“Your mother and I are off to the farmers market. We love you! Good luck!”
My phone beeped with an incoming call, and I saw the name Carmen Greyson on the screen. “Thanks guys! Have to run! Love you!” I picked up the new call without waiting for their last goodbye.
“Hi!” I sighed, relieved to hear from my law school classmate. “I’m so glad you—”
“What are you wearing?” Carmen demanded.
“Um, nude pumps, navy pencil skirt, white silk blouse?”
“Yes. Perfect. Totally perfect. Neat and clean and professional,” Carmen assured me, and I felt my heart rate slow immediately.
While Carmen and I had never quite become close at school, the fact that we were joining the same firm made us comrades. Plus, she had spent her last summer interning at the firm, so I planned to latch on to her for social introductions and advice on navigating firm politics. Carmen was sharp, and spicy, and severe—exciting in a way that I was unaccustomed to, having grown up coddled in Connecticut.
I exhaled slowly, allowing my cheeks to puff out with the force of my relief.
“I’m wearing a skirt and top too. But I’m not sure . . .” Carmen waffled over her various outfit options as I poked my head out into the living room.
Sam was sitting on the new tufted gray sectional that I had purchased with the last pennies of my firm moving stipend. I missed him already. I wished the summer had lasted just a few months longer. After I’d taken the New York bar exam, we’d bounced around Southeast Asia with my father’s credit card in hand, his all-too-generous present to me for completing law school, and a steady buzz in our heads for three weeks. I didn’t feel ready for the real world just yet.
“Okay. See you soon!” Carmen’s voice punctured my thoughts, and I managed a goodbye before she hung up. I walked over to Sam, who tore his gaze away from the morning news and looked up at me, grabbing my collar gently and pulling my lips down to his.
“What?” He narrowed his eyes at me as he contemplated my expression. I eased myself down beside him.
“I have no idea why I’m so nervous. It’s only orientation. It’s not like I’ll be doing any real work today.”
“You’re going to be great.” He squeezed my thigh dismissively and turned back to the television. I watched him for a moment longer, hoping for further encouragement. There was none.
I made my way to the mirror in our entryway, smoothing my long, toffee-colored hair and wishing my tired brown eyes looked brighter. Relax, I told myself. You’re going to be fine. I stepped back, gave myself a final once-over, and ripped the tag off the chocolate-brown leather tote with clean lines and enough space for a laptop that my mother had bought me. I wasn’t quite sure how my mother managed to pick out such a perfect gift—she had worn pleated pants and practical flats to volunteer at the library for as long as I could remember—but I imagined she had asked a sales assistant at her suburban Bloomingdale’s for help with what “working women” carry to the office. I breathed in slowly, cautiously drew air into my lungs, pushed it out through my pursed lips, and headed for the front door.
“I’m off!” I announced.
Sam peeled himself off the couch with breathy, sputtering sound effects that he misguidedly believed combated his stiff morning muscles as he zombie-walked toward me.
“Good luck.” He smiled as he leaned in to kiss my cheek.
“What are you going to do today?” I asked.
“Alex, I work. Every day.” As Sam shifted his feet away from me and toward the television, I registered the dejection in his voice. “There is so much to do. The investor meetings have been going well. We still need to buy all of the actual inventory—”
“That’s not what I meant,” I said, cutting him off as I glanced at my watch. “I know how hard you work. I’m just nervous. And I have to go.”
“Go! Good luck!” Sam attempted a reassuring smile.
“Everybody tells me this job is going to take over my life. We’re going to be fine, right?”
He took my cheeks in his hands. “You’re the one who said it’s all totally manageable unless you match with mergers and acquisitions. Don’t request work from them. Don’t rank them. Don’t match with them. Easy peasy,” he said with a wink.
I smiled up at him and gave him a long kiss before making my way down the hallway, the nerves settling right back into the pit of my stomach as I pushed the call button for the elevator incessantly until it opened on my floor with a ding.
I arrived twenty minutes ahead of schedule at one of the hundreds of hulking office buildings lining Fifth Avenue, all of which looked exactly the same to me from street level. I’d given myself forty-five minutes to get to work, padding the twenty-three-minute subway commute from Chelsea to midtown that I’d made two dry runs of the week before. The building I now stood outside housed the American headquarters of a Japanese bank, two consulting firms, and Klasko & Fitch—the largest and one of the most prestigious law firms in the world. I pushed through the revolving door, my heels clicking in my ears inside the glass pie wedge before it spit me out into the sprawling marble lobby.
The sterile foyer was a cacophony of one-sided phone conversations and perfunctory salutations. Everybody who passed me seemed to have a purpose. Nobody dawdled, nobody chitchatted. The men and women making their way to their respective elevator banks with the polished swipes of their key cards presented themselves cleanly and confidently to the world. Following suit, I allowed myself only a sideways glance at the soothing sheet of water cascading over the white stones and the caution tape sealing off the construction around one of the far elevator banks, where building management had posted a sign politely asking me to “pardon our appearance.” I did so, careful to continue at my quick clip toward the large blue sign declaring “Welcome New Klasko & Fitch Associates” at the far end of the lobby.
A man at the security desk whose name tag read “Lincoln” smiled kindly at me as I passed. I imagined he was a seasoned spotter of nervous new associates.
“Hi! Welcome to Klasko & Fitch! We’re so happy to have you with us. Alexandra Vogel, yes? Sorry. You go by Alex, is that right?” A cherubic brunette who looked to be in her midforties smiled up at me warmly from the welcome table. “I’m Maura. Head of recruiting. I’m not sure if you remember . . .”
“Of course! We met at the on-campus interview. And yes. Alex. Thank you.” My voice was steady, as it always was in tense moments. Some vestige of my teenage competitive swimming career allowed me to hide my nerves at performance time.
As she flipped through the stack of folders behind a small sign reading “R—Z,” I glanced at my watch.
“You’re right on time,” she assured me, without looking up from the folders. “Not the first one here. Not the last. Right in the middle of the pack. Don’t you worry at—ah! Here it is.” She pulled a branded K&F folder out of the stack. “Your photo ID and keycard are in there. You’ll need them to get into the elevator bank. And you’ll head right over there and up to the forty-fifth floor. If you forget that, it’s right on the first page in that folder. If you need anything—”