“I would like to introduce our newest addition to the team, Ami Sauro. She will be responsible for our social media marketing. Ami, this is our team,” Bob gives a jovial introduction.

At his cue, Ami steps forward, a modest smile across her face. “Hi!”

Dang, is she ever cute.

She has the glowing face of a sun-kissed angel, immaculate and with the most flawless complexion. Every detail of her is curated to please. Quaffed and highlighted hair. Polished nails. This woman knows what perfect posture is. A board could be tied to her back and she would offer no resistance to it.

One by one, the group crowd around, introducing themselves to her. Mitchell, the quintessential nerd in glasses, bounces from his seat, hand at the ready, outstretched to her.

“Hi, Ami. I’m Mitchell Wald, senior marketing analyst.”

“Hello, Mitchell,” she returns the greeting. Mitchell then makes way for the next person.

“Hello. I’m David. Also, a marketing analyst,” David, our soft-spoken, recently minted Canadian, murmurs softly. He is a little socially awkward, but he has an incredible work-ethic, and he’s smart.

“Hello, David.”

She is going to have a few names to remember.

“You will be sitting between Mitchell and David. Your desk is over here.” Bob directs Ami’s eyes towards the empty spot two seats away from mine. Dread, it meant I was next.

“Naomi Duant. I do market research, mostly.” I then follow my introduction with the mandatory extension of my hand, my tiny hand with its long, spindly fingers.

“Hello, Naomi.” Ami grips her hand around mine, then I notice the falling of her eyes, down, down, down further, looking at our interlocking digits. Was she judging me? I rip my hand away.

“Good morning, Ami. Really happy I can finally meet you! I’m Maddie—” I tune Maddie out.

Why was the new girl staring at my hand? What was wrong with it that she had to spend so much more time with it than anyone else’s? Did she think it was weird? Maybe my grip was too weak? Had I dug in too hard and hurt her? Or had she noticed my rough hands, calloused from the many hours I spend pinning and sewing my outfits? I turn around to watch as she continues to make the rounds through the rest of our colleagues.

Ami is wearing what I coin as the ‘new hire attire,’ black bottoms, neutral shoes, white blouse. Give her two weeks, and then the real Ami would show through. I am not fooled. I know designer items when I see them, and this girl has them all. Her modest-looking bag, the ballet flats, the belt buckle, they are all from stores typically seen in Yorkville. Internally I am freaking out. She is one of those girls. Popular and prissy, she has passed her judgment on me, and I am dirt.

I watch as she finishes her circuit, returning to Bob’s side for further guidance. My mind is screaming, angry that I have to be subjected to high school all over again. I did not want to be anywhere near the popular girls, enduring their sanctimonious stares and poorly concealed gossip that they purposely cultivated to be within the volume that I could hear but not so loud that anyone else would notice. Why me?