Free Hot Mess by Julie Kraut Page A

want to see him again. Anyway, I’m probably going to spend today doing my art stuff, you know,” Jayla explained. I nodded, but the truth was I didn’t know. The only paintbrushes in this apartment were attached to Jayla’s NARS nail polish. Even through her hangover, she saw the confusion on my face. “Oh yeah, I want to be an artist and I’m trying to spend the summer developing my portfolio and whatever. I haven’t gotten all that far, to be honest.” She let out a huge yawn and stretched, then started her saunter over to her room. “You know, maybe I’ll take a nap before I get started.” She turned around in her doorway, sent air kisses our way, and then disappeared into her room.
    Rachel looked at me with a question-mark face. “Art stuff?” She was apparently as shocked as I was.
    “I know, as if.” Even though I’d only known the girl a day and a half, I could predict her future like a crystal ball. “It’ll probably be ten p.m. when she wakes up and the text messages are going to be rolling in. She’ll Diane von Furstenberg herself out the door and not work at all on that stuff. ‘Working’ is so totally not her style.”
    “If I had her dad, it wouldn’t be my style either,” Rachel sighed. She glanced at Jayla’s discarded Jimmy Choos lying by the door and then turned miserably to go print out Sirlie’s homepage. “Seriously, Emma, as soon as I turn eighteen, I’m marrying for money.”
             
    As soon as Rachel headed off to her interview, I made a quick call to Mama Freeman. I was relieved to hear that she’d already talked to Golf Gal! Eileen and they’d arranged for me to interview at this company called MediaInc with their Senior Vice President of Marketing today. Thanks for telling me, gals!
    I spent the morning trying to pull myself into some version of professional. I looped my hair into a low pony and tried to apply makeup that made me seem older and classy. But since I only had my everyday lip gloss and mascara to work with, I pretty much looked like the same high school Emma I always do. I tucked a collared shirt into my favorite black H&M pants and set off. By the time I’d taken the subway to Midtown, walked two blocks in the wrong direction, turned around, and ran until I found the place, I was so sweaty I looked like a bag of wilted lettuce.
    I marched up to the reception desk, hoping the lobby AC would dry my sweat mustache by the time I spoke.
    “Hi, I’m Emma Freeman, here to see, um…” I shuffled through my tatty Pokemon folder that contained the interview contact info and a hasty copy of my resume. “Margaret Pavese in Human Resources. I’m Emma Freeman. Oh shit, I already said that, sorry. Wait, did I just cuss? Oh damn, sorry about that. Omigod, I did it again, I’m—”
    “Eleventh floor, suite two fifteen,” the receptionist said curtly, and I scooped up my Japanimation Five Star and shuffled away, 100 percent mortified.
    My sweat started to dry as I headed up in what had to be the world’s nicest elevator. I surveyed the sleek LCD television that displayed breaking news and numbers that I guessed were stocks, though they could have been lotto numbers.
    “Hello, I’m Emma Freeman. I need a reservation for ten tonight at your really expensive restaurant. Where do I work? Well, I’m typically not one to brag, but…the really big building with the TELEVISION in the elevator, maybe you’ve heard of it.”
    By the time the elevator binged open, I had daydreamed myself into a Fortune 500 CEO’s life. A sharply dressed woman with long red nails was waiting for me when the doors opened.
    “Hi!” I smiled. “You must be Mrs. Pavese. I’m Emma—”
    “That’s
Ms.
Pavese,” she cut in curtly before I could finish. “Right this way, please.”
    I swallowed hard, feeling like I was tanking my very first interview before it had even really started, and trailed her to an enormous conference room where it looked like world wars were