Page 6 of Mr. Big Shot

You’re doomed, says the glare of the nine new hires looking my way as I scoot into the room and try to assess my seating options. Oh yes, I was hoping for the creaky chair way in the back, the one that looks like it was pulled out of storage for today only. Every seat in the front—where I would usually sit on my first day at a new job—is filled, save for one, and when I take a step toward it, the blonde girl claiming the spot to its left says, “It’s taken,” with enough snark that I don’t feel up to challenging her.

Okay then.

Footsteps sound behind me, and I feel a little bit smug that even with my bird poop incident, I’m not the last one to arrive this morning. There is one guy who comes in after me; it’s the guy Barrett just pissed off at the elevators. He sends me a death glare as he walks in to claim the last seat next to all his friends…the seat the girl was saving for him.

Dammit, Barrett!

I’m left with the chair in the back. When I sit down, it squeeeeeeaaallls like it’s two hundred years old.

“Sheesh. Anyone got some WD40 handy?” I ask with a little self-deprecating laugh.

No one turns around.

All right, so that’s how it’s going to be. I figured today could go one of two ways: the best and least likely outcome is that I immediately make friends and find my place among my peers. The worst and most likely outcome is that everyone already realizes who I am, hates me for it, and decides they’re better off banding together in their mutual hatred of me.

Just to confirm which option I’m dealing with, I lean toward the rail-thin boy a few feet in front of me. He’s far enough away that no one would mistakenly think we’re sitting together but close enough that I don’t have to raise my voice much to ask him if he knows who I am.

He shoots me an incredulous look. “Of course. Don’t talk to me.” He looks up quickly to check if the blonde girl in the front row has heard him. Fortunately for him, she’s engrossed in an animated conversation with the people around her.

I’m not surprised everyone already seems to know each other. No doubt every single person here—besides me—worked as summer associates together. It’s a really big deal to land one of the coveted summer spots at big law firms in between 2L and 3L (aka year two and year three of law school) because nine times out of ten, the firms look to their summer associates when considering offers for full-time positions come graduation time.

Just because I wasn’t here last summer doesn’t mean I was slacking off, mind you. I just decided that instead of slogging through another Chicago summer, I’d go abroad. I was a summer associate at Elwood Hoyt’s London office in an effort to spend some time with my brother, Wyatt. Also, it was convenient and fun to backpack around Europe on my free weekends (what few I had). As much as I enjoyed my time in London Town, I knew the choice might come back to bite me in the ass.

It looks like alliances have already been formed.

Barrett’s first piece of advice was to make friends, wasn’t it? Well, sorry, bro…that’s not going to happen today, it seems.

High heels clap in quick succession and then a woman enters wearing a steely-eyed glare. Harsh expression aside, the lady’s in one hell of an outfit. I immediately take note of her understated diamond necklace and the sleek way she’s knotted her black hair at the nape of her neck. Her dark skin is complemented nicely by her camel-colored dress. I peer over and—yes, her shoes coordinate perfectly as well. Ten out of ten.

She walks to the front of the conference room and looks out at us with a lazy perusal. A few people actually squirm in their chairs in the uncomfortable silence. I sit stock-still until her gaze scans around the conference table, finally landing on me. Her eyes narrow. No doubt, she’s placing me. Barrett and I look too similar for her not to put two and two together right away. Word has likely spread around the firm that yet another Elwood is joining the ranks.

Jesus, how many of you are there? she’s probably wondering.

Without giving anything away, her gaze cuts sideways and she begins in a clipped, crisp tone. “I’m Bethany Quinn, a senior associate in mergers and acquisitions. I’ll help each of you get placed with your team today. HR will meet with you at some point as well, so most questions should be directed at them, not me. After this meeting, if you bother me, I’ll send you a bill for my hours. Understood?”

Everyone nods with slack-jawed expressions.

I’m the only one smiling.

I love her. I want to be her. No nonsense, just boatloads of attitude and confidence.

“Most of you were summer associates here, so welcome back and, more importantly, congratulations. In your current position, you’re no longer on the lowest rung of the ladder. However, you haven’t proved yourself yet. There are four partners in mergers and acquisitions, so you’ll be broken up into small groups and absorbed by each of the four teams. The junior and senior associates you’ll be working alongside will have very little patience and very little time for hand-holding. You were not accidentally chosen for this job. Each of you is capable of learning fast and thinking on your feet. You’re getting paid gobs of money to perform as an asset to this company. That being said, we don’t want mistakes. Triple-check your work. Ask for guidance if it’s absolutely necessary.”

She scans over us. “I want to be perfectly clear about the reality of a firm like Elwood Hoyt. None of you are ignorant about this world. Take a good look at the peers around you because by this time next year, a quarter of you will be gone. In two years, only half will be left standing. Likely less.”

Oh god. What is this, The Hunger Games? Are we about to have to kill each other off? Because if push came to shove, I do think I could take the scrawny guy near me in hand-to-hand combat. I’ve been kickboxing like crazy this last year.

“Now I know you’re all weighted down with the guidelines and handbooks from HR concerning Elwood Hoyt’s training policies. Pertaining to the mergers and acquisitions side of things, we have a different hourly requirement than most other departments. We want you all aiming for at least 2,500 billable hours a year. How you decide to break that up is your concern.”

2,500 billable hours…and Barrett said to add 500 to their base requirement, meaning he wants me shooting for 3,000 billable hours. Taking into account two weeks of vacation and holidays, that leaves me with sixty-hour work weeks on the low end. More than likely, I’ll be pulling ten to twelve-hour days and working some on the weekends too.

I peer around the group, though there are no wide eyes, no bleak expressions. It’s all furrowed brows and fierce determination. Everyone knows the score, apparently.

It’s hard to believe though. A quarter of us won’t make it through the year? When do people start dropping? Right now, it doesn’t seem like anyone’s even remotely interested in walking away.

Bethany pulls out a memo on the firm’s letterhead from the padfolio she brought in with her.

“I’m going to read out the teams. Find who you’re grouped with, exchange numbers, get close. These people will be your support system for the next few months. It’s impossible to survive here alone.”

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