ADA

I burst into the office of The Huntley Agency, sending the doors crashing against the walls. The receptionist jumps, almost toppling out of her chair.

"Sorry...I'm...late." I'm panting so hard I can barely get the words out between gulps of air. I sprinted the whole five blocks from Jitters. I bend forward, chest heaving as I struggle to breathe. The receptionist stares at me, mouth agape as she takes in my disheveled, juice-stained appearance.

Great first impression, Ada.

I gulp down some of the coffee I'm still clutching and straighten, catching a glimpse of my reflection in the pane of glass that divides the reception area from the rest of the office. I gasp. Chunks of hair stick straight out from my ponytail. I look like a deranged hedgehog.

Frantically, I attempt to comb my fingers through the now crunchy strands, but the juice has hardened into a sort of plaster, turning my normally purple strands sludge green. 

Sighing, I realize I have no choice but to make the best of the situation. I force what I hope is a professional smile and hold out a hand. "Hi. I'm Ada Datchery. The new intern."

The receptionist's eyes flick to my hand, then she looks me up and down, one judgey, micro-bladed eyebrow raised. She sniffs, turning her attention back to her computer screen.

I glance down at the green streak smeared across my palm and quickly wipe it on my yoga pants.

"Rough morning," I explain.

"Looks like it," she mutters, tapping at her keyboard while simultaneously giving me some serious side-eye. "You're Ada Datchery?"

"Yes."

"The intern meeting started ten minutes ago."

Could she be less helpful? I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from snapping at her. Forcing a smile, I say, "Would you mind showing me where to go? Please?"

"Last room on the right." She jerks a thumb toward the hallway leading from the glass door next to her desk.

I force myself to say a terse "Thank you" before bolting to the door.

"Good luck," she says, her tone making it obvious she thinks I'll need it. I check my watch as I hustle down the hall. 9:13. Crap. Crap. Crap.

The bitter smell of automatic coffee lingers in the air as I pass the double doors of a break room, bustling with people wearing business suits and photogs with cameras slung over their shoulders. They clutch Styrofoam cups as they thumb through the tabloids that litter the tables. A couple of photographers dressed head-to-toe in black notice me. They do a double take as I barrel past. Considering the state I'm in, I don't blame them.

Celebrity photographs decorate the long, white hallway. Jennifer Lawrence laughing into a phone at an outdoor cafe in Los Angeles, Taylor Swift wearing a tangerine and magenta two-piece gown and holding an armful of Grammy awards, and Liam Anders standing outside Microsoft Theater at last year's Emmy's. I glare at his stupidly handsome face.

His eyes look even bluer next to the red carpet. The crooked smile dancing on his lips would be charming if I hadn't just experienced what a complete and total jackass he is firsthand.

Dirtbag stalkerazzi. My fingers squeeze my to-go cup, making the sides bow. Just thinking about his words makes my temper flare.

Millions of people live vicariously through pictures of celebrities online and in tabloids. Grams and I used to buy a copy of each of the major magazines every Monday when she picked me up from school. We'd skim through the pages, dissecting the latest scandals and fashion trends while binge-watching our favorite classic movies. We watched everything from Casablanca to Sixteen Candles. It was our thing, and I loved it.

When the chemo made her too sick to leave the house, I'd pick up the magazines and bring them to her. Those photos gave her an escape, however small, from the pain she was dealing with. And while not everyone is going through something as traumatic as cancer, having a distraction from the stress of everyday life is a much-needed break for a lot of us. Immersing ourselves in photos of people living glittering lifestyles helps us forget our problems, hope for something bigger for ourselves. And sometimes, if the pictures are really good, we feel the magic of being close to our favorite celebs. Like a little bit of their stardust has rubbed off on us.

If Liam thinks he's above all that, well, that shows what a self-centered jerk he is.

When I finally reach the conference room, I pause, hand hovering over the door handle. I'm probably going to get fired the second I walk in there. Hopefully, the shots I took of Mia and Liam this morning are enough to save me.

I decide it's best to get it over with—like that time Elodie and I decided it was a good idea to try waxing our legs and the anticipation was actually worse than the searing pain itself. I take a deep breath and push open the door.

"As you can see—" Agnes, my new boss, breaks off mid-sentence, her jaw dropping open. She's standing at the end of a long mahogany conference table. The traffic on 11th Street rushes by outside the window behind her.

A guy about my age with greasy hair pulled up in a man bun and a girl with bushy blond hair and lots of freckles sit in the seats on her left. They stare at me, stunned. You know you're having a bad day when a dude with a man bun is judging you because of your hair.

His eyes drop to the coffee in my hand, and he smirks, elbowing the girl. She glances down at my drink and claps a hand over her mouth, suppressing a laugh.

I close my eyes. 'Paparazzi Queen' indeed. Stupid coffee cup. I want to crawl under the table and hide. 

Agnes clears her throat, scowling down at me.

"Sorry." I duck my head, slipping into a chair across from the other interns. I set my cup on the floor, out of sight.

"You're late." Agnes folds her arms. Her lips are pursed, and she looks pissed.

"Agnes, I'm so sorry."

"What in the five boroughs happened to you?" Her gaze hovers over my hair and juice-splattered clothes.

"It's a wild story. Actually, I—"

"Save it. We don't have time right now."

"But—"

She gives me a look, and I immediately snap my mouth shut. Agnes raises her voice. "As I was saying. There are three of you—two who managed to show up on time...."

I shrink down in my seat, twisting the charm of my necklace between my fingers.

"And there's one job available with this company, which means at the end of the summer, only one of you will be offered a permanent position."

Only one of us? Jeez. Welcome to the 76th annual Hunger Games. I knew I'd have to prove myself to earn a spot at Huntley, but I didn't realize I'd be competing against other photographers.

I glance over at the other interns. The guy appears as rattled by the announcement as I am, but the girl nods, a  smile tugging at her mouth like she thinks she's got this in the bag. I'm not about to let that happen.

Grams passed away before I found out about this internship, but she made me promise I'd turn my dream of being a paparazzo into a reality. Losing is not an option.

"Your performance this summer will determine which one of you that will be," Agnes continues. "I've created a point system. Each of your photos that I sell will earn you one point. If you manage to capture a shot that sells for more than a thousand dollars, you will be awarded five points. A scoreboard will be posted in my office so you can see where you stand. If that isn't incentive enough, you'll also get twenty percent of the commission on your shots."

I squirm in my seat, thinking of the pictures of Liam and Mia sitting on my camera roll. I don't know how much tabloids pay for photos like that, but I'm guessing they'd easily surpass that thousand-dollar benchmark. My knee bounces up and down. I'm bursting to tell Agnes about the photos, but something tells me interrupting this meeting again wouldn't be a smart move.

"When I'm aware of a celebrity's whereabouts, I'll text you with tips." Agnes holds up her cell. "So keep your phone on you at all times. For the most part, though, you're on your own. You need to hone the skill of tracking celebs and capturing photographs I can sell."

We all nod. My throat is still parched from my run over here. I lean oh-so-casually sideways in my chair, sneaking a sip of my coffee beneath the table. When I straighten up, Man Bun shoots me a smug smile. I frown, setting my drink back down.

Agnes glances around, making eye contact with each of us. "A quick turnaround is essential in this business. You get a shot; I want it edited and in my inbox ASAP."

I see my opening to tell her about Liam and Mia, and I take it. My hand shoots into the air. Agnes fires a glare in my direction so fierce my arm falls right back to my side.

"Now," Agnes starts again, and I stifle the desire to groan. I drum my fingers against my thighs, praying her spiel is almost over. Sitting on these pictures might be the actual death of me.

"You've each been given a map highlighted with the locations where New York's biggest celebrities live and the places they've been known to frequent."

I look around at the other interns carefully studying the maps in front of them—maps that were apparently handed out before I arrived. I lean forward, trying to read Man Bun's map from across the table. Agnes notices. Sighing, she thrusts one toward me.

"Thank you," I whisper.

She shakes her head. "Now, as per the contracts you all signed, any celebrity photos you take belong to Huntley. You are not to sell your pictures to anyone else. Don't even try because I promise you, I will find out." The hard glint in her eyes doesn't leave any doubt that she means what she's saying.

"And you can forget about your social lives," Agnes says, "because this is no nine-to-five, kiddos. You're to come to the office and check in with me once a day to update me on your progress. We'll meet as a group every Monday for weekly staff meetings and training. Other than that, I want you out there." Agnes jabs a finger toward the window. "Getting me photos. This isn't high school. Being a celebrity photographer is hard work, and only the most dedicated of you will have a job here come September. I need photographers willing to do whatever it takes to make this agency succeed. If you don't think you can handle that, well, don't let the door hit you in the ass."

She pauses as though waiting to see if any of us will walk out. The silence in the room is heavy, pressing in on me. Each second that ticks by is an opportunity for someone to sell their grainy cell phone pics to the rags and decrease the value of mine.

Anxiety boils inside me like water in my mom's electric tea kettle until I can't hold it in anymore. Everything comes flooding out. "Liam Anders and Mia Harlow got into this huge fight down the street. She was screaming at him, and he broke up with her right in the middle of the sidewalk."

I expect my words to be met with excitement or at least surprise. But everyone blinks at me like I'm speaking a language they don't understand.

"Oh, and I got pictures," I add, because duh. Talk about burying the lead. I fish my Nikon out of my bag, holding it up like some kind of trophy.

"You got pictures of Liam Anders and Mia Harlow getting into an argument? In public?" Agnes's face is blank.

I nod. "That's why I was late." She holds out a hand. It takes me a beat to realize she wants me to pass her my camera. My fingers are clumsy with nerves as I switch it on and almost drop it for the second time this morning.

Agnes reaches for the glasses perched on her head, giving me a look that clearly says if I don't deliver, my internship here is over. She stares at the screen, pauses, then starts scrolling through the pictures without saying a word. My head feels a little floaty like I'm about to pass out. I  force a wobbly inhale, waiting for her to react.

After an eternity, Agnes asks, "How many other photographers were there?"

"None. At least not until after Mia left."

"You're telling me you're the only photographer who got these shots?"

"Yes. There was a crowd of people watching, though, so I'm sure someone snapped some pics with their phone."

The glacial expression on Agnes's face thaws. She gives me what could almost pass for an approving nod. "Well then, we have no time to lose." She stands. "I suppose your tardiness is excused this one time, but how do you explain—" She gestures at my appearance.

I look down and groan. "Mia threw her green juice at Liam. He ducked. I didn't." Agnes laughs, actually laughs, and says, "Meeting adjourned. I have some pictures to sell." She pops my SD card out of my Nikon and hands it back to me. "You can all watch me edit these, so you can see what I expect of the shots you turn in."

I have to fight the urge to jump up and down and squeal. I'm about to become a published photographer! Reminding myself that I am now a professional, I calmly stand, tucking my camera into my bag. The other interns—who definitely aren't smirking anymore—gather their things and hurry after Agnes.

"Oh, and Miss Datchery?" Agnes stops short. "Next time, don't wait so long to tell me. This is a time-sensitive business." She taps her bare wrist like it's a watch.

"But—" I start to explain that I've been trying to tell her about the pictures for the last twenty minutes, but Agnes turns on her heel and marches out of the room. My head spins as I swing my bag over my shoulder and hurry after her.

Those pictures—my pictures—are going to be all over every media outlet, every tabloid magazine, and every celebrity news blog. Not to mention millions upon millions of social media accounts. This 'dirtbag stalkerazzi' is about to go viral.

Take that, Liam freaking Anders.