The Boss Crush

People can change, even her.

Sandy catches me looking back, and giggles. “Don’t worry, she’ll be fine without you for a few minutes.” Pulling the portfolio out from under my arm, she sets both of ours down on the sink. “Stand here.” Moving me by the shoulders, she looks me up and down.

“Well?” I ask, running my fingers through my hair again. “What do you think?”

“I think we’re going to make you drop jaws to the floor out there.”

“Really?”

“Fuck yeah, are you kidding me?” Slipping her sweater off, she lays it over a stall door, and sets her bag on one of the sinks. “I mean look at you. You really should show off some more skin.”

“You think so? It wouldn’t be too much?”

“Just let me do my thing, I promise, everyone will remember you once I’m done.”

Sandy braids my hair and pulls a few pieces out so they frame my face. She digs around in her bag, taking out foundation, blush, lip stick, and mascara.

Spinning me so I can’t see in the mirror, she does my makeup, and starts to adjust my dress. “You really need to work your assets here. If you want the guys at those tables to notice you, you need to give them a reason to look.”

Pulling the straps on my bra, she ties them together with a small elastic. My tits are now up near my neck, and she uses a clip to pull the skirt up to the middle of my thighs, pinning it in place.

“There, now you’re going to turn some heads.” She grabs our stuff off the counter, and hands me my folder.

We walk out of the bathroom together, and I feel this rush pass through my body. I don’t feel like a sheep right now, I feel like I’m part of the wolves.

Sandy and I start for the gym, when she lets out a heavy breath as she’s searching her bag. “Shit, have you seen my sweater?” Her gaze shifts from her bag to me. “It’s my lucky sweater, I can’t do this without my lucky sweater.”

“I think you left it on the stall door, want me to go grab it for you?” I ask.

“Would you really? That would be so nice.”

“Yeah, sure, it’s no problem.”

“You’re a life saver, thank you.”

Running back into the bathroom, I grab her sweater and come back into the hall. Looking left to right, Sandy’s gone.

Where the hell did she go?

Standing on the tips of my toes, I check down the hall. She’s really gone. Vanished as if she was never there. Checking the time, there isn’t much more time for the job fair, and I don’t want to miss out on any opportunity.

I’ll just give it to her later.

Heading in the gym, I can feel everyone staring at me as I browse the booths, searching for the few that are exactly what I want. I’m only here for the graphic design jobs. That’s all I care about.

I want my art to be seen on billboards and in commercials. I want to create something that people will remember and will last for a lifetime. I want to be like Carolyn Davidson and create something as memorable as the Nike swoosh.

Finding a booth in the back, I walk in and I’m stunned to see a woman behind the table. She looks me up and down, obviously judging my outfit choice.

Why did I let Sandy dress me like a five dollar hooker?

Pulling the top of my shirt up to cover my cleavage, I sit in the chair and rest my portfolio on the table. I spit out the speech I came up with earlier, about how I’m a hard worker, and I take pride in my art.

She seems to be mildly interested, despite the awkward introduction. The woman leans forward, resting her chin on the back of her hands as I express my love of design and list some impressionable artists from over the years.

“I put together some of my favorite work that I’ve done. I hope you can see how much time and effort I’m willing to put in by the quality of my portfolio.”

The woman smiles, taking the folder and leaning back in her chair. She opens the cover, her eyes popping up to me, and then back down to the folder. She flips a couple of the pages, closing the cover angrily.

“Is this some type of joke?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, confusion and uncertainty filling my voice.

“You tell me,” she says, sliding the portfolio back across the table. “You say you’re a hard worker, but this doesn’t show it. If you want to play games, I suggest you go elsewhere.”

Pulling back the cover, I stare in shock.

Blank.

Blank.

Blank.

There’s nothing here. Page after page is nothing but crisp, white sheets of fresh unused paper.

“I don’t understand, this isn’t right. Where’s my art?”