Vivian

one Sure I'd heard of technology and mass transit but I'd be damned if I wasn't going to hand-deliver my first-ever manuscript into the palms of its true creator, Victoria Boz. After all, it was Victoria who had tapped me and bestowed the epitome of all gifts, a book deal. Moments before, I slid into my favorite Madonna-slash-Missy- Elliott-inspired brown-slash-cream Adidas track pants, found a clean white Nike tank-slash-sports-bra, and Velcroed my black-slash-white Puma cross-trainers nice and tight. What would I do without multipurpose fashionable functional dress-down attire? I thought. Contagious! (The days of my suitings and heels are so outnumbered!) Thankfully, I was able to snag a glimpse of myself just inches from my doorway and knew better than to go out in public with grouchy bed head galore. My trusty Kangol houndstooth cap was an earshot away, chillin' beside my big black I'm-famous-fantasy summer shades, and both rounded out my nouveau author attire quite nicely. It was almost noon and I had yet to go to bed the night before (I had finished my novel nearly three hours prior, eight forty-eight a.m.), so the sunglasses were key unless I was going for the I'm-a-crackhead look. My manuscript was pimped out as well, nestled inside a sharp bleeding-pink envelope I bought for about forty bucks at Kate's Paperie, the Barney's of the office supply world. This was my very first manuscript so I spared not a single expense! I was still sporting last year's carryall, an oversized Prada bowling bag (another from the Sophie Fashion Philanthropic Society), and it made the perfect sleeper for her. (My novel--I can't help but anthropomorphize her.) Perhaps if I had calculated the trek beforehand, I may not have made such an impractical decision, but I do love a good walk, er, hike, even if it is hot as balls outside (hey, excuse the language, but when New York City is hot, unexpectedly brutally hot, there really is no expression better suited--trust me on that!), and this all really was a first. My little defining moment was cursed from the beginning, I suppose, for when I arrived at Victoria's office, her assistant, Stephanie--with an attitude like a Fiona Apple record, a face that could be mistaken for the latest Gucci girl's, and a ruched black satin top that even I recognized from a current ad campaign--told me flatly that Victoria was in a do-not-disturb-under-any-circumstances meeting and I was instantly and uberly crushed. "Just drop it in her in box," Stephanie murmured as she went back to an evidently more important conversation about lip gloss with her invisible friend through her earpiece. Easily a snarky suggestion that could only come from a girl who knew she didn't need to be nice to get far. Beyond being ridiculously stunning, her grandfather or grandmother or something was a best selling sci-fi writer. Unfair certainly but true for sure. Trying to be agreeable, I glanced beyond her and saw this in box thing. It was already overstuffed and hanging off the top right corner of Victoria's desk, like a drunk in stilettos, and I just couldn't bear to leave "her" there. (A feeling probably similar to a parent dropping her kid off with a babysitter who mentions "rehab" when you ask if she's had a nice