Free Someday Maybe by Ophelia London Page B

a skinny manila folder. “The appointment is on Claire’s calendar. Don’t be late.”
    “Um, Bruce?” I swallowed and clutched my notebook containing the clever sketch and the perfect one-liner. “I have an idea for the project, if you want to see—”
    He held up a hand. “No, no. You heard Claire. Not your concern anymore.” He quirked a smirk and strolled away.
    After weeks of lying low, I finally had something cool to share, and it would never see the light of day because I’d be babysitting . What the hell? I stomped toward my cubicle and dumped everything on my desk, desperately needing a cocktail or a mainline of lavender oil or a Moron Bruce-shaped punching bag.

    The Tipsy Pig was all the way across town, and I was ten minutes late to the dinner meeting. Well, if Claire couldn’t be arsed enough to show up herself, why should I break the speed limit?
    As I crossed the parking lot, I spotted a girl waiting in front of the restaurant as planned.
    “Ms. Reynolds?” she asked me, looking smiley and eager. Good little intern.
    “No, I’m Rachel.” I extended my hand to shake. “Claire is very sorry but she was called away at the last minute.” Lie. “But I’m more than happy to meet with you tonight.” Lie.
    “Hi.” She shook my hand. “Sarah. Nice to meet you. Is that your black Bug?” She nodded toward the parking lot. “What a cool car.”
    “Oh, thanks. I love it.” I returned her enthusiastic smile as we entered the restaurant. “But sometimes convertibles are more trouble than they’re worth.”
    “Not to mention the manual transmission in a city with a bunch of hills.”
    I laughed, remembering that I’d had the same conversation with my father a month ago when I’d told him I was buying a car in San Francisco. My Bug was used and a great deal, so Dad agreed with my logic in the end.
    Sarah was twenty. She looked twenty, but that was only the first impression. After a few minutes of conversation, I discovered she was very together, despite the earlier conversation about my car. Her maturity was refreshing after being around Meghan, the habitual teenager.
    “I’m in the art program,” she explained as we sat across from each other, eating our gourmet bread and salads. “My focus is oil painting but I throw pottery, too.”
    “What made you apply for an internship at an advertising agency if you’re an artist?”
    “Art is my passion, but I don’t know how sensible it is to hang my future on what paintings may or may not sell at the whim of some Upper East Side art gallery.” She took a bite of spiral noodles salad. “So I’m taking business classes, too.”
    That seemed smart. And familiar. I’d pretty much done the same thing in college, though this girl was a year ahead of me. Huh. I wondered if she had a ten-year plan, too.
    “Tell me some of your upcoming objectives,” I asked, trying to sound like I knew what the hell I was doing. Neither Claire nor Bruce bothered to give me any instructions, and Sarah’s employee file sat unopened on the passenger seat of my car.
    “I’ve been accepted to study for a semester in Rome.” She took a drink. “USF won’t pay for it, but they’re holding my spot, so I’ve been saving.”
    “For how long?”
    “Two years.”
    Her passion for studying art in Italy was evident, which made me wonder why she hadn’t already gone. I knew a few people who would’ve simply charged a trip like that on a credit card or two. But as I looked into her wise eyes, I reconsidered. Maybe it was a different sub-generation of shopaholic girls who did such things.
    Sarah had earned her AA degree from a community college in the Midwest I’d never heard of. “I also got accepted to the Art Institute in New York. I was all set to go, but a few months ago I changed my plans.”
    “You changed your mind to not go to New York?” I asked, picking the currants out of my chicken salad. “I thought that was the mecca to study art, all the galleries