Mrs. Grosu often talked about her older brothers and their wrestling prowess. Apparently they’d taught her a thing or two because I found myself outside. Mr. Mohammad, an Ethiopian immigrant who arrived in America several decades before I was born, waved from his twenty-year-old sedan.
“Oh, no. He has the car,” I said.
“You see how important this is?” Mrs. Grosu said.
Very few things could convince Mr. Mohammad to actually take his car out of the garage. The car had somewhere in the neighborhood of eight hundred miles on it because its smiling, mustachioed owner loved to walk. Before he retired, he’d walked the two miles to his job as a grocery store supervisor. Since his retirement, he still walked. But now it was to church every Sunday and to bridge at the community center on Wednesdays.
My dad had been Mr. Mohammad’s bridge partner. Together they had ruled the community center with subtle nods and indecipherable body language.
So many things had changed in such a short time. Now, instead of looking out for my dad, his neighbors were looking out for me.
“Don’t fight us on this. We’ve got social security checks burning holes in our pockets, and it’s Senior Citizens Day at the thrift store,” Mrs. Grosu said, stuffing me into the backseat.
“Hello, Ally,” Mr. Mohammad sang. He was the happiest person I knew.
“Mr. Mohammad, I can’t let you two do this.”
“You just relax, girly,” he insisted. “We want to do this.”
It was true. They really did. Dad’s entire neighborhood seemed to thrive on the “love thy neighbor” principle. When I sold Dad’s house, when this was all over, I’d pay them back. And I would miss them fiercely.
“Fine,” I sighed. “But I’ll pay you back.”
Mr. Mohammad and Mrs. Grosu shared an eye-roll in the front seat.
“Do not make this weird, Ally,” Mr. Mohammad said and cranked up the Billy Joel cassette tape.
6
Ally
Label’s offices took up the forty-second and forty-third floors of a shiny metal tower in Midtown. It was a fancy building in which fancy people worked fancy jobs.
I was rocking a thrift store pencil skirt over bargain-buy lace leggings that made my legs itch. But I’d managed to add my own flair with the thick, colorful hair ties I’d stacked up both wrists. Functional and fashionable. Coincidentally also cheaper than a diamond tennis bracelet.
As the elevator zoomed skyward, nerves had my heart flip-flopping in my chest. I was a pro at starting new jobs. I was great at people-ing. But stepping into that elevator with women who were six inches taller than me and thirty pounds lighter was an eye-opening experience. So was the guy pushing a cart with two dozen Chanel gift bags.
The air smelled expensive in here like subtle brand-name perfumes, luxury creams, and lotions. Meanwhile, I smelled like bargain-brand lemon-scented shampoo.
The gazelle next to me bobbled the tray of coffee cups she was holding. She caught it, but her phone went flying.
I grabbed it off the floor since I was the closest one to it. It would probably take any one of the glamazons a full ten seconds to bend gracefully from their heights to reach the floor.
“Here,” I said, handing the phone back to her.
“Thanks,” she breathed. “I’m such a klutz, and they still make me do the coffee runs downstairs.”
She was closing in on six-feet in her suede ruby heels. Her heritage looked like it was somewhere in the Native American meets Japanese range. In any bar in the city, she’d be considered stunning. Here, she was a coffee getter. I wondered if I was about to learn that my new job involved scrubbing toilets.
I didn’t care. I’d still take it.
Besides, clearly none of these people ate or drank. The bathrooms were probably unused and spotless.
“You’re a model who does coffee runs?” I asked.
She looked at me, blinked, and then laughed. Until she bobbled the tray again.
As a safety precaution, I took it from her.
“That’s adorable,” she said, grinning at me. “I work in the admin pool for Label.”
“But you look like… that,” I said, waving my free hand in the direction of her face. “Does Label have a surplus of cover model-worthy women so they just redistribute them to other departments?”
“I’m a hella fast typer, and organization is my religion. And if someone put me in front of a camera, I’d fall on my face. Plus, I can’t smile on command.” She held up her company ID. In the grainy photo, she looked as if she were retracting her head into an invisible turtle shell. “Do you work in the building?” she asked.
“I’m about to. First day.”
“Cool. What company?”
“Label,” I said.
“Coworkers,” she chirped. “I’m Gola, by the way. What department?”
“I’m Ally, and I’m not sure. Dalessandra just told me to show up and ask for her.”
Gola blinked. “Dalessandra Russo?” She said the name with equal parts awe and fear.
“Yeah.”
“I have so many questions,” she confessed.
“That makes two of us.”
The elevator dinged, and the doors opened on the forty-third floor. We both got out. “Here, I’ll take you to the front desk,” she offered, taking back the tray of coffees.
“Thanks. That’s really nice of you.”
I opened one of the glass doors for Gola.
“First lesson, we’re not all models, and we’re not all super mean. But some of us are both,” Gola said, leading the way to a horseshoe-shaped counter of glowing white quartz. The woman standing behind it was an ivory-skinned redhead in a chic, plaid sheath dress.
I felt like I’d shown up to the prom in pajama pants.
“Ruth, this is Ally. She’s here to see Dalessandra about a job,” Gola said with an eyebrow wiggle.
“What kind of job?” Redheaded Ruth asked, cupping her chin in a dainty hand.
“That’s the best part. She doesn’t even know!”
“Pretty sure it’s not a cover model gig,” I joked. “She gave me this card and told me to ask for her.” I fished Dalessandra’s business card out of my coat pocket and handed it over.
“This is exciting!” Ruth insisted. “This is the second new random hire today.” She pointed to a small waiting area. Low, white leather chairs looked more fashion-forward than comfortable. Gold planters held glossy green ferns in front of windows that framed the gloomy Midtown skyline.
Bus stop guy was sitting gingerly on one of the artsy-fartsy chairs. His leg was jiggling to a nervous beat. He’d trimmed his hair and beard and was wearing an orange sweater that stretched tight over his belly, making it look a little like a pumpkin.
He looked so happy I was actually scared for him.
“Hey, bus stop buddy!” He waved at me.
“Hey,” I waved back and sent every good vibe I could muster his way. Mean people ate sweethearts like him for breakfast.
“You two know each other?” Gola asked. “Even more intriguing.”
I turned back to the women. “So what you’re saying is this doesn’t happen often?” I hadn’t been sure if Dalessandra made a habit out of playing employment fairy to strangers.