suit jacket, Hall is in roll-up-your-sleeves work mode.
Becca, Sophia, and Luke freeze, not quite believing their eyes. The chief of staff has never stopped by the ground-floor support office. As a matter of fact, none of them have exchanged more than a few words with Hall besides expected pleasantries. He certainly doesn’t know any of them by name.
“Staff’s jammed. Need someone for fifteen minutes,” Hall announces, needlessly adding, “not another second more than that, I promise.”
Luke, Sophia, and Becca all stand in unison, but the NYU grad finds her voice first. “I’m available, Mr. Hall!”
Hall glances around the room, ignoring Becca’s declaration. “Which one of you is the army vet?”
Hayley raises her hand to half-mast. “That’s me, sir. Hayley Chill.”
Hall’s normally fierce demeanor instantly softens when he turns his gaze on Hayley. “Chill? Sure. How the hell could I forget a name like that? Fort Hood base commander wrote your letter of recommendation. Among the first females to gender-integrate the infantry. History making, General MacFarland said. Hell of a boxer, too.”