Chapter 18

The interior of the department was not at all what I expected.

There were the same types of cubicles, but various styles of music came spilling out in a cacophony of sound. And while the soundscape was active, there was almost no actual movement.

I looked around and saw an office at the far end with glass walls. Inside a tired looking woman sat staring at something on her screen. I went in that direction.

As I passed the cubicles I glanced right and left, smiling at people who looked up, startled away from their phones or online shopping at their computers.

I certainly wasn't a good judge, but it appeared people were doing more recreational things than working.

The woman in the glass office looked up and saw me, making eye contact and beckoning me inside. She stood up briefly, her vaguely smoky scent pleasant and mild.

"Elena?"

"Yes."

"Welcome to Social Scene. I'm Sally Lugano, but most people call me Sal." She reached her hand over her desk and shook mine.

"Charles says you want to be a journalist."

"I do!" I said, feeling my eyes light up. I was about to say more when she went on.

"Do you still have a login from your previous position? Go to our archives and see what we do. Then poke around current events of the city and see if there are any topics you'd like to pitch."

She walked me to a few empty cubicles. "You can take your pick."

"Thank you." I slipped into one with a window on the far side.

"We have a pitch meeting tonight. I realize it's kind of soon, but come even if you don't have an idea so you can hear what kinds of things your colleagues are working on."

I nodded. "Great."

Sal nodded and turned away. I wanted to be there, as I was curious what the relatively relaxed newsroom was working on.

The first thing I did wasn't what Sally suggested, which was to go to the archives. Instead, I looked up the circulation details of the weekly insert.

I had heard of Social Scene before, and knew it's content wasn't taken seriously, but to my surprise it was one of the best-selling aspects of the paper and the advertising income was double that of the more respected culture insert and book review magazine.

That encouraged me, and I began to pour over past copies.

After an hour, I got up, depressed. I went toward the breakroom, thinking that not only were the topics silly, but the sources on half of them weren't identified.

It was if the writers were making things up.

I went into the small kitchen where a water cooler and coffee machine sat. I took a paper cup and poured myself some water.

"Hey there." A female about my height with brown, short hair and smelling of bubble gum came in after me, going to the coffee machine. "I'm Sheila."

"Elena."

"Nice to meet you." She sniffed and gave me a puzzled look, but then focused on opening the creamer packets.

Another man came in after her. He was short, smelled like peppery feta cheese, and had a shaved head. He opened the refrigerator and took out a Tupperware with the name "Stan" on it.

"Hey," he said, reaching over to shake my hand. He also sniffed and his eyebrows raised. "Am I missing something?"

"Nope," I said, used to the direction this conversation was going. "I'm a little unique in the scent department."

"I'll say. You do have one, right?" Sheila said. "Wouldn't it be impossible not to? I mean, have you ever heard of that, Stan?"

"Nope."

"Some people say it's air," I said. "Some people say it's like something sweet and light." I shrug.

"Do people ever run into you?" Sheila asked. "Like they don't fully sense you coming?"

"Sadly, yes."

"Wow!" She seemed fascinated, but I wanted to change the subject.

"I feel a little behind, being totally new. Can you give me an idea of what stories you're working on? I'd like to know if my pitch is in the ballpark."

"Uh," Stan said with his mouth full of some sort of oatmeal cereal. "Don't go crazy, whatever you do."

"What do you mean?"

"Newbies. They tend to come in and go all gung-ho, all guns firing, really aiming for it..."

"What he's saying is they do a lot of work and make the rest of us look bad."

I was confused. "Don't you want to write stories?"

The two employees looked at each other and laughed a little.

"What am I missing?" I asked.

"Most of what we do here is go online, find the trending topics or current scandals and piece together our own version."

"You don't interview people? You don't do research?"

They both smiled indulgently.

"Go for it," Sheila said. "It won't get you paid more and it will probably get you rejected at the pitch meeting."

I tried not to look as disappointed as I felt. "Isn't that..." I didn't want to offend anybody, but I needed to know what I was getting into. "... plagiarism?"

Sheila sighed. "It's borrowing, sure. Plagiarism, no. We write our own version, put our spin on it."

"Sounds like you're as clean-cut as your scent," Stan said, and finding his own humor incredibly funny, began to laugh.

Another younger employee came in, making a beeline for the coffee. He practically ran into me before Stan said, "Woah there, Kevin! Don't step on Clean-Cut here."

"Oh, sorry, didn't see you," he said, smiling and holding out his hand. "Welcome to Social Scene."

"Thank you."

"She wants to write her own content," Stan added and Kevin turned, his eyebrows raised over the water he was drinking.

"Good for you!" He turned to Stan. "I bet one month."

"She looks naive enough that I say two," Stan said.

"Guys, don't be jerks," Sheila said, taking my arm and pulling me out. "They're horrible. Just do what you're going to do, Elena. You'll come around to our way of doing it soon enough."

She went quickly down the corridor toward her cubicle. "See you later. I'm trying to get tickets to the Tayla Swivel concert!"

She waved and left me alone in the corridor of cubicles.

I went to my desk and sighed. I knew it wasn't going to be easy but I didn't expect to find this much apathy.

I would just have to do my best and see how it went.

By noon I'd found something interesting. A blog post from a woman interested in the social services aspect of our city had visited an orphanage. What she found wasn't what she expected.

The children were badly clothed and cared for. She had gone back with items she'd bought herself to make sure they had warm jackets and decent shoes.

The post infuriated me. Coming from an orphanage myself, I had opinions on how they should be run.

I was fortunate enough to come from a good one that cared about the children. They had even made sure I got scholarships for college when the time came.

Anything that got a rise from me like this meant it would be a good story to pursue. I jotted down the address and glanced at the time.

Perfect, I thought, I'd go during my lunch hour and see what was happening.

"Elena?" A woman with horn-rimmed glasses was looking down at me.

"Yes?"

"Call on line two."

I looked down at a blinking light. "Thanks."

I picked it up.

"Elena, don't you have somewhere to be right now?" came Charles' strong but velvety voice.

It sent a small shiver down my spine, whether of disgust or attraction, I couldn't tell.

"I'm about to go do some research," I said. "I may have a lead already."

"That's not the deal."

There was silence on the line and I thought back. I had indeed promised meals with him during the day. But that was before I'd known he was going to pull the stunt he did and put me in this department.

"Listen, I'm in the middle of this and its important. I'll come up for a coffee break this afternoon whenever you're ready. Sound good?"

I hung up before he could object, but I thought I could feel his anger radiating down from the 14th floor.

I grabbed my bag and was beginning to log off on the computer when I heard a familiar clicking of heels.

"Hello, Ms. Sorrenson," came a voice. "Can I help you?"

I tried to squeeze down lower in my seat. Maybe she wouldn't see me.

"I'm looking Ms. Laurentia."

"Cubicle five."

Dang. It was no use. I stood up and turned, ready to face my challenger.

Jessica looked as angry as I've ever seen her. She stopped only halfway to my cubicle.

"Miss Laurentia?" Her voice seemed to boom through the office. "Charles Rafe sent me to remind you about your lunch date."