smile and returned to my depositions. It was 11:00 a.m. Only eleven or twelve hours to go.
* * *
My first two weeks passed excruciatingly slowly. Other than learning office politics, I garnered few legal skills besides filing, typing and deposition review, most of which I had mastered already. My only solace was thinking about the upcoming week—when Broward would be in Fort Lauderdale. I had already cornered Sheila to get the scoop on office hours during that time.
“Nine-to-five workdays,” she promised me, an understanding look in her eyes. “This week been rough on you?” Her voice had taken on a motherly concern, and I wanted to hug her for showing some compassion. Everyone else in the wing seemed to work with an unending supply of energy. It wouldn’t have sucked so bad if I hadn’t been hearing about the party life in the East Wing.
The East Wing had their own set of big, dark walnut-and-leather double doors. The only glimpses you got inside came when someone was entering or leaving. It was like a superexclusive club that I couldn’t get into, so my mind created impossibly extravagant fantasies about the world inside. Following closely the instructions—or threats—of Broward, I stayed away from the East Wing and all of its “activities,” but drooled jealously from afar.
Often as I passed their big double doors, I’d hear loud laughter and other sounds coming from inside. On Wednesday, there was some kind of a party. At five-thirty, Smith & Wollensky waiters started unloading trays of lobsters, steaks and carts of large silver dishes from our elevators. They were followed with five cases of chilled champagne and sumptuous dessert trays that made my mouth water. Muted music could be heard from behind their doors, and a thumping bass. The bass only lasted about three minutes before Broward screamed some form of profanity, opened his door and stomped his way over to the East Wing. About a minute later, the music was turned down and our floor stopped systematically vibrating. Sheila leaned backward in her chair until she could see into my office and winked at me.
The East Wing, unless they were partying, never stayed past 6:00 p.m. The North Wing, Clarke’s domain, worked till about eight-thirty most nights. We, the West Wingers, were the night owls. Most Broward paralegals stayed till about 9:30 p.m. I stayed till Broward left, which normally ended up being sometime between ten and eleven. It was better than manual labor, but still mentally exhausting. I went straight home each night, showered, crawled into bed and fell asleep before my head hit the bed. Eat, sleep and work had been the past two weeks of my life. I leaned my head on Sheila’s shoulder and signed dramatically.
“There, there,” she said, patting my shoulder. “I promise you, you’ll get used to it.”
* * *
The first weekend of my internship I had wallowed in bed the entire time, eating Sour Patch Kids and watching Cameron Diaz movies. Seeing as how texts and Facebook posts from my friends had started to drop off, I figured I needed to spend this weekend back in the land of the living. Friday evening, getting home at a remarkably early 8:00 p.m., I returned two weeks’ worth of missed calls. After begging for forgiveness and promising to do better, I cajoled my two closest friends into margaritas and Mexican food at Los Amigos, a run-down college hangout four blocks from my house. My plan was to get sloshed on margaritas, then stumble home—the perfect “college girl gets snatched by a serial killer” scenario, but at twenty-one years old, it sounded like a reasonably good plan.
At 9:30 p.m., dressed in a blue sundress and heels, my hair loose and makeup subdued, I wrestled through the line outside the bar and made my way inside. My skin was paler than usual due to my recent inability to spend any time outside, but I still turned a few heads. I saw Olivia and Becca perched at a high-top in the corner. The bar was filling up, and it took a few minutes of squeezing through people to get over to them.
“Hola!” I said enthusiastically, giving them both hugs before climbing onto one of the stools. They both had ridiculously huge margarita glasses with goofy straws in front of them, and I looked around for the waiter. He came over shortly, took a cursory look at my ID and then disappeared to get us some queso and chips. Becca didn’t wait long to start chewing me out.
“So, seriously,” she snapped, glancing at her imaginary watch, “it’s been almost two weeks since we’ve seen you. Unacceptable!” She slapped her well-manicured open palm on the table to emphasize her point.
“Go easy on her, Becca,” Olivia chided. “She’s working—something you wouldn’t understand!” She shot a playful smile in Becca’s direction.
Olivia was right—working was something Becca would probably never understand. Her wealthy parents and their generous funding pretty much guaranteed Becca an easy ride to whatever wealthy husband she’d eventually marry. With Becca’s perfect body, classic bone structure and disarming personality, she had basically won the genetic lottery.
Olivia was more like me—from working-class parents, barely surviving on student loans and part-time jobs. I was especially tight at the moment, due to my full-time unpaid internship. We were all prelaw students, but I was a semester ahead of them, and therefore the first to undergo the intern experience.
“Really, Jules, how’s it going?” Olivia said.
I shrugged. “So far, it’s a lot of menial work. My boss is okay, just a complete workaholic.”
“Oh, please!” Becca said. “Tell me what he’s really like. Is he Mr. Sexy-Aggressive Attorney, or the nerd you’d like to bang some freakiness into?” She grinned at me across her margarita.
“Uhh...neither. Try happily-married-plus-I-wouldn’t-hook-up-with-someone-at-the-office sexuality. If that even exists.” I smirked at her, taking a big swig of my drink.
Olivia laughed, and Becca’s eyes rolled. She leaned forward and pointed at me. “Don’t give me that high-and-mighty routine. You make it a profession to tease half the men in this town into drooling oblivion, and leave them high and dry. Don’t tell me you would pass up the opportunity to have the upper hand in the office.”
I pasted an offended look on my face. “Why, Becca! I can see why you think it’s easier to ‘actually’ have sex with guys, but I enjoy the chase more than the actual rewards. If I slept with every guy I made out with, can you imagine my reputation? Not to mention I’d be pregnant with six kids!”
Olivia cut in. “Sweetie, you have a reputation anyway—as the biggest tease this side of the interstate. There’s not a guy on campus who doesn’t know your game by now.”
They were right in their harassment. I teased guys all the time—got them worked up to the point of excitement and then stopped the action. My methods may have been frowned upon, but it allowed me to preserve my relative innocence and get a confidence boost at the same time. “I assure you, there are plenty of guys on campus who have yet to find out about my teasing ways. I’m not going to fuck guys just because they’re worked up.”
Becca snagged a chip, dipping it into the cheese, and shrugged at me. “At least suck them off, Jules. Then they’re not left hanging, and you can sorta retain your moral high ground.”
“Becca, then she wouldn’t have the power over them. She wants them to continue wanting her. Wants them to imagine ‘what could have been.’” Olivia nodded knowingly.
“Oh my lord—are we done with my pysch evaluation?” I asked. “Why does it matter that I’m a tease? I don’t see us giving Becca the third degree when she decides to bang half the lacrosse team!”
Becca was in the middle of a strong rebuttal when I felt
