Page 6 of Doesn't Count

Immediately, she shoves it back into her portfolio, but it’s too late. I already know what it is.

“We agreed we weren’t going to submit anything that we’ve worked on together. You can’t use that piece!” My voice raises an octave higher and I can feel my face heat with anger.

“Ash, we both know I did most of the work.” She scoffs, rolling her eyes.

“Excuse me?!” I shriek, dumbfounded by her audacity.

For our semester final, we were to partner up and write a persuasive essay where we both have to agree that the celebrity of our choosing is the best at what they do. It seemed simple enough, but the class was incredibly competitive. We choseLana Del Rey, an artist that has wavered between infamous and a nobody, yet completely underrated. This piece was submitted into our school’s Festival of Arts and won best persuasive essay.

We started off strong, getting together every day to brainstorm and strategize how we wanted our essay to come off, but before we could even get through the introduction, she was swept away by some guy that gave her googly eyes in the library. Over the course of the two weeks it took to write this essay, she checked in on occasion offering her opinions, but never wrote a single word.

I wasn’t the vindictive type and with all group projects, there’s always one person that takes the majority of the workload, so I sucked it up. I placed her name at the top of the essay – underneath mine of course – and submitted it. Knowing that it won an award was all the credit I really needed. That is until I find the piece sitting in Justina’s lap to use for her personal gain.

“You’re acting like I stole your work. My name is on this piece too, unless you’ve forgotten.”

Before I can get another word in, the receptionist calls her over to meet with the Chief Editor. Justina doesn’t look back at me, just flicks her hair past her shoulder and walks away.

I sit there with my jaw dropped to the floor at the audacity. There’s no doubt that the article I wrote for this internship will land me a position, but I can’t help feeling the rage simmering inside of me. I tolerated Justina throughout college, but I’m done. She started something and I intend to fight with everything I have. She’s going to have to pull herself out of her lazy habits and actually start showing some effort because there’s no way in hell I will let her steal from me again.

“Better get at it then.” Jake laughs, knowing my need to be better than her.

As I block time on Blane’s calendar, Justina struts over,standing between our desks. She leans back, resting against Jake’s, blocking his view from me.

“This project screams Ashton Crawford. I assume you’re trying for a spot?” She smirks as if she knows me too well.

“Wouldn’t pass it up.” I lean back in my chair, inviting her to say what she came here to say.

When we both secured a permanent position with Musical Genius last year, we took two very different paths. Though we both write for our Company’s blog,Inside Genius, we couldn’t be more opposite in our work. I strive to be ethical in how I get my information, I’m trustworthy to all my sources, and refuse to cover pieces that shed any negativity on the artists I interview. Justina on the other hand is ruthless. She has an obsession with digging up dirt, airing dirty laundry, and twisting words. Not to mention her love for creating click bait. She is everything I despise in a journalist, growing her popularity with her lack of boundaries and juicy gossip. Our unspoken rivalry is like a battle between good and evil, and she is definitely the beloved villain.

I cross my arms waiting.

“I just want to wish you luck. I hope you make it on the project.” She smiles faking an innocence she’s probably never possessed.

I nod, “Thanks.”

I’m ready for her to leave, but she stays put. Her smile still displaying perfectly bleached teeth.

“I’ve heard that Blane’s assigning artists based on the highest reader count.” She leans forward, bending at the hips as if she’s sharing a secret.

“Where did you hear that?” I question her, skeptical.

She straightens up, shrugging. “Just gossip aroundthe office.”

With that, she makes her way over to her desk, leaving me stressed and annoyed.

In any given week, the reader count varies between her and me. Occasionally, you’ll have Marcy or Jake battling for top spot, but I only care where I fall in terms of Justina. I just hope this week is one where I come out on top. The mere idea of following Taylor Swift around on tour is heart stopping. Besides being a diehard fan, I find her inspiring. She is one of the few that try to stay true to herself by writing her own music. It’s admirable at the very least.

I shake off the nerves I feel when I see that Blane has accepted my calendar invite and try to finish my current article about Demi Lovato’s most recent declaration of pronouns, but it’s taking every ounce of focus I have. Thankfully, I’m able to submit my piece before five o’clock and rush out of there. I need a drink.

I push through the front doors of the Kimpton Gray Hotel in the center of the Loop here in Chicago, the white marble in the lobby shining bright with the evening sun. The heels of my combat boots squeak against the floor as I make my way to Vol. 39, the bar my roommate works at.

It’s instantly darker, the vintage bar is cast in a soft yellow glow illuminating the liquor bottles lining the glass shelves behind the glossy, wooden counter. I wave to Issac, who’s pouring the only guest an aged scotch into a crystal tumbler that probably cost more than my entire outfit.

He nods his head and focuses on the man in his late fifties, who’s probably here escaping his wife back at home. I walk tothe back of the bar and find my roommate, Sam, sitting on a brown leather couch between two black walls lined with books.

She smiles, the black cocktail straw still between her perfectly white teeth, as she motions for me to sit next to her. I plop down on the same couch we always sit on and drop my purse to the floor.

“I have so much to tell you!” I squeal.

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