Free Hot Mess by Julie Kraut Page B

planned out.
    “Resume?” she demanded and I passed her my best thrown-together-through-tears-over-Brian-and-too-many-reruns-of-
One Tree Hill
list of employment and skills. I’d had my mom look it over and she gave me the thumbs-up. But she’d been a sixth-grade Language Arts teacher for the past twenty years, when was the last time she’d even seen a resume?
    I fiddled with my cuticles as she glanced at the ecru high-stock page.
    “So you’re in high school?” she said without looking up.
    “Um, yes. I’ll be a senior next year.” I sat straighter in my chair, hoping perfect posture would make up for the fact that I didn’t even have a high school diploma yet. “I just got elected French Honor Society vice-president, and we’re going to have a really awesome croissant sale fund-raiser this year. And I think our soccer team’s county title is—”
    She put up a hand to silence me. Had I even completed a single sentence since walking into this building?
    “Can you type? Have you used Excel at all? PowerPoint? Internet?”
    “Internet? Oh yes!” I decided to leave out my expertise in stalking people on Facebook. “I can type really fast and I use PowerPoint for all my school presentations and stuff. And I’ve only used Excel a little, but I’m sure I can pick it up.”
    She nodded silently, still scanning through my resume. I hoped everyone else at MediaInc wasn’t this frosty. What if all the people were? What if
this
was New York? No, she’s probably just
being professional,
I told myself.
This is how all grown-ups behave, New York or not.
    She folded my resume in half, looked at her watch, and rolled her eyes at me. “I’ll show you to Mr. Dorfman’s office. He’s the one needing a summer intern.” She was clearly bored with me and wanted to pawn me off on someone else.
    She walked several paces ahead of me. I trailed her as she sprint-walked down a long hallway, not even looking back when I almost didn’t make it into the elevator before the doors closed. We rode up several more floors in silence. When the doors opened this time, I stuck to her like glue. I wasn’t going to lose an arm in a slamming door and show up to my very first real interview mangled. She opened a series of glass doors with her name badge and I was getting winded in the hustle to keep up with her. Finally I stepped inside Mr. Dorfman’s office. It was like something out of a movie, a totally cliché big-shot office—huge windows overlooking the city, portable golf green in the corner, and a man in pleated-front khakis talking loudly into a headset. The only thing missing was the corner bar. But when I sat down in one of the huge leather chairs facing his desk, I could see a fully stocked one set up behind the door.
    “Look, Takeru, we’re going to close this deal with or without your involvement. Get it, sensei? I mean, I wanna pop open a Sapporo with you, too, but we gotta work out the details of this before anyone’s bustin’ out the
spricy
crunchy tuna rolls and
flied lice
.”
    Was he serious? I fiddled with my folder and decided that he was probably just kidding around with an old friend. Or maybe talking to no one and trying to joke with me?
    “Hey, you must be Emma, c’mon in, have a seat,” he said loudly, snapping off his headset, ignoring the continued squawking on the other end. “I’m Derek Dorfman, the head honcho around these parts.” I smiled politely. “Some people call me the boss, the bossinator, bossman, bossmanerino. But
you
can call me Derek.”
    This was the Welcome Wagon for corporate America.
    “So!” he clapped his hands loudly, making me jump. “Tell me about yourself.”
    I took a deep breath and tried to get comfortable, sliding myself back in the chair. My sweaty acrylic pants made a small fartlike squeak, and I blushed and rattled off my interests, hobbies, typing skills, and superhuman work ethic. I might have even included the words “move the needle”—something I’d