Noelle August - Boomerang

Um, I mean earn this fantastic opportunity on the basis of my merits.

Bits of their conversation waft back to me as we move in and out of halos of LED lights: market penetration, abandonment rate. Ethan’s already grabbed the baton, and here I am moping along in the background. Is that the Mia Galliano who’s going to take on this mother-flippin’ world? No, it is not.

So I need a plan. One that includes leaving Ethan in the dust.

I steel myself and take a few healthy strides to catch up to them. Wedging myself next to Adam, I force Ethan to shoulder-bump the wall.

“I’ve already got a hundred great ideas,” I tell Adam Blackwood. “How about a more cinematic approach to your promotions? Like a visual narrative we can carry out along all kinds of transmedia platforms. What do you think?”

“I like the sound of that,” he says and gives me a wink that would relax Medusa’s hair.

I keep him chatting until we reach an alcove with a massive partner desk in Plexiglas and chrome. Tablet computers rest on each side, with additional wireless keyboards and fancy tri-fold monitors spread across the desktop. The geek girl in me salivates—classily, of course.

On a long concrete countertop nearby, a towering espresso machine alternately hisses and gurgles, its four nozzles caked with foam. Beneath it, cabinet doors gape open, and a profusion of cleaning supplies and paper cups spills out onto the floor.

Adam glances at the kitchen area, his expression darkening, and then gestures us to the sleek white leather captain’s chairs flanking the desk. We both go for the same one, smacking inelegantly into one another. Ethan puts a hand on my shoulder to keep me from tottering, and that delicious beach-smoke scent of his hollows my insides.

Focus, Mia.

I ease away and flop into the oversized seat, the wheels of which promptly roll me about six feet across the space.

“What’s first on the agenda?” asks Ethan. He settles into his chair like he was born to it, though his legs are so long that his burnished Oxfords end up under my side. I roll back up to the desk, feeling overly conscious of every bit of him—his feet right near my own. His toned legs and broad shoulders perfectly encased in his suit. His ink-blue eyes, inquisitive and friendly, focused on Adam. Not aggressive. Not overeager. Just deep and thoughtful, alive with his desire to dive into a challenge.

“Today, I want you to get signed up on Boomerang. You need to have the client experience to know how to sell it, right? And everything we do—this dating site, our film and TV properties—it’s about tapping into a certain zeitgeist. Really understand how to speak to our audience, and you can write your own ticket. So, take a look around the site, fill out member profiles, get familiar with it all.”

Brushing imaginary lint from his sleeve, he says, “In fact, I want you two to fill out bios for one another. Get to know your competition.” His shrewd eyes move back and forth between us, and a knowing smirk makes a fleeting appearance. “All right?”

Ethan nods and fires up his tablet. “Great.”

I sit back but hook a toe around my desk leg so I don’t roll away again.

“Sure,” I say, glancing at Ethan. “That won’t be a problem.”

Ethan

Q: Tell us a little about yourself.

Adam walks away, leaving us at our new desks.

For a few seconds, Mia and I just stare at each other. I wonder if she’s as tired as I am. Whatever we did together last night, sleep didn’t figure into it much. I don’t drink coffee, but I’m tempted to fire up the massive coffee machine on the counter and mainline some espresso.

“Should we get started?” she asks, her tone a little too bright. She’s not happy about competing for something that was supposed to be a sure thing either.

I have a wild urge to bow out of the running and let her have the damn internship. Then I remember the box crate in my closet filled with utility bills, student loans, and law school applications. Bowing out would be really fucking dumb. I barely know this girl.

But apparently that’s about to change.

Mia taps on the keyboard in front of her. “Do you want to take turns or go at the same time?”

“Let’s go at the same time. That’s usually more fun.”

Her eyes snap up to me. Guess I’m not the only one with a dirty mind.

“I’ll start.” I open the laptop in front of me and find the Boomerang Profile icon, clicking it open. “Last name?”

“Galliano. Two L’s. One N.”

“You’re Italian?” All morning I’d been thinking she’s Greek or Brazilian.

“Half Italian, half Jewish,” she says. “Guilt is my Kryptonite.”

Her eyes are on the screen, but I can tell she’s fighting a smile.

“Vance for me. Just how it sounds. Age?”

“Twenty-one,” she answers. “I’m an early bloomer.”

I get the feeling her sense of humor cannot be contained. That’s trouble. This would be much easier if she were more like Alison, who’d go on emotional benders for weeks for reasons I never understood. Mia can’t be this easygoing.

“Twenty-one for me, too.”

We keep going, plowing through some basics, and I learn she was born in Little Silver, New Jersey, and is an only child. Her favorite childhood book is The Phantom Tollbooth, and her favorite dessert is something called halvah.

I tell her that I was born in Colorado, actually in my parents’ bowling alley; that my favorite color might be brown—or maybe red or orange—but I’ll tragically never know since they tend to look the same, thanks to my mild color-blindness; and that my favorite foods are anything that’s not Chinese.

Then we get to the tougher questions.

“Duration and end of last relationship?” I ask.

“Ugh.” Mia grimaces and drives her fingers into her curly hair. “People actually have to answer this?”

“This service is for people on the rebound.”

“I suppose. But the question’s kind of a downer, right? Anyway, my last relationship lasted a year, and ended about a year ago. You?”

I stare at the blinking cursor on my screen. A year ago? No one else since then? I don’t know why, but that surprises me.

“Ethan?”

“What—oh. Two years for the duration, and it ended two months ago.”

“Wow. Two years?”

“Next question.”

“Touchy subject?”

I look up and see a teasing smile.

“You could say that.” For a while there, I’d thought this day couldn’t possibly get any weirder, but talking about Alison to a girl I slept-and-now-work-with is definitely leveling me up.

“Next. Question,” I say. “Unless you want to watch me destroy an overpriced espresso machine.”

“Number of sexual partners?” she says.

“What the fuck?” My eyes drop to the screen. Sure enough, there’s the question.

“I believe the question pertains to how many. Not what.”

“Christ. They really want to get to know you, don’t they?” I roll my shoulders, feeling like I’m suddenly boiling. “Fine. Just don’t judge, okay? This is a sensitive subject for me. Eighty-three.”

Mia rolls her eyes. “In your dreams.”

“Actually, then that number would much higher. Infinity, probably. If you want a real number, though, it’s an even ten. And let me remind you that I was with one girl for two long-ass years, so you have to factor that into account.”

I’m kind of expecting her to comment on the ten, but Mia says, “Two long-ass years, huh? Sounds like a good time.”

“You have no idea.”

“Actually,” she says, “I think I do.”

I hear sadness in her voice, and I’m tempted to ask her about her ex, but avoiding baggage wins. “What about you? What’s your number?”

“Kyle makes four.”

That puts my brain into lockdown for a little while as I process. Four. Four guys who’ve been with her. Four guys I don’t know, but who I suddenly don’t like.

Then I replay what she said. “So, with me, that’s five, right?”

She gives me a keep your voice down glare and whispers, “Four total, because we didn’t.”

I lean back in my chair and cross my arms. “Oh, yes. We did. More than once, I’d say.”

She leans forward, steepling her fingers and giving me a scrutinizing look. “And you think that why?”

“Well, for starters, your thong was in my toaster oven.”

“Hey, it’s a great place to store them. I might start doing that all the time. It could be the next big thing. Think about it. Thong warming drawers.”

“Are we really talking about hot thongs right now?”

“Apparently. But a hot thong does not a sexual encounter make.”

“Fair enough, but we did wake up naked in my bed.”

“Still doesn’t mean anything.”

I put my hand to my chest. “That hurts. Okay, how about this: I’ve never been naked with a beautiful girl, in a bed, and not had it happen.”

Hold up. Did I just call her beautiful? Yeah, I did.

Once again, Mia doesn’t react. She’s either used to being called beautiful, could care less that I just called her beautiful, or is hiding that she likes that I called her beautiful.

I catch my train of thought and want to beat the shit out of myself.

The job, Vance. Focus.

“Let me think about this,” Mia says. She taps her fingers to her chin and narrows her eyes like she’s pondering the meaning of life. “So, you’ve been in bed with ten naked girls, and every single time, you’ve had sex with them?”

“That’s right. I have a perfect record.”

“And you’re counting me?”

I spread my hands. “You were naked in my bed.”

I remember the way she looked, all gorgeous curves, green eyes, and that wild curly hair. It’s a damn good thing this desk is providing some cover, because I’m pitching a tent under it right now. Nice fucking timing.

Mia smiles and gives a little shrug. “Then I guess your number’s only nine.” She taps a few keys on her keyboard, changing it in my profile. “Sorry to spoil your winning streak.”

But the sparkle in her eyes tells me she’s not sorry at all.

Mia

Q: Tell us about your family.

Immediately upon arriving at Casa Galliano that evening, I am shoved onto a stool under lights bright enough to produce an x-ray, at which point a giant wooden spoon coated in something green is thrust at my face.

“Joe, you’re in the middle of my shot,” my mom complains, popping out from behind her Linhof Technikardan to adjust the lens, glare at my father, and shoot me a volley of air kisses. Her bottle-red hair is threaded with silver, and she’s in grungy pink sweats and a black tank, so I know she’s on a creative bender.

“Pearl,” dad replies, “you’re in the middle of my tasting.” He turns back to me and winks. “What d’ya think of the pesto, Mia Moré? Good? Bad? Too salty? Needs more basil?”

Resistance is most certainly futile, so I take the spoon and taste—“Needs some chili paste, Jo-Jo, a little spezia”—then I wipe my mouth on my father’s apron, finger-comb my hair, and strike a pose for my mom, which she immortalizes with a couple of quick shots.

“What am I this time?”

“The face of unchecked capitalism,” she says. “I’m going to silkscreen you onto an eight-foot dollar bill. It’s for an installation at the New York Stock Exchange.”

It amazes me what they let my mother get away with, but when you’re as famous as she is, you get to call the shots. “Really?” I tease her. “That seems so tame for you.”

“Well . . .” She disappears behind the camera again, so I barely hear the rest, but I think I catch the word, “impaled.”

I’ve had worse.

Looking around at the array of equipment and the wall-wide bulletin board cluttered with images, I think about how sure my mother seems to be, how all of her projects—as bizarre and otherworldly as they can sometimes be—seem so absolutely and perfectly her.

“Hey, mom,” I say. “How did you . . .”

I’m not sure what I want to ask, exactly, and it always feels like cheating, somehow, to go to my mother for advice. Like taking a shortcut through private property. “How did you decide, umm—like what your artistic perspective would be? Like how to, I guess, see things the way you see them?”

“I just let myself play,” she mutters. “I didn’t hold on as tight as you.”