Bloom
Elizabeth O'Roark
Bloom
By
Elizabeth O’Roark
“Disaster strikes when you least expect it.”
Someone said this to me, when it happened. I thought it was the stupidest expression I’d ever heard.
If you did expect a disaster, it wouldn’t be a disaster. If you’d known in advance that you were going to be hit by lightning or run off the road or that your trailer would be in a tornado’s direct path, you’d probably have taken steps to avoid it, right? It’s the unexpectedness that makes it a disaster in the first place.
But one wise person said this: “Sometimes a disaster is just what you need.” It irritated me at the time, but it turns out he was right. Because sometimes you need the slate wiped clean. Sometimes you need your life uprooted, splintered into a million jagged pieces.
All so something beautiful can grow in its place.
Chapter 1
June 12th
I wake a little late. There won’t be time today for the three papers (Wall Street Journal, New York Times, Washington Post) sitting outside my door. I’m late enough that I’m forced to do one of those skittering walk-runs to the subway, as fast as you can get, really, in heels and a pencil skirt.
In truth the running is a little unnecessary. Edward, my boss, told me to sleep in. Yes, he actually ordered me to sleep in, because Edward is the kind of boss who finds out you’ve got a late night planned and is more concerned with your well-being than your productivity. An internship at “The Evening News with Edward Ferris” may be the work-equivalent of winning the lottery. But having a boss like Edward? It’s like winning it twice.
By the time I’ve gotten off the subway, I’m back on schedule and can simply walk the two blocks to my office. It’s in moments like this, when I emerge from the gloom of the subway into the bright sun, that I want to squeal at my own good luck. The streets of Manhattan swim with life in the mornings, moving in sync like some kind of slightly disorganized flash mob. And it’s all mine for the next three months.
There is, of course, a tiny downside to all this good fortune and it’s that downside that has me running this morning. Only the best and brightest get internships like mine. Well, the best, the brightest, and those with a famous dad. I fall into the third category, and despite the fact that I’ve spent the past four summers pulling 60-hour weeks on my father’s talk show, everyone assumes my father made it happen. And despite my hard work and my 3.8 at Cornell, they’re probably right.
So they resented me right off the bat, but now, thanks to Edward, they loathe me. I mentioned that Edward is an amazing boss. The problem is that he’s not an amazing boss to everyone. I honestly wish this were not the case – I don’t want to be the only one who gets to write copy. I don’t want to be the only one promised air time. The other interns look at me like I should fix this, but what the hell am I supposed to do? He’s my boss. That’s what has me running. That’s what has me working late. That’s what means I can’t mess up: because they are all watching, and they really hope I fail.
I don’t deserve to be Edward’s pet. I’d be lying if I said otherwise. I’m not the smartest intern on staff, or the most prepared. I’m not even the hardest worker. I can only assume that he still has a soft spot for the little girl who used to spin on his chair when my father worked here.
There are photographers outside the building, not an unusual occurrence. The morning show usually has a few celebrities running in or running out. A camera flash goes off and I raise a brow. The paparazzi is usually better at telling the difference between the worker bees and the queens, and an intern is the lowest of the worker bees.
I push through the revolving doors and head toward security, but my steps falter halfway there. That dream you have that you’ve walked into class and discovered you’re naked? I’m living it. People are staring. At me. Some are surreptitious, but they are looking all the same. I actually glance down to make sure I’m fully clothed.
There’s a strange hum of tension and excitement, people watching a car crash in action. And I am the car. Through security, in the elevator. My first thought is that it’s about my father — that he’s sick or he’s been fired or he got into a fist fight with one of his conservative guests — but I rule it out. Not enough people know who I am to warrant this much attention.
Heads turn as I step off the elevator, a chain reaction I begin to predict and dread. I haven’t even gotten to my cubicle before Stacy - the producer I most hate - is literally pushing me toward a conference room. She hasn’t liked me from my first day. It’s not just interns who resent Edward’s partiality.
“What is going on?” I ask. To be honest, I’m a little irritated, accustomed to a certain amount of deference being Andrew Grayson’s daughter and all.
She shuts the door behind me and motions for me to sit. “You apparently haven’t read today’s paper?” she asks. The words sound like an insult. I suppose they are. I begin to think of ways to defend myself, but the fact that I stayed out late to watch my ex-boyfriend’s band play doesn’t sound particularly admirable.
“No,” I reply. “Not yet.”
“Well, you’re in there,” she snaps. “You and Edward, leaving a restaurant together.”
I look at her blankly. “Yeah?”
“Lead anchors don’t take interns to dinner for no reason,” she says.
“What are you trying to imply?” I breathe.
“I’m not implying anything. The fact that you’re sleeping with him is hardly a well-kept secret.”
“But … ” I stammer. “That’s ridiculous!”
I wait for her to retreat but she doesn’t. “Give me a break, Eleanor. Are you seriously going to pretend that nothing has gone on?” she asks, and her tone reeks of disbelief.
“I’m 19. He’s my father’s age,” I retort. “Of course nothing has gone on.”
She rolls her eyes. “As if that stops anyone. The two of you have been seen in public at least five times in two weeks.”
“He’s just looking out for me,” I explain. “You know he’s friends with my dad.”
“Doesn’t taking you out five times strike you as excessive?” she asks. It’s actually been more than that, if you include coffee, but that doesn’t seem like a helpful addition to our discussion.
“No,” I argue. “It just seemed unusually thoughtful.”
She rolls her eyes again, and I’m beginning to see why mothers so loathe this habit in their teenage daughters. “I’ve worked with Edward Ferris for ten years. And he’s a lot of things, but ‘unusually thoughtful’ isn’t one of them.”
I want to argue. I want to tell her about the time he and my dad covered the Democratic primary, and how each night Edward would save the chocolates they put on his pillows and bring them to me. How, by the end of the week, I had 42 pieces, and he sat in the hotel lobby and helped me count. But only guilty people offer elaborate defenses, and I am definitely not guilty. “I’ve known him since I was two. Nothing happened.”