Photographs of Graves

Zoe had picked out a cowl neck ivory shirt, a pair of extremely flattering jeans that “were casual enough to make her seem comfortable but professional enough to give the impression she was there for business”, a natural looking green pendant with matching earrings and ribbon for her braid, and a pair of lightly heeled boots. This was topped off with my nice leather jacket. I actually had three ear piercings, one set that bore long green dangles shaped like leaves, one that held little silver studs just above it, and one that pierced my cartilage and held a little ring. I made sure that these looked relatively professional before walking out the door, pocketing breath mints and lip gloss before picking up my shoulder bag.

I walked up to the building housing Morrow & Sons at ten till ten, looking up at the structure and taking a deep breath. It was tall, old, and brown, with large windows and stone engraved windowsills. It had a certain nobility to it. Large gold letters were plated above the door, reading Morrow & Sons International Inquirer, and the doors were also had gold-colored plating over their glass. I straightened my jacket and walked in.

It was... Cozy. Lots of papers, lots of wooden tables, although the lobby area was cleared out with a few maroon sofas and a table with a pitcher of water and donuts. Against the wall was a coffee maker and a stack of Styrofoam cups in a plastic bag. A radio was playing something calm and very much in Dutch.

Most of the lobby was occupied by the other interns. Something I immediately picked up on is that none of them looked like your average joe: Many were heavily pierced, tattooed, or dyed, while others were dressed as if they were coming to a meeting of state. I fit somewhere in the middle of this range, although closer to the pierced crowd: I was not as nice as the state representatives, or at least not as wealthy. Both groups looked rather out of place in the cozy room. Many were asking if they could go outside and smoke.

Lanky and Bubblegum Hair were leaning against a wall, talking to a girl who's boyish hair was a blend of black and purple and looked like a living mural: Aside from her face every part of her seemed to be tattooed, albeit rather beautifully, and her clothes were entirely made of black leather down to her black motorcycle boots. Her entire ear was filled with glittering piercings and she had snake bites and a glittering nose jewel. She wore all of these extremely well: Honestly she could be some sort of model for an alternative fashion magazine. All of the pierced crowd seemed to gravitate to her for good reason.

Next to them was a blonde boy wearing a worn brown leather jacket, worn jeans, and worn boots. He was too tall for everything he owned – he was almost too tall for the room – and the initial impression he gave with his scruffy stubble, tumbled hair that hung down past his eyes, and two eyebrow piercings was a drug addict. Everything about him screamed secondhand, yet something about him was absolutely endearing. It was probably his very large brown eyes, which reminded me of Oliver.

I weighed my chances and decided I was more likely to be accepted by this group. The only thing they could turn me away for was not having enough tattoos, right? Bubblegum Hair turned to look at me and gave me something resembling a smile, though it didn't touch her eyes.

“American,” she nodded.

“Bubblegum,” I replied.

The living mural girl laughed heartily at this, her face breaking out in a large smile. Bubblegum Hair blinked, but smiled herself. I had just been accepted to the group it seemed. I laughed, too, taking a step closer.

“So, what is your name, American?” the living mural asked in heavily accented english. Her eyes were heavily made up, huge, and very blue. I guessed she was from Russia or some other part of Eastern Europe.

“Arden Murphy, pleased to meet you,” I inclined my head and gave a half smile. “And I need names for you all?”

“I'm Cosette,” Bubblegum Hair replied, “and this is Bastien.” she gestured at Emo and Lanky. He waved apathetically.

“And I'm Anastasia. You can call me Ana, though,” the living mural smiled, reaching out to shake my hand. Yep, definitely Russian. I shook her hand and she beamed.

“You know, I did not think you would sound so... Normal,” Ana said after a moment. “Your voice... It does not draw out like I thought it would. You sound intelligent.”

I realized immediately she was referring to a southern accent, specifically that of George W. Bush. Bush era had done atrocities to the world image of America. I laughed.

“No, that was just our past-president,” I replied.

“It's good to know that Americans can speak,” secondhand man laughed ruefully, turning to be part of the conversation. “My name is Mikael, from Wales. Pleasure.”

“And pleasure to meet you, too, Mikael,” I nodded.

I turned to look at the other interns around me, but at that moment a sharply dressed woman and a middle aged man entered the room. The man's signature walrus mustache and round spectacles gave him away as Charles Morrow; the woman next to him, a middle aged, thin creature with very fashionable clothes and glossy red hair, I recognized as the leading editor and face for the media, Elisabeth Martin. She smiled, regarding us.

“Ah, good, they're already segregated into editors and journalists,” she gave a bemused smile. I looked around and realized that the nicely dressed group that had clumped together on the other side of the room looked as surprised as us but were, in fact, all here to learn how to be editors; all of us that were less reputable-looking were all here to learn how to do field journalism. It was an odd revelation.

“It's because journalists have to be able to get their hands dirty,” a voice laughed from the doorway, entering the room with a hot cup of coffee. I froze.

Theodore Graves was dressed in his same corduroy jacket, a button up white shirt, and a pair of blue jeans. He had thicker stubble, but his flyaway dark curls were neatly groomed. He smiled and sipped at his coffee, his full attention upon Charles Morrow and Elisabeth Martin.

My heart made a motion resembling a summersault and I swallowed. A lot of memories came flooding back upon looking at him. I remained totally motionless, hoping I would become invisible against the backdrop.

I seemed to be successful as we were filed off, separate from the editors, into a small room. For the first time in my life I took a seat near the back, trying to disappear into my corner.

I really hoped he saw me.

I really hoped he didn't.

Ana took a seat on one side of me and Mikael on the other. Ana smiled at me, suddenly seeming like a fairy even in her biker leathers. I smiled back, hiding my discomfort.

“This is very exciting!” she murmured. I nodded. Mikael seemed bored already, but focused.

Charles Morrow and Graves gave a short presentation on the history, achievements, and work ethic of Morrow & Sons, illustrating with pictures on a projector. The room was kept dark enough that I could barely see Graves and, more importantly, he definitely couldn't see me. I dreaded when the lights were turned back on. Charles Morrow was smiling, holding a folder in his hand.

“Here I have your living arrangements,” he said, flipping it open. “As much as it might disappoint you, no intern will be paired with a mentor or other intern who is of the opposite sex. These will be entirely single sex arrangements. Maximum of two interns to a mentor: We can't totally overwhelm our staff, can we?” He smiled again jovially before glancing back down at the list.

“Cosette Bonneaux,” could her name get any more French? “And Ria Ramirez, you will be under the mentorship of Jillian Brown; Bastion Wise and James Griffith, you will be under the mentorship of Randy Carillo; Mikael Weiss and Daniel Baker, you will be under the mentorship of our very own Theodore Graves...”

A few more names were called. I sat, paralyzed, until finally, “Anastasia Morozov and Arden Murphy, you will be under the mentorship of Marian Holmes; and lastly, Christopher Glasgow and William Frost, you will be under the mentorship of Ian Moses. You have been hand-picked and placed by our staff and we hope will be satisfied with these arrangements.” Morrow shut the folder and looked back up at us, smiling. I met his gaze, until I noticed Graves, who was watching me intently.

“Now that the orientation part of this is out of the way,” Morrow said cheerily, “Why don't we all have something to eat?”

I sank into my chair under the weight of that heavy gaze. I looked at my scuffed boots, mind turning.