Read Online Charmed Thirds by Megan McCafferty - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Megan McCafferty
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up by 11:02, I would leave.
At 11:02, I stayed put, vowing to give them just ten more minutes.
At 11:14, I heard raucous conversation bouncing off the walls in the stairwell, punctuated by explosive bursts of laughter. Ten seconds later, the door burst open and Tyra Braun,
True
‘s editrix, instantly recognizable from her editor’s letter photo, swished through the door. She was accompanied by a pack of disheveled twentysomethings who wore the smoky-boozy-greasy perfume of those making the transition from the night before to the morning after with nary a break in between.
I tried very hard not to look like a tool who had been waiting more than an hour for their arrival.
“Holy guacamole!” she gasped. “You’re the new intern!”
Tyra had such a winning way about her that I instantly wondered how I had gotten by in this world without ever using the phrase “Holy guacamole!” Her lexicon matched her outfit, which was prim and very 1950s: aqua silk ribbon-tie sleeveless blouse, black-and-white knee-length circle skirt, round-toe spectator pumps. Tyra’s corny throwback expressions and love of all things ladylike somehow manages to make her even edgier than others of her ilk. With a jet-black pixie cut that very few people can pull off, surprise-wide eyes, and pink cheeks brightening up an otherwise alabaster complexion, Tyra is someone who my mother would say is “a striking girl, if she hadn’t done that to her hair.”
“How long have you been waiting for us?”
“Not long,” I lied.
“Jeez Louise,” she said, dramatically wiping her brow. “That’s a relief!”
Tyra went on to explain that the
True
staff had all been out late the night before celebrating her thirtieth birthday at an unnamed Bulgarian disco (“And I do mean
disco,”
Tyra said, and everyone cracked up, including me, for reasons I didn’t understand) known for it’s apple-flavored hooch served out of wooden barrels with a ladle. From there, they went to an after-hours lounge known for its “Monday Morning Metal” karaoke contest. (Some guy named Smitty won with his stirring rendition of “Can You Take Me High Enough?” by Damn Yankees.) They had just returned from a dive diner in Greenpoint where they’d consumed enough French toast, pancakes, and hash browns to set the Atkins revolution back about a thousand years.
It was not exaggerating to say that they’d had more fun last night than I’ve had in my entire life.
Tyra quickly introduced me to the rest of the
True
staff. I would recap here except it happened so fast and I was so busy thinking about what I would say next that I can’t remember any of their names, except for Hannah, but that’s because she was the editorial assistant/intern coordinator who interviewed me over the phone. Hannah and the other five female staffers were dressed in various shades of totally cool. The one male was resplendent in flaming homosexual. They all went to their respective cubes to nurse their hangovers and pretend to work.
Tyra alone seemed unfazed by the lack of sleep.
“What’s your name again?” she asked.
I told her.
“Hannah told me all about you! You’re the one who worked on the boardwalk!” She clapped her hands. “Everyone! This is the one who worked on the boardwalk.” The way she said it implied that she had discussed at length my credentials as Frozen Confection Technician at Wally D’s Sweet Treat Shoppe the summer before my junior year of high school. And their
ooh
s and
ahh
s implied that they were duly impressed. I must have looked confused because Tyra quickly informed me why this expertise was so highly valued.
“Good golly!” she exclaimed. “Didn’t Hannah tell you what this issue is all about? It’s
True on New Jersey!”
Apparently, the whole staff is filled with yorkles, people who never venture beyond Manhattan or the acceptably hip outerborough neighborhoods. They need me, according to Tyra, because I can share an
authentic
New Jersey
At 11:02, I stayed put, vowing to give them just ten more minutes.
At 11:14, I heard raucous conversation bouncing off the walls in the stairwell, punctuated by explosive bursts of laughter. Ten seconds later, the door burst open and Tyra Braun,
True
‘s editrix, instantly recognizable from her editor’s letter photo, swished through the door. She was accompanied by a pack of disheveled twentysomethings who wore the smoky-boozy-greasy perfume of those making the transition from the night before to the morning after with nary a break in between.
I tried very hard not to look like a tool who had been waiting more than an hour for their arrival.
“Holy guacamole!” she gasped. “You’re the new intern!”
Tyra had such a winning way about her that I instantly wondered how I had gotten by in this world without ever using the phrase “Holy guacamole!” Her lexicon matched her outfit, which was prim and very 1950s: aqua silk ribbon-tie sleeveless blouse, black-and-white knee-length circle skirt, round-toe spectator pumps. Tyra’s corny throwback expressions and love of all things ladylike somehow manages to make her even edgier than others of her ilk. With a jet-black pixie cut that very few people can pull off, surprise-wide eyes, and pink cheeks brightening up an otherwise alabaster complexion, Tyra is someone who my mother would say is “a striking girl, if she hadn’t done that to her hair.”
“How long have you been waiting for us?”
“Not long,” I lied.
“Jeez Louise,” she said, dramatically wiping her brow. “That’s a relief!”
Tyra went on to explain that the
True
staff had all been out late the night before celebrating her thirtieth birthday at an unnamed Bulgarian disco (“And I do mean
disco,”
Tyra said, and everyone cracked up, including me, for reasons I didn’t understand) known for it’s apple-flavored hooch served out of wooden barrels with a ladle. From there, they went to an after-hours lounge known for its “Monday Morning Metal” karaoke contest. (Some guy named Smitty won with his stirring rendition of “Can You Take Me High Enough?” by Damn Yankees.) They had just returned from a dive diner in Greenpoint where they’d consumed enough French toast, pancakes, and hash browns to set the Atkins revolution back about a thousand years.
It was not exaggerating to say that they’d had more fun last night than I’ve had in my entire life.
Tyra quickly introduced me to the rest of the
True
staff. I would recap here except it happened so fast and I was so busy thinking about what I would say next that I can’t remember any of their names, except for Hannah, but that’s because she was the editorial assistant/intern coordinator who interviewed me over the phone. Hannah and the other five female staffers were dressed in various shades of totally cool. The one male was resplendent in flaming homosexual. They all went to their respective cubes to nurse their hangovers and pretend to work.
Tyra alone seemed unfazed by the lack of sleep.
“What’s your name again?” she asked.
I told her.
“Hannah told me all about you! You’re the one who worked on the boardwalk!” She clapped her hands. “Everyone! This is the one who worked on the boardwalk.” The way she said it implied that she had discussed at length my credentials as Frozen Confection Technician at Wally D’s Sweet Treat Shoppe the summer before my junior year of high school. And their
ooh
s and
ahh
s implied that they were duly impressed. I must have looked confused because Tyra quickly informed me why this expertise was so highly valued.
“Good golly!” she exclaimed. “Didn’t Hannah tell you what this issue is all about? It’s
True on New Jersey!”
Apparently, the whole staff is filled with yorkles, people who never venture beyond Manhattan or the acceptably hip outerborough neighborhoods. They need me, according to Tyra, because I can share an
authentic
New Jersey
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