Free Citizen Girl by Emma McLaughlin Page A

interesting work.’ I lean back and cross my legs.
    ‘Huh.’ He nods. ‘So, the thing is, Girl, I want to tap this last corner of the marketplace that remains pretty stubbornly reticent. Ms. Magazine , “the leading feminist oracle”. He rabbit-ears air quotes. My team tells me they have some really compelling journalism. Social commentary. You know, rabble-rousing. I’d like to get their archive on the site.’
    ‘Of course!’ Mascara and … female genital mutilation. ‘It’s an obvious match.’
    ‘I think so. I brought you in because I have this initiative, a rebranding opportunity, and I thought you might be a good fit.’ He rolls up the sleeves of his blue and white striped Oxford. ‘I’m the CEO, so my plate’s full. I need someone to run it, someone like you.’
    ‘Interesting.’ Initiative?! How many people involved? What, exactly, do you mean by run? Ms. ?! But I’ve learned my lesson: questions do not inspire confidence. ‘Guy, I’m honored by your consideration.’ He smiles, I sweat. ‘And I have to say this sounds like an ideal match. First of all, I’ve been working with charitable enterprises my entirelife. My mother runs the Chatsworth Writers’ Colony in Connecticut, which no one’s really heard —’
    ‘Sure, didn’t Plath write there?’
    ‘She did.’ I smile, surprised. He doesn’t strike me as the Plath type. ‘So, I’ve been helping my mother with grants, outreach, and administration since I was about as tall as your desk. I majored in Public Policy with a minor in Gender Studies, as you’ll see from my résumé.’ I reach into my purse and pass it to him, trying to steady my shaking hand. ‘And, as I mentioned, my work at the Center for Equity in Community predominantly focused on serving the needs of adolescent females —’
    ‘And, you’re female!’ He laughs.
    ‘Yes.’ I’m female. I read Ms. Magazine . I’ve had a yeast infection. I’m a Ms. -toting, yeast infection-surviving, unemployed female.
    ‘Excellent.’ Guy shakes his head slowly as he puts my résumé face down. ‘I feel like you get it.’
    ‘I do,’ I say without hesitation, ‘I get it and I want it.’ Paid rent, restaurant food, new tights, I want it all.
    ‘Shit, Girl, I’m looking at you and I feel it, we have found the face of this initiative.’ Do not kiss him, do not kiss him, do not.
    ‘Guyser.’ A golf club slides the door open, trailed by a very tall, very tanned man in his early sixties.
    ‘Rex!’ Guy stands and I follow, vibrating ecstatically as I turn ‘the face’ in greeting.
    ‘ Qué pasa , my friend?’ The man tugs with his free hand at his cashmere slacks before sitting on the pony-skinned chaise.
    ‘Have you heard back from the board?’ Guy asks, a surprising display of nerves flickering across his face.
    ‘Vote’s in.’ Rex tucks the club behind his neck and dangles his wrists over the protruding ends, suggesting a stockade. ‘Apparently you really knocked their socks off.’ Guy beams as Rex continues, ‘You have a green light. But you’re getting limited rope. They want a signed commitment from the client by May.’
    Guy passes over a fax, causing Rex to drop his club. It bounces off the carpet, narrowly missing my toes. Oblivious, Rex tosses his leonine white hair off his forehead to scan the pages while Guy and I both stand awkwardly. Actually, I’m standing awkwardly, Guy looks as if he’s ready to burst into ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’.
    ‘ Now I’m getting my money’s worth.’ Rex swats at Guy’s shins with the fax.
    ‘I promised you, Rex. She’ll meet with us.’
    ‘You prick!’ The two of them beam at each other before the man cants his head towards me inquisitively.
    ‘This is Girl,’ Guy explains while Rex looks me cursorily up and down. ‘I’m talking to her about our feminist rebranding. Girl, this is Rex, MC, Inc.’s Chairman.’
    ‘Hello, Rex. It’s such a pleasure.’ I step over to shake his hand, but he makes no