Justlikeapapercut

Okay, dear anon. You came at me swinging with this and I really respect you, you queen you. Tweaked it a bit to make it a state race though!

—-

Andy’s already running late when her left boot skids on the pavement, having caught the puddle of whatever that is (she is so not asking) and then sending her careening into the person on her left.

“Sorry!” she calls over her shoulder to the guy she just jostled. Begins to jog in earnest now, weaving in and out of the throng of bodies on 6th Avenue. Why is it that everyone launching a political campaign feels the need to get an office in freaking midtown? 

She slides into the office building on 45th Street only a few minutes before 10am, shifting on her feet as she waits behind three people at the security desk. It’s 9:58 when she finally gives the guard her name and takes her visitors badge with a muttered, “thanks.” She just prays the elevator in this building isn’t a dinosaur. 

It isn’t, and she slides off on the eight floor, directed by a snooty receptionist who gives her an disapproving up-down. Charming. 

“Hi, I’m Andy Sachs,” she says to the bald guy standing by the desk in an outer office. 

“The volunteer coordinator is down the hall,” he says, not even looking at her. “And she doesn’t take walk-ins, so I’d advise you to send your resume-”

“I have an interview at 10am,” she interrupts him. She doesn’t care for his expensive suit, nor his dismissive attitude, though both are now buttressing the many reservations she has about even applying for this gig with Miranda Priestly’s campaign.  “With Nigel Kipling.” 

“Andy,” he repeats, and straightens his tie. Armani, from the looks of it. “As in, Andrea?” 

“That’s me,” she says, and hopes her smile looks as put off and angry as it feels. 

“My apologies,” he says, “and I’m Nigel.” He extends his hand, and gives hers a firm shake.” It’s been… a bit of a hectic morning.” 

“Would you prefer I wait somewhere?” she offers, deciding to be generous. She won’t take the job, but there’s no harm in being courteous. “If you have things to finish, I can just…”

Andy trails off as a woman with bright red hair bolts out of the elevator, Starbucks cup clutched in her hand as she runs toward them in four-inch heels. She trots past them, immediately slowing to an elegant stroll as she hits the threshold of the conference room behind them, in which people are clearly pouring over polling numbers. 

“I wasn’t aware I’d dispatched you for Colombian beans,” a voice rings out. The words, dripping with derision, carry well despite how softly they were spoken. Andy has no doubt that this is a talent the speaker has spent time cultivating.

“There was a car accident involving a pedestrian, and the police have blocked-”

“Details of your incompetence do not interest me.”

“Of course, Miranda.” 

“Call Peter about the numbers we discussed earlier, and bring him in for a meeting. Not tomorrow. Confirm my reservation at that Italian restaurant Stephen and I went to two months ago, and then call Laura. Move the meeting with Damon. And Nigel- Nigel, are you here still?” 

“I am,” he calls into the conference room. Andy moves to follow him, but he blocks her way with his body. 

“Were we boring you?” Miranda asks him, though there’s a subtle wryness in her tone now. 

“I have an interview to conduct but I’ll be done in five minutes,” he says, and Andy feels her face flush with rage. Five minutes, huh? “But then we can-”

“No, no,” Miranda says. “Just bring her in here. That last idiot you hired lasted all of what, nine days?” 

“How surprising,” Andy pipes up. “Since everyone’s so incredibly approachable and welcoming around here.”

Nigel glares at her, but beckons her forward with his hand. He probably thinks it’s her funeral, but there’s no way she’s taking this job now anyway. No way she’s going to work ninety hours a week for the next year and a half, trying to convince the greater population of New York that Miranda Priestly and her ‘progressive’ ideals will ameliorate their lives.

Andy steps around Nigel and into the conference room, where nine people sit around a table, not one of them wearing an outfit that costs less than a couple grand. Miranda Priestly is already staring at her, frameless glasses pushed down her long nose, pale legs crossed primly below her chic purple dress. 

This woman won’t even have to open her mouth for the press to pull her apart. 

“I take it you’ve already found us lacking,” Miranda states, her piercing gaze now trained on Andy. 

It would be terrifying, if Andy hadn’t spent two years canvassing in neighborhoods like Brownsville and the South Bronx, and before that, knocking on doors in the reddest part of Ohio for a leftist, openly gay gubernatorial candidate. 

“I think the poor fit is obvious on both sides,” Andy replies, finding her diplomacy. “I won’t waste any more of your time.” 

Everyone else in the room, Nigel included, looks some shade of flabbergasted or afraid here. Apparently this woman really managed to get this far in her political aspirations without hiring a single person who will stand up to her.

“A bit of unsolicited advice though?” Andy turns back, and when Nigel goes to interrupt her, Miranda waves him off, appearing amused. “If they haven’t started in already, everyone in this room is going to start making noise about your likeability numbers. Most of the things they’ll try to talk you into after that are bullshit, and you’ll be squandering resources if you worry about them. Because you aren’t likeable. You will never be the candidate people want to have a beer or a cup of coffee with, and they will never see themselves or their parents in you.” 

“Do go on,” Miranda tilts her head. Dismissive still, but annoyed now. Which is progress. 

“Likability is almost always a trap for female candidates anyway, and the goal posts will get moved over and over again. So don’t go down that road. Play to your strengths. Contrary to popular belief, people will vote for politicians even if they can’t envision them sitting at their Thanksgiving dinner table.” She slings her satchel over her shoulder, and gives Nigel a cheeky smile as she closes with, “that said, it wouldn’t kill you to be seen getting your own Starbucks, now and again.” 

Well, there went that, she thinks in the elevator. Not like it was a real possibility anyway, right?

She’s just handed her pass back to guard, wondering already whether she has it in her to ask her parents for money, when a voice rings out behind her. 

“Andrea!” the redheaded coffee runner calls. 

“Um, yes?” Andy asks, and the woman motions with her hand for Andy to come back upstairs.