Ten Girls to Watch by Charity Shumway Read Free Book Online Page B

one of the four desks back in the middle of the floor, but Ralph led me past the shelves and out of the cage and opened the door to what was clearly a storage room, half full of boxes. On one wall, amid the boxes, a computer and a phone were perched atop a small table.
    “They set you up with a login and everything yesterday, right?” Ralph said.
    I concurred.
    “Good. I’ll let you get started then. Oh, before I forget, you need your keys.” He reached into his pocket. “This one is for your office.” Generous use of that term, I thought, as he set the silver key on my desk. “And this one is for the security screen on this floor.” By which I figured he meant the steel cage. Apparently my access was limited to this floor only. And with that, Ralph gave me a big pearly smile and said, “I’m upstairs if you need anything. You can also just call my extension. I’m extension 1. You’re extension 2.” Which sounded suspiciously like he might just be the only other extension in the building.
    After Ralph’s departure, I plunked down in my swivel chair and gave it a slow spin, taking in the 360 view. Yes, it was a closet, but it was my closet. I had a job. And yes, there were boxes, boxes, and more boxes, but I like the smell of cardboard boxes and have a long and loving history with cardboard in general. My current coffee table was just the start of it. My “nightstand” and all the “end tables” in my apartment were made of cardboard too. In college, I’d been even more of a cardboard connoisseur. As far as I was concerned, a sturdy box plus a folded sheet equaled completely passable furniture.
    But perhaps most important, in my first glance at my new office space, I’d overlooked the bulletin board. I loved that scene in the Sabrina remake where Sabrina posts a photo of the man she’s obsessed with on her bulletin board and then, in subsequent scenes, tacks other pictures up until he’s completely covered, thus physically manifesting her psychological transformation. What other Staples product can do that for you? With visions of color copies and thumbtacks dancing in my head, I headed to the shelves and loaded myself up with the 1957, ’58, and ’72 volumes—1972 because, if I remembered correctly, that was Helen Hensley’s year.
    I hadn’t heard back from her yet, which had me a touch worried. She usually wasn’t the sort of person who didn’t return e-mails.
    When I returned with the ’72 volume, I flipped pages until I landed on the TGTW coverage. Our gals were looking pretty groovy, long hair, a few showings of fringey vests . . . And then, as I’d known I would, I saw her face. She may have been wearing the Muppetiest brown and white pile coat ever, and her hair may have been topped in a knit cap, but there was no doubt about it. It was Helen, who had apparently been Miss Social Action back in the day. Why had I never heard a single thing about her marching history? I didn’t want to pester, but I imagined she’d get a kick out of my discovery, and somehow I suspected that whatever was going on with her, she might need to smile.
     
Helen, You won’t believe what I’m looking at. You! “Helen Thomas: Campus Crusader.” Yes, it’s your Ten Girls to Watch contest photo! Nice coat.;) And I had no idea you were such an activist! I’m sure you’re swamped, but just had to pop into your inbox again to share!
     
    With that done, I began at the beginning, per XADI’s explicit instructions. Charm, August 1957.
    _________
    The very first spread of the inaugural Ten Girls to Watch featured a brunette girl in a red coat, cinched at the waist, walking down the stairs outside an ivy-covered building, amid a throng of smiling fellows, all with Ken-doll hair. Headline—“Let Her Inspire You.”
    A page over, another pretty girl, this one in a blue velvet tea-length dress with a huge diamond brooch, peeked out from under an umbrella held by a tuxedo-clad gent, her palm up, testing for rain.