Citizen Girl Read Online Free PDF Page A

water. ‘Avert!’ I climb down from the sink, wrap myselfin a towel, and reach over him for my suit. He unfolds the extended liner notes of the Rolling Stones compilation while I get dressed behind him.
    ‘How’d you get your old job with Dorisistryingto-killme?’
    ‘Career Services,’ I say, smoothing down the hanger crease with my hands.
    ‘So do that.’
    ‘Jack, that’d be like getting sent back to the “start” square! If I went back to Wesleyan, I’d be conceding zero progress in two and a half years. No.’
    ‘Fine, cure cancer, then.’ He tosses the CD onto the futon before scribbling, ‘Seven: Career Services’ on the list. He folds the paper down to matchbox size and slides it into his back pocket. ‘A plan of attack!’
    We skibble out of my cheapy nail place an hour later, me waving my fresh manicure, Pink Slip, in the air, Jack tucking my pleather résumé portfolio under his arm and indicating the way with his hooded head.
    ‘Wait. I need to buy a ponytail holder first.’ I glance around the narrow street for a pharmacy.
    ‘The thing’s going to be over before we even get there.’
    ‘Jack, I can’t do an interview with my hair all down like this. It’s not professional. I’m not projecting an image of—’
    ‘Move it.’
    On Stanton, nestled between abandoned sweatshops-turned-dot. coms-turned-sweatshops, we locate what looks like a garage entrance. ‘Okay, where’s a safe placefor you to hang out?’ I slide my portfolio from him and nervously smooth my hair back, while looking hopefully down the desolate street for an open library or YMCA.
    ‘Nice try, I’m coming in.’
    ‘I have to look professional. What’ll they think? That I have a teenage business partner? That I got pregnant in fifth grade? No. You have to wait for me. How about over there?’ I point to the flickering lights of the Laundromat across the street. Jack tilts an eyebrow. ‘Fine,’ I concede, ‘but at least stand a few feet behind me at the tables. We’ll start at the front and work around to the back.’
    Following the networking hum, we locate the entrance, no more than a rusted metal door cut into a corrugated garage wall. I quell my misgivings while together Jack and I shove the door until it gives, spilling us into a noisy warehouse space packed with twenty-somethings shouting to be heard above pulsing rave music. We creep along the concrete wall, shrinking from the denim and Adidas-clad denizens angling so their messenger bags can hang. There must be five hundred people here. And not a single brochure-covered table in sight.
    A young woman in a skimpy red camisole and jeans is released from the sea of Xtreme Networking to cheer from the sidelines with flushed cheeks. ‘Grab a Remy Red! Make a Bluelight connection!’ she shouts, pointing to the crowd.
    ‘Remy Red. Cool.’ Jack grabs a paper cup from a passing tray and quickly downs it. I give him a withering look. ‘G, gimme your jacket,’ he responds, hanging hisdown vest over someone else’s on a precariously overstuffed coat rack. A gaggle of trendy Seven-clad women squeeze between us on teetering heels as I stuff my passé professional blazer inside my coat and hand it off. Triaging, I unzip my portfolio, hide it behind a stack of crates, and fold the résumés into my purse, scanning my Generic Employee Ensemble for quick-change possibilities.
    ‘Jack, I need five minutes in the ladies’ room.’ I point over the mass of heads at ‘toilet’ spray-painted by the stairs. ‘Meet me by the arrow.’
    ‘Gotcha.’ He salutes with the empty paper cup.
    ‘And you’re already past your limit. I’m watching.’ He flips me off.
    I race down the rickety stairs to the unisex bathroom, where I undo two more buttons on my shirt, ditch my stockings, roll my skirt, and rub my Nars highlighter onto my brow and cheekbones. I go to wash the makeup off my fingers, competing for mirror space with a man appraising his goatee and a woman with pink