Things started to go downhill—at least in my pessimistic mind—when the new girl, Yahla, joined the team. She's sweet, really, but the problem is her mouth. I'd rather be a ghost in my dirty gloves than have the entire design team (the very one I dream of joining) eavesdrop on Yahla's endless dating drama. At first, I didn't mind. I'd simply remind her to keep her voice down.
But over the next few months, as we got closer and started hanging out, she decided that work was the perfect time to broadcast my own questionable dating history. And not quietly, either. I swear, when she brought up—again—the guy who got arrested in the middle of our date, she practically shouted it for the whole office to hear.
"I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU DIDN'T REALIZE HE WAS HOMELESS! YOU REALLY DATED A HOMELESS MAN?"
For the record: he was jobless, not homeless, and crashing at a friend's apartment. I didn't ask too many questions about how or why he lost his job—mostly because I didn't want to explain mine.
So there I was, cornered in the breakroom, Yahla blaring my personal life while people in sales, marketing, and design looked over. And I thought, Well, that's it. There goes my shot at Style Sphere.
You see, I've been keeping a secret—not even Summer or my family knows. I've come dangerously close to landing a job as a designer's assistant. Right now, I'm nearly finished with an under-the-table training from a strange woman I met at Sera Elganza. At first, it sounded shady. But honestly, what were my choices? Toilets, or the opportunity of a lifetime. I chose the latter.
It began like this: I'd wake up before dawn to beat L.A. traffic (yes, there are two rush hours before sunrise) and drive down Rodeo Drive to my go-to parking spot. It's on the street—because no, the rich don't own the streets, even if they act like they do. Since no one's called the cops on me yet, I'd call it prime parking. From there, it's an easy walk to either Sera Elganza or Style Sphere, cleaning bucket in tow.
The job itself was usually meditative. I didn't have to talk to anyone, especially in those quiet hours before the offices opened. But there was this older woman at Sera Elganza who always stared at me through her thick mascara. At first, I thought she was lost—or maybe a homeless woman who'd slipped past security. Impossible. The building's security is tighter than Fort Knox. Still, I'd glance up from mopping and catch her eyes fixed on my pumps.
Every single day, she watched. Then one morning, when I wore bright orange heels, she couldn't resist. She strode straight up to me with a broad smile.
"Dearie, you are the most peculiar person I've ever met in my artistic life," she said, staring at the pumps. "I have met countless models, but none have showcased their designs while cleaning. Are you promoting a particular season with a fashion house, or—"
I laughed, because what else could I do?
"Oh no, ma'am. No particular designs."
I tried to move on, mop in hand, but her shadow followed me.
"But you do like design, do you not? I've noticed a very interesting pattern on you whenever you come in."
"I studied design, but right now I'm just trying to survive in crazy L.A. Thank you for the compliments, though."
I thought that was the end of it. Instead, she suddenly grabbed both my arms.
"You should have told me earlier you were a designer! This place needs new ones. You should be enjoying L.A., not just surviving it. I'll tell you what: I'll train you myself and help you land a position here at Sera Elganza."
My mop hit the floor in rhythm with my heart. Everything inside me screamed yes, but my brain whispered scam. She wasn't homeless—clearly not, with that flawless blowout and the fact she'd cleared security—but maybe just a little crazy.
She didn't accept no. She reached out a bony hand, mascara heavy, smile unwavering.
"Madam Lorenski. Designer and secretary at Sera Elganza."
Her title alone justified my decision. I shook her hand, and just like that, I became her understudy after cleaning hours. That was a year ago.
I still don't know what she sees in me—or what her angle is—but she even pays me decently for the training. Judging by the car she drives, she can afford it. Still, I can't help wondering about ulterior motives.
So when Yahla blabs on too loudly, and I know Madam Lorenski is about to hand my freshly polished résumé to the head of Sera Elganza, I feel my whole plan circling the toilet. Lorenski told me to meet her in the North Wing, Room 12, at nine tonight. Which means I'll have to ditch Yahla with the bathrooms, sneak to my "illegally" parked car, dash back across the street, change in the overly perfumed women's restroom, and meet my new boss. Should be fine, right?
"Yahla, I'm going to run down Rodeo and grab us both a coffee."
"Oh my gosh, you're too sweet. Like, southern sweet. But it's oka—"
"I insist. You've been such a big help." Especially with the little disappearing act I'm about to pull. "I heard there's a great coffee shop nearby. I wanted us both to try it."
She gave me a thumbs-up and headed toward the bathrooms. Perfect. That left me free to slip away.