The List Read Online Free PDF

hundred sixty-five days a year. Even Christmas
     morning. When it’s his birthday we have an actual carnival. There was a real penguin
     you could pose for pictures with last year. When it’s your birthday, no one will remember
     and you’ll probably have to work late.”
    “Cool.”
    “You’re Adrienne Brown, right?” She extended her hand.“I’m Julia Kincaid. We thought you were starting today. You’re going to be the sixth
     on the section. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m the one worth knowing.”
    I was about to thank her for conversing with me, when I saw three gangly young men
     holding wires and laptops heading in our direction: the IT team. But before they made
     it to us, the sound of a dull cake knife tapping the side of a drinking glass filled
     the vast room. The IT men turned on their rubber heels, computer parts in hand, and
     went the other way.
    “Get up. It’s time for awkward cake,” said my raven-haired colleague. Never mind that
     I was already standing at attention like a Navy SEAL.
    “What’s awkward cake?” I asked her.
    “It’s just cake. We have two cakes every time someone leaves. And that’s pretty often,
     almost weekly in the summer. One is always chocolate, and the other is a fruit tart.
     Unless they liked you, and then you get expensive cupcakes. Georgetown Cupcakes. There’s
     a speech or two that goes along with the cakes. They always wish the person good luck
     and then smugly assure them that they’ll come to their senses and return soon. Of
     course, if they really hate you, then you don’t get awkward cake at all. You’ll see,
     it’s incredibly awkward.”
    She was right. It was incredibly awkward. Before the paper’s tow-haired editor in
     chief, Mark Upton, tapped his long knife against a Capitolist glass and started speaking, all the office lights brightened to a level Dr. Sanjay
     Gupta would describe as just right for brain surgery. The reporters and editors all
     gathered around in neat concentric circles and plastered on huge smiles like they
     were being handed Oprah’s favorite things. I backed into a corner with my colleague
     and sat on a stapler.
    “It’s with heavy hearts that we say goodbye to our prized defense reporter Roger Roche,”
     Upton declared. His speakingpattern was soothing and rhythmic. “Roger has given so much to the paper over his
     eight months here. He covered the president’s trip to Iraq and the changing of the
     guard at the Pentagon. He even disguised himself as a corpse and slept in Arlington
     Cemetery for a piece on grave robbing.”
    Wait, it was okay to pretend to be dead? I looked around to see if anyone else thought
     this last anecdote was odd. Julia grabbed my shoulder and whispered very loudly, “Don’t
     believe that shit. They fucking hate him. And they made him wake up at three every morning to write the ‘Good Morning Military’ tip sheet, so he hates them, too.
     See? No cupcakes.” She motioned to the table: two fruit tarts and nothing else.
    The short but saccharine speeches had every person in the room laughing and clapping
     at things that weren’t at all funny. When the speeches were over, the staff leapt
     toward the cakes like prisoners of war, and Julia, who knew how to handle the scrum,
     brought me back a slice.
    “You should eat this. That way you can get used to the weight you will inevitably
     put on while working here,” she said, handing me a piece without candied fruit. “Just
     don’t drop any crumbs. We have mice. So don’t leave food on your desk. But if you
     do see a mouse, don’t say anything, and don’t tweet about it. They’ll be pissed. If
     anything ever goes wrong at the office, don’t mention it outside the office, because
     if they find out you did, they’ll start thinking about ways to demote or fire you.”
    Eating with our plates right under our chins, Julia and I watched as Upton approached
     the paper’s managing editor, Justin Cushing. Cushing had