Fifty Shames of Earl Grey: A Parody

An electric motor rotates the sheave, raising and lowering the elevator car.”
“That’s fascinating,” I say. “Can I operate it myself?”
“Elevators are very simple to operate. Once you’re inside, you just have to press the button that says ‛ninety,’” she says as I sign in. There’s a hint of sarcasm in her voice, but I let it slide. They’re probably not used to dealing with hicks from Portland around here.
The receptionist hands me a security badge that reads VIRGIN. Is it that obvious? “How did you know—”
“That you’re a first-time visitor here at the Earl Grey Corporation? Relax,” she says, winking. “I was just as nervous as you were the first time I met Earl Grey.”
I thank her and head toward the elevator. Two bald, muscular men dressed like secret service agents are standing guard, and one who looks exactly like Vin Diesel pushes the “up” arrow as I approach. Upon closer inspection, it is Vin Diesel. Woah. I step onto the elevator, push the button marked “90,” and the magical box hurtles up toward Mr. Grey’s office. It’s like an amusement park ride, only it’s free, you don’t have to stand in line for two hours, and no one’s thrown up all over the floor. Which makes me think of Kathleen again.
The elevator finally slows to a halt. The doors open and I’m in another lobby made of glass and steel. Is the whole building made with the same materials? Where did they ever find so much glass and steel? I begin to do what I always do when I’m thinking: pick my nose. Before I can shove my pinkie in too far, another attractive blonde greets me and guides me to a pleather beanbag chair. “Wait here, Miss Steal,” she says coolly.
I sink down into the beanbag chair and watch the blonde leave down a hallway. Does Earl Grey employ any male receptionists? What a creep. I dig through my backpack and pull out Kathleen’s notebook and glance over her questions. Who is this man I’m supposed to interview, this man whose last name is the same as the color of my sweatpants? Is that a sign? That B Kathleen didn’t tell me anything about him, and I didn’t think to ask. My brain is always going blank. This guy could be a hundred years old or five. Although they wouldn’t let a five-year-old run a company the size of the Earl Grey Corporation, would they? Then I remember: they totally would. I saw it in a movie when I was little. Richie Rich, starring that cute boy from Home Alone. God, if I have to interview an effing kid for the next hour, I’m going to jump out the window right now! I can’t contain my nervous energy. My leg starts twitching. I’d rather be alone, curled up in a ball in my bed, crying myself to sleep. Anything but about to interview some five-year-old billionaire.
Stop it, Anna, a voice says with a thick Jersey accent. It takes me a second to realize that it’s my inner guidette. I can tell it’s her, because when she talks inside my head there’s this weird echoey sound. There’s no friggin’ way he’s five years old. Or a hundred. If he’s being profiled in Boardroom Hotties, he’s probably like every other CEO they lust after: late twenties or thirties and handsome in that geeky sort of way. I breathe a sigh of relief, because I know my inner guidette is probably right.
The blonde returns. “Miss Steal?”
“Yes,” I say, in a deeper voice than usual, trying to mask my crisis of confidence.
“Mr. Grey will see you in a few minutes. Would you like a refreshment while you wait? Coffee, soda, tea . . . ?”
“Gravy,” I say.
It’s supposed to be a joke, but the woman nods and heads back down the corridor. A minute later, she returns with a clear pint glass filled with thick, brown gravy. Before I can ask for water instead, the office door connected to the lobby swings open and a handsome African American gentleman exits. Jay-Z!
Turning and pointing a finger back through the door, the rapper says, “Nine holes, this week.” I assume he’s talking about golf, but my mind starts to drift to thoughts of other holes. Jay-Z winks at me as he passes on his way to the elevator.
My phone buzzes—it’s a text message from Beyoncé, warning me to keep my hands off her man. Whatever.
“Mr. Grey will see you now,” the receptionist calls out to me from behind her desk. I pick up my backpack and notebook, and check my hoodie pocket for the mini–disc recorder. Still there. I leave the gravy and make my way slowly toward the open door. I should be back in Portland, studying for my finals so that I can graduate. Yet here I am, doing Kathleen’s dirty work. I’m going to murder her, if Beyoncé doesn’t kill me first.
I push the door open and trip over the hem of my sagging sweatpants in one swift, clumsy motion. As I careen toward the floor, my body reflexively reverts to gymnast mode. I drop the backpack and notebook, throw my arms out straight, and roll into a cartwheel. With the momentum picked up from tripping, I complete three full cartwheels before landing on my feet—on Mr. Grey’s desk! I am so embarrassed about my clumsiness that I close my eyes.
Wait. Someone is . . . clapping? I open my eyes and stare down at Mr. Grey and HOLY MOTHER EFFING SPARKLY VAMPIRES IS HE HOT.

Chapter Two
MISS KRAVEN,” the handsome CEO says, extending a long-fingered hand to me to assist me off his desk. I’d expected him to be British, but there’s no trace of an English accent in his voice. “I’m Edward Cullen. I mean, ‛Earl Grey.’ Have a seat?”
He’s young, he’s sexy, he’s tall—he’s the total package. And no way is he five years old. He can’t be more than thirty. He’s dressed impeccably in a tailored gray suit,