The team leaders are waiting for me in a circle of white pillows on the floor. Not bed pillows, but specially designed seating pillows. A custom-made glass table sits in front of them, low to the ground.
“We’re ready when you are,” Blade says. Blade has dark hair and beady eyes and is about twenty-five, my age. I’m pretty sure his real name is John.
I shuffle over to the pillow situated across from them and set my briefcase on the floor, plopping myself down too quickly, which causes my pants to hit the taut fabric of the pillow at just the right angle to make . . . a fart sound. That’s the only way to describe it.
The ensuing silence is an oppressive presence in the room, smothering me in a vise-like grip.
My hot face gets hotter. I clear my throat.
Stacey smiles encouragingly. She’s the nicest one on the team, in her late thirties, with short brown hair and black rimmed glasses.
Sitting on Blade’s right, Drew is completely stone-faced. He’s bald and never smiles and I’m pretty sure he’s actually a cyborg.
Finally, Blade motions with a hand. “Being the focus of attention is something you’ll have to get used to for the position you want. It’s best to get started.”
“Right.” I pull the papers from my case with shaky fingers.
It’s a pitch for a twenty-second video ad for a lifestyle app. The app combines social media with restaurant recommendations and food reviews. It notifies you if a friend is eating within a certain radius by sending an alert. You can also read friends’ notes and reviews on various establishments. I’ve never really understood the need to brag about what you’re eating. And alerting people to where you are? Doesn’t appeal to me in the slightest. What if you don’t want to be found? I guess that doesn’t matter. What matters is this is my job, and a new client has spent a boatload to have the video air in the middle of other videos for some up-and-coming YouTubers who have bajillions of viewers. So basically, we can’t screw this up.
“Here are details and a cost analysis. And my idea for the, uh, video.” I clear my throat again and shuffle my paperwork.
They take the pages from my trembling fingers. I breathe in slow and deep, trying to calm my heart rate. I’ve practiced this pitch a thousand times. I can do this.
“It, um, it opens with a restaurant at night.” My voice is pitched too high and too loud. I stop, clear my throat and try to speak at a normal volume. “There’s a, uh, glowing ambiance, you know, soft lighting, it’s very warm and aesthetically pleasing. The camera follows a waiter moving around the restaurant, bringing people plates. Eventually he stops on a large group of friends. They’re laughing, enjoying the meal, barely noticing he’s there. And then the ad line comes up on the screen, I’m thinking a happy, bouncy, font that’s also readable, and it says, ‘Enjoy more of life with Splice.’ ”
Stacey puts down her paper and gives me an encouraging smile to continue. The others are silent. Drew is frowning down at the paperwork and Blade seems to be staring somewhere off to the side but slightly down, like he’s pretending to look at it.
“It’s short, but effective. The concept cuts down the ad time, which will save the client money, while still getting the point across as to the purpose of the app, and it’s more likely to keep viewers engaged.”
Drew and Blade share a glance and then Drew speaks. “It’s fine, Jane, but it’s not quite there.”
My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.
“It lacks emotion. In fact, a lot of the ideas you’ve proposed in the past have this same flaw. I know you’ve been given this feedback before. The best ads give some kind of emotional impact, or nostalgia, something that makes people relate and feel.”
“I lack emotion?” My voice rises. This can’t be true. Emotion is making my entire body hot and cold. It’s why there are invisible ants crawling all over my skin. My mind is frozen, trying to take in what he’s saying but not quite absorbing the words. If this isn’t emotion, what is?
Stacey winces. “It’s not that you lack emotion, personally. It’s that your ads lack emotion.”
Blade shuffles the papers in his hands, not meeting my eyes. “And you don’t have enough experience and it shows.”
I swallow past the lump in my throat. “I’ve worked here for four years,” I mumble. I’m here all the time. I always stay late. I’ve never even taken a sick day.
Meanwhile half the office calls in on Mondays to nurse their hangovers. But I complete all their grunt work, filing, and reports, without complaint. And this is what I get in return?
Stacey says, “You’re a hard worker, Jane, but you aren’t good at explaining your ideas. They don’t come across in a clear manner. This job doesn’t come as easily to you as some of your peers and that’s not necessarily your fault.”
Drew sighs. “What we’re saying here, Jane, is that even with the extra time on the job, you’re not producing as much usable content. Not enough to run your own team, barely enough to make it as a student marketer.”
Prickly heat coats my skin. “I’ll work harder.”
“It’s not that, it’s just . . . you don’t fit,” Blade says.
And there it is. Something I’ve heard over and over. You’d think it would be less of a shock after a while, but it’s not. I don’t fit in anywhere. Not here, not with any type of friends group, not at work, not even with my family.
Drew taps his pen against the glass table. “The truth is,
