Chapter Four: Twins of Hate

"I'm surprised you came!" Trent says as he closes the office door behind me. "Equally surprised to see that you found where our office was."

Sitting down at a desk with what seems to be the greatest organized mess known to man, I take in what just happened. "So you're…like the person who runs this whole thing, huh?" I say, my eyes wandering off into the chaos of the outside. The windows from inside the office don't do the cacophony of typing, dress shoes on marble floor, and constant, almost political, chatter justice. "Yep, have been for about a full year now." He says while I hear him shuffle some papers onto his desk. My attention is caught by him once more, "So, what the hell am I doing here? You know I suck at writing and good luck making me read stuff. And if you are even considering me to interview people or work with anyone out there," I gesture, "then you got the wrong girl." He stares down at his paperwork for a little while. The same way of his entire family to make you feel just a little bit beneath them.

"I want you on Research with Oliver. He'll show you the ropes and from there, if he's completely unbearable for you," he has an agitated edge to his voice, " I'll have you work separately. Does that work for you, Emma?" I feel weird. Not guilty. But not great for making him mad. "Yeah that works." "Great!" he responds way too quickly, "not a moment to lose, off you go!" He's still as weird and bipolar as ever. Maybe that's why he's successful. He scares people into giving him what he wants with his lightspeed, gear-shifting personality.

He ushers me out and walks me over to a cubicle to the far right of the door. There, a lone ginger, fair-skinned, boy dressed in plaid green, snug-fitting dress pants sits over a mountain of files with different strings of numbers on all of them. His back is to us until Trent leans down and whispers in his ear. The boy I assume is Oliver, turns and is inches away from Trent's face, smiles and makes crazy eye contact. Trent turns around, "And this is she." He gets up from his chair, barely coming to my nose in height. "Nice to meet you! I'm Oliver and I'm the head of the Research Department here in the Yellow Room." He speaks fast with a strange shake in his voice. "That's so cool," I shake his hand with earnest. His smile fades until Trent throws an arm around his neck and pulls him in close to his chest. He's beaming then, if you know what I mean. "That's right, Oliver Lawrence here is gonna set you all up with an account on our server, and hopefully," he glances down at him, "give you a tour." "I can do that!"

"I knew I could count on you Oli," he squeezes his shoulder, turns, and walks back to his office. Punching my arm on the way he whispers, "Good luck kid, don't ask him any personal questions. He'll freak out." Quickly, I shoot back, "kill me." I hear him laugh as he leaves me in his own creation of my demise.

It's been about 20 minutes, and I already hate everything about the job. I hate this annoying Sophomore who clearly has a man-crush on my stupid-ass cousin. I hate the complicated system where you have to jump through a myriad of hoops just to find a credible source. And most of all- "So, we need to talk dress code." Oliver says as if we were as he would probably call it "besties". That's not homophobic, I just don't like anyone. "Tell me what to wear and I will euthanize you and everyone you love." Making unbroken eye contact, he swallows and decides to move on. Wise choice. "Is there anything else I absolutely need to know besides how to work the computer and link the sources for the writing team to use?"

"Oh, wow. I wasn't sure you were listening during that but uhh, let's see…" He dives into a filing cabinet beneath his desk and pulls out a lanyard with an empty ID section. Reluctantly he breaks the bad news, "We need to take your photo so that you can get into the school when our office hours are open." "You know, I hate having my photo taken."

"I figured."

We sit in silence for a bit, the lanyard sitting on the desk, taunting me.

"Ah, shit. Where do I stand?"

It's not that bad afterwards. I mostly sit and go through requested information from the writing team and weed out all of the incredible ones using a machine I insert a link into. It's actually very repetitive and boring until I see the craziest headline ever. "Woman Arrested After Having a Mental Breakdown Inside of Newburgh IGA, Leaves Fellow Shoppers Scared". I chuckle a bit, finding the humor in all the times my mother has complained that going in Walmart makes her insane. "Found something good?" An unfamiliar, feminine voice from behind me asks. "Uhh, no just got me thinking about something else." I say as I swivel on the chair I was in. There's a tall, brown girl decked out in heels and corporate dress. She furrows her brow and sticks out her hand to shake mine. "I'm Anita, that idiot's sister, he's the adopted one of course." she points to Oliver and flips her hair in one motion. "You must be Walsh's cousin." She's heard about me? "You've heard about me?" "Well, gossip travels fast in high school, imagine how fast it travels in here." I can't describe it, but it feels like she's sizing me up as we talk. "Have any experience or interest in journalism?" "Uhh, no and no." I play it off with a half chuckle. She stares flat."Oli give you a tour yet?" Oliver hasn't acknowledged her being there. I'm sensing some tension for sure.

"Uhh no."

"Why not Oli?" Oliver is still ignoring her. "You know, he's over here because he always forgets to do things," she looks at him, "like giving tours to new people. Plus he wasn't that great of a writer anyway, so that was just an excuse that Trent made so that his feelings wouldn't get hurt." Oliver's mouth tightens, clearly uncomfortable. I don't know what the hell is wrong with this girl but she's too much and I've already had enough. "Probably due to my lack of interest." I deliver with just enough edge to let her know how I feel about her. "Oh, well with that attitude no amount of nepotism will get you any further up than with the computer rat. Oh, I mean," she smiles, "rats". "Welcome to the Yellow Room, Emma. I hope you make it." She trots off with a red binder in hand.

Probably a poll about how much of the student body thinks she's big 'ol bitc- "Sorry about her." Oliver says in a new tone. "She's not the only one here with a big ego." He says genuinely and looks at me. "I'd watch out." I'm not impressed.

"What are they gonna do? Write an article in Teen Vogue about how much I don't care." He looks back down, silent. "So, what happened to you? Is what she said true?" Oliver pauses. "Let's just say we can't all be good at what we are passionate about." He looks over to the group of writers in the middle cubicles of the room.

The ties and heels surround a large bulletin board and are pointing at various pieces of pinned-up papers on the board, writing on tiny pads, and typing on laptops. Someone must have cracked a joke because one of the boys in all navy blue doubled over laughing while the rest of the girls smiled and shook their heads.

Giving me a half smile, he looks down at his desk and doodles with the pen he was writing with. "Trent did he," he hesitates, sort of red in the face, "never mind." "He never mentioned you." I state bluntly. He nods, disappointed. "Though to be fair, I hardly ever see the annoying asshole ever. Around the holidays, if that anymore." There's a pause, he doesn't know what to say. "Although if we had talked about stuff like that, I'm sure all he would talk about is how often he thinks of throwing you down and making gross man-love to you." He's speechless, 50 shades redder than a cherry, consuming the freckles that litter his cheeks, and it's the definition of my humor. I let out a laugh and get up. "So about that tour…"

I've met everyone now, even some of the writers. Besides Anita the Annoyer (nickname pending) and a few others, some are actually tolerable. There's Chris Thorne, the guy who belly laughed in the navy blue, who's always making jokes and teasing the girls around the "office" as everyone here calls it. More like a glorified basement. He wants to, eventually, write for SNL or Comedy Central. Those things are in no way equal, but he was nice so, whatever. There's Trudy Wright, whose name matches her physical appearance exactly. She's a plump, short, four-eyed, brunette who loves to talk about her cats and wear single-strand pearls. She loves Oliver. I caught a whiff of it when he made a comment about the way he likes her dress and she nearly spit up her coffee all over her computer from blushing. Not slick in the slightest.

"This is Jack Reese," Oliver introduces. He's a well-built, football player who wears tight, white button ups and nice, sleek ties. With thick, black frames and one hand around a handbag he looks me in the eye, steps forward, and holds out a veiny hand. "Hello there," his voice is just a little higher than what his appearance gives off, "how's it going with the newbie, Oli?" He glances over.