An Innocent Fashion by R.J. Hernández Read Free Book Online

delivered this conciliatory speech to a number of intern rejects before me.
    â€œIt’s true,” she continued. “We only hire from within. We used to work through HR, up on the seventeenth floor, but they kept sending the wrong types of people—HR handles all the magazines at Hoffman-Lynch, twenty-something titles, but some of the other magazines aren’t as . . . discriminating as Régine . You understand, I’m sure—the qualities Régine seeks in a staff member are very hard to determine from a résumé. We can’t just get anyone off the street, who can technically do a ‘job.’ The perfect candidate has certain other qualities—they look Régine , they act Régine —they know Régine because they are Ré gine . When they leave the office after a day at work, people need to be ableto say, ‘That’s a Régine girl’—or boy, in your case. They have to be a person we can groom . We take them on as interns—special cases, you know—and when a position opens, it belongs to them. Because they belong. . . .”
    Sabrina’s hand fluttered open, like she was demonstrating for me the way her own delicate fingers belonged —or, perhaps, inviting me to appreciate her ring of diamonds encircling a shiny emerald. Draping one forearm over the upholstered arm of her chair, she dangled her hand over the adjacent glass side table. Her wrist was moving lightly in a circle, as if she had picked up a martini glass by its rim and was swirling around an olive inside. “I’d be happy to see you in the first category,” she conceded at last. I realized I had been holding my breath. “We’d give you this opportunity, as a minor endorsement of sorts . . . you’d work hard, and then we’d send you on your way. I’m just . . .” She kept toying with the invisible glass. “For some reason, I’m just not so sure . . . that you fall into the second category.”
    My head raced through alternative interpretations of the words that had just left Sabrina’s mouth, but there was nothing to interpret: Sabrina had declared me ultimately unsuitable for Régine . It was a judgment overwhelming in its offensiveness, yet she appeared so calm, so lovely reclining there, as though she had merely commented on the weather.
    In a kind of stupefied daze, I shook my head. “I’m sorry, but—did I somehow give you the impression that I’m unqualified for this?”
    Upon detecting my indignation, Sabrina livened up. “I don’t mean to upset you,” she equivocated grandly, with an expression so deliberately innocuous as to acquit her of all malign intent. “But with these things, I think it’s important to be honest, don’tyou? If I let you have certain expectations—for instance, that you stand a reasonable chance of becoming a fashion editor at Régine —well, that wouldn’t be very considerate of me, would it?” The corners of her mouth turned up, with the wistfulness of a weeping willow branch caught in the wind, and in a second, my latent suspicions of her malevolence were confirmed.
    â€œBut, I’m extremely qualified,” I protested. “I—my whole life I—”
    Sabrina gestured lightly toward me. “Who makes your suit, Ethan? In that lovely color.”
    â€œWhat?” My disorientation was complete. “I—I don’t know,” I replied. “It’s just . . . thrifted.”
    She pressed her lips together and nodded. “Thrifted?” she repeated with a feigned ignorance, as though to spare me the dishonor of my own admission. “I’ve never heard of them.” Then she slipped a finger under her Chanel bracelet and rotated it so the charm with the diamond logo was facing up. “I’m guessing your shoes too—‘thrifted,’ right?”
    I suddenly saw us from above, as a fly would see