. . . What kind of reference would Selah give them? I don’t even have time to contemplate it because I can hear Selah’s phone buzzing, and I’m apparently the person who answers that now. I hurry past the room that’s come to a standstill with all of this drama, past Miko’s confused expression, and into the little office that’s now all mine. I sit down at McKenna’s desk and put in the earpiece as I punch the button for line one.
“Selah Smith’s office?” I chirp, but the caller has already hung up. I look down at the white desk and see a thick black binder with the title “SSE Assistant Handbook,” and right next to it is a bright Post-it. I realize it’s the note Selah asked him to write, the one with any pertinent information I should have. McKenna’s serial-killer handwriting is scribbled furiously across the top.
You won’t last the week, Texas.
Well . . . At least this time he got the state right.
While Selah is at her lunch meeting I do my level best to memorize the assistant binder. It’s something like fifty-two pages, single spaced, and mostly includes info about how to properly format an e-mail and answer the phone, but it’s a lifeline and I’m clinging to it with both hands.
The phone is quiet through most of the afternoon, and while I’m thankful for the reprieve, there’s something ominous about the silence. I’m guessing that the rumor of the Volturi’s untimely demise has quickly made the rounds throughout the event industry and that none of the vendors want to risk speaking with Selah when there’s already blood in the water.
“Brinkley, my office.” Selah’s clipped tone whips into my little room, and my head snaps up. She’s already passed by, not bothering to confirm that I’ve heard her, just confident that her request will be met. I hurry to follow her with a notepad at the ready.
I walk just inside the door of her office and pause, waiting for her next command.
“Close the door and take a seat,” she says without looking up from the screen of her cell phone.
I do as I’m told.
Selah angrily jabs a few buttons on the phone and then puts it down on the desk. Her eyes narrow on me like a hawk.
“I don’t have time for this!” she barks.
“I’m sorry—should I come back later?” I’m confused.
“I’ve had Quade for almost two years and McKenna for half that; I don’t know how I’m expected to continue at this level without proper support.” Her tone is accusatory. As if I’m the one who has done something wrong. I just stare at her and try not to show how nervous I am.
When I don’t reply she plows ahead.
“Whatever you don’t know, you need to figure out.”
I have zero idea what she’s talking about but, as McKenna has taught me to do, I nod anyway. Selah pointedly glares down at the notebook in my hands. Since it’s clear she wants me to make a note, I write:
1. Figure out whatever I don’t know!???
“Next, the all-hands meeting is tomorrow morning. I shouldn’t have to remind you of this, but that’s your responsibility now.”
I continue to write notes, but my stomach just drops out. I’m supposed to run a meeting? Like, a real one? The last meeting I led was back in Girl Scouts.
“Also, Margo e-mailed last week about some brunch or something she wants to do. We’ll need to talk to Jin about the pulls she’s done for that. Production should have three proposals going out today; confirm their delivery. I have drinks tonight with the team from Haiku, but I’m exhausted, this day is for shit, I need to reschedule. Make an appointment with the acupuncturist—my shoulders are too tense—and switch my Pilates back to Friday.” She keeps listing things in rapid fire, and I scribble furiously without comment.
Thirty minutes later I’m dismissed, and it takes everything in me not to sag with relief. I hope that I’ve filled up five pages of notes because I’m new at this, and not because this is
“Selah Smith’s office?” I chirp, but the caller has already hung up. I look down at the white desk and see a thick black binder with the title “SSE Assistant Handbook,” and right next to it is a bright Post-it. I realize it’s the note Selah asked him to write, the one with any pertinent information I should have. McKenna’s serial-killer handwriting is scribbled furiously across the top.
You won’t last the week, Texas.
Well . . . At least this time he got the state right.
While Selah is at her lunch meeting I do my level best to memorize the assistant binder. It’s something like fifty-two pages, single spaced, and mostly includes info about how to properly format an e-mail and answer the phone, but it’s a lifeline and I’m clinging to it with both hands.
The phone is quiet through most of the afternoon, and while I’m thankful for the reprieve, there’s something ominous about the silence. I’m guessing that the rumor of the Volturi’s untimely demise has quickly made the rounds throughout the event industry and that none of the vendors want to risk speaking with Selah when there’s already blood in the water.
“Brinkley, my office.” Selah’s clipped tone whips into my little room, and my head snaps up. She’s already passed by, not bothering to confirm that I’ve heard her, just confident that her request will be met. I hurry to follow her with a notepad at the ready.
I walk just inside the door of her office and pause, waiting for her next command.
“Close the door and take a seat,” she says without looking up from the screen of her cell phone.
I do as I’m told.
Selah angrily jabs a few buttons on the phone and then puts it down on the desk. Her eyes narrow on me like a hawk.
“I don’t have time for this!” she barks.
“I’m sorry—should I come back later?” I’m confused.
“I’ve had Quade for almost two years and McKenna for half that; I don’t know how I’m expected to continue at this level without proper support.” Her tone is accusatory. As if I’m the one who has done something wrong. I just stare at her and try not to show how nervous I am.
When I don’t reply she plows ahead.
“Whatever you don’t know, you need to figure out.”
I have zero idea what she’s talking about but, as McKenna has taught me to do, I nod anyway. Selah pointedly glares down at the notebook in my hands. Since it’s clear she wants me to make a note, I write:
1. Figure out whatever I don’t know!???
“Next, the all-hands meeting is tomorrow morning. I shouldn’t have to remind you of this, but that’s your responsibility now.”
I continue to write notes, but my stomach just drops out. I’m supposed to run a meeting? Like, a real one? The last meeting I led was back in Girl Scouts.
“Also, Margo e-mailed last week about some brunch or something she wants to do. We’ll need to talk to Jin about the pulls she’s done for that. Production should have three proposals going out today; confirm their delivery. I have drinks tonight with the team from Haiku, but I’m exhausted, this day is for shit, I need to reschedule. Make an appointment with the acupuncturist—my shoulders are too tense—and switch my Pilates back to Friday.” She keeps listing things in rapid fire, and I scribble furiously without comment.
Thirty minutes later I’m dismissed, and it takes everything in me not to sag with relief. I hope that I’ve filled up five pages of notes because I’m new at this, and not because this is
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