Style & File

  My supervisor Morgan asks how my weekend was and I nod, yes, I had a weekend. Then it’s time for my review. 

  As her tablet boots up in the breakout room, I assess Morgan for signs of humanity. I picked up this practice in college, and it’s become automatic whenever I talk to an authority figure. Layers of light brown hair frame Morgan’s barely made-up face. Her nails are filed into ovals with clear glossy polish. But she has a couple of hangnails, and her hips curve and pull at her blue sweater dress. 

  She turns on a video of the last live session I ran with a student group. We watch me ask the kids “How deep do you think this part of the ocean gets? Can you guess?” We watch them watch the black waves on the screen. We watch their eyes trail the creatures in the waves. We watch me say “…Don’t all answer at once.”

  We do some role-playing with Morgan as a polite but apathetic tween. At some point Morgan stops me and says, “Eye contact.” 

  Morgan’s eyes are light gray, like mouse fur or warehouse walls. Her expression is kind. My student teaching evals recommended the Eye to Eye app, where you and a stranger lock eyes across a screen for a full minute. People cried a lot. Their eyes looked like fish as they filled, like underwater pearls. Unless they blinked, I forgot I was interacting with another human. I didn’t cry until after I’d closed the app and gone on to something else. Out of nowhere warmth and tenderness filled my blood and boiled too hot to sustain. 

  I flicker my eyes away from Morgan to the dumb mercy of the walls. 

  She props her forearms up on her elbows and rests her chin on interlocked hands.

  ”Kayla, why did you go into education?” 

  The clutch in my throat releases. Maybe she knows I want to become a content creator before the end of the year. Maybe this timing is good. 

  ”To prolong my own childhood.” That’s honest enough. “I can’t imagine working a job or even waking up to a day with no surprises. The boredom would throttle me. There’s so much potential in e-learning. And kids are fun, you know? Stubborn and absurd, but…just delightful. And inventive. And wise.” I’m flattering them to gain her favor. There are days when I hate kids.

  “That’s great, exploration is great. But a lot of assistants at your level, since we spend so much time doing e-learning, they can forget about the importance of presentation.” Morgan cues up the video again and zooms in on me. She asks, “How did you choose your outfit?”

  I expected a lot of questions, but I was not expecting that. On the screen, I’m wearing a red wrap blouse with loose black pants. The blouse looks tight, the pants baggy. The hem almost covers my decade-old gray pleather flats, scraped in the heels.  “It was clean, it’s comfortable.” 

  “Do you think it makes you look like an authority figure?” 

  Confusion must show on my face, because she’s smiling. They’re ten-year-olds, isn’t every adult an authority figure? “Yes?” 

  “I disagree. You don’t look unprofessional, but you’re giving a casual vibe, like you’re a student teacher hanging out with them, maybe you’ll go get ice cream. Impressions matter, they teach kids to respect you. It’s really simple changes, like fit and material.” She pulls up a website for a branding boutique. The design is royal blue and egg white and minimalist. It looks like a million other boutiques. “Have you ever used a lifestyle app?” 

  I shake my head. In fact, I’ve secretly taken pride in avoiding them, believing there can’t possibly be dumber ways to craft a self, but I don’t tell her that. 

  “This one’s called Style & File. You’ve got messaging templates here, then there’s wardrobe, skincare, face and body scanners, ooh, this is interesting, professional body language,” Morgan croons like she’s just happened upon the body language feature. But she doesn’t seem interested in my video anymore, thank God. 

  I scroll through the jackets and blazers in the wardrobe section. There are a few structured weatherflex ones in my size, with live pockets and mic collars. 

  ”Is there an Enspire affiliate discount?” I ask once I see the prices. 

  ”Yes, 10 percent, and a 40 percent carbon write-off. But I think a community like this would transform the way you work. I used S&F independently before I started here. The coaches really help you think about your narrative, your value proposition.”

  In our debrief, Morgan gives me some performance benchmarks and encourages me to think about a time I connected with a student. On the train ride home, I think about my students over the years. There was Bryleigh, who hugged me when she saw me crying because I’d barely eaten or slept in a day and a half (in school we competed for martyrdom). There was McKenzie, who found every cheat code in our math games; when I said “You’re going to make a lot of money programming,” she beamed. There were Zuleida and Shawn and Marcos in Missouri, who coaxed me and the other tutors through this sim called Alien Attack. You played as an alien who was invading Earth, and you searched for the planet’s soft spots, like rivers and deltas and marshes and deserts. The educational germ was there, but the kids really loved the uniform and weaponry options each character could summon. They changed clothing every round; they jockeyed for speed points. They loved eyelid decals, fingernail art, upper-arm neon tattoos, and opening their mouths wide and rolling their eyeballs into their sockets. They were obsessed with this Brazilian boy band Raiva – four long-haired adolescents wailing along with synthesizers. They were good kids who didn’t deserve what happened to them. If they survived the flood in Missouri, and I bet most of them did – I hope most of them did – they’re in new apartments or new vans. By now they’re teenagers, deep in the swamp of the web. By now I wouldn’t recognize them. 

  ”Morgan’s younger than me, she graduated five years after me,” I gripe to my boyfriend Owen when I get home. “The kids don’t care what you’re wearing. They don’t fucking notice.  And what really bothers me is she’s flexing behind this corporate veil of self-righteousness, like she has access to some secret class of information when education should be an egalitarian practice, it should humble you, right?” 

  “What are you doing about it?” 

  “About…I mean. She’s my boss. I don’t have lots of options.” 

  ”You were pretty driven when I met you. You had ideas, you had plans. That’s why I liked you,” Owen says.

  ”Yeah, well,” I don’t have a response. Sensations from other rooms, other buildings, crowd in and stifle my mind. Did I have ideas? Did I have plans? I remember flat champagne in clear cups, color-coded highlights striped through long blocks of text, air conditioning, spacious rooftop cafeterias, pretzels softened to a pulp with black coffee. Did I really go to grad school? 

  “I need to get out of this shitty corp-run town.” I say this to see how he’ll react, but once the words are out of my mouth I know they’re true. 

  Style & File ads have been springing up like chipper little wildflowers, and I wouldn’t mind some new pants, so I open a profile. The welcome bot greets me like I’ve just walked into church. Their free trial includes two sessions of mentoring with an influencer. For career coaching, you pay extra. 

  I don’t want a coach or a mentor, but I flip through the influencer profiles until a short-sleeved shirt in rose-gold fake cotton catches my eye. 

  The model is pale with an angled short haircut. It’s Raini, one of my Missouri roommates. She looks great — curvy and fit. She still dyes her hair fire engine red with gold streaks. Her smirk somehow opens her face into genuineness. Raini doesn’t talk shit about people in anonymous forums, she tells them directly. I admired that trait, especially when I hated it. 

  Apparently, she works for ecodesign corp Quinn & Quentin (Q&Q), which links to storefronts around the world. Her message lights up – (Human) Raini here! Thanks for browsing, Kayla! Let me know your favorite looks! I can’t tell if she’s on call or still working; it’s seven PM in Illinois, where I think she lives. The line must be a plea for customers not to treat her like garbage. Does she really not recognize my profile pic? 

  (Human) Kayla Rhys here. We lived together. 

  Oh my god Kayla! I’ll let you shop, but we’ll talk after. 

  Q&Q has 3D print collections, which are the best bet for clothes that actually fit, but even with the discount the prints are pricey. The Q&Q sale sections have some “scrapcycle chic,” bellbottomed trousers made with recycled linen and pineapple leather, shoes cobbled together from car tires and threaded with sea lace. I bookmark a few things. I’m trying to get away from synthetics. I’ve spent years of my life in plastic wrap – petroleum bras, skirts, belts, raincoats. The jeans I’m wearing right now have diamond-studded pockets defining the ass, “diamonds” made of God knows what mineral we dredged from the seas or the ground. Aluminum or titanium. The cost jumps 10 percent in my size bracket. At least they’re honest about it.   

  Raini asks Where did you end up? I heard you were in New York? 

  Northeast Massachusetts. 

  Aha. Are you in education still? 

  Yeah, I’m a content creator. The white lie feels magic. Who cares. 

  Oh cool! I always knew you would accomplish something amazing. 

  I don’t know how to react to this. My money was on her. Raini wore that commanding serenity of the Midwest so easily, like one of her shiny soccer jerseys with embroidery on the sleeves. She studied psychiatric nursing. The brain fascinated her, the way it worked, or didn’t. 

  I have a memory of her reading, curled up barefoot on a couch, raspberry red T-shirt tucked under her belt buckle, and asking “Kayla, why is the ceiling crumbling?” 

  I’d noticed a crack in the ceiling a few days earlier and shrugged it off as another indignity of student housing. Raini got it repaired within the hour. 

  Q&Q gives a lot of educator discounts, Raini adds. I could get you an additional 20 percent, there’s a quick form, minimal data, I promise!

  The word additional seems odd – too on-the-clock. Then the exclamation point, which is goading and not the Raini I remember. 

  You look hot, I say. 

  Haha thank you dear. The filter lighting is flattering. 

  Where did you end up living? 

  Oh, I’m still in Chicago. Well, just outside Chicago. She sends me a shot of her neighborhood at twilight, big triangle roofs with city glint in the background. I give it a like. It’s fun how we’re catching up like our last hug was at graduation and not a frantic embrace with her stuff packed in the car, weeks before the water ate the floors from our old apartment. We each knew the other one was alive, and we got busy. Adulthood! 

  We discuss our dismissive significant others, our crowded schedules. Raini compliments some clothes on my photo roll, and I realize she’s trying to recruit me as a Q&Q ambassador. That feels weird, but she’s not being pushy, so I let it go. 

  I like the ecoline, the recycled stuff, I tell her, not much in my size there tho. 

  I’m sorry, that sucks! Thanks for the feedback! This response makes me gag. I wonder how much Raini hates this job. She adds You’d be a good representative body type; we need more people from the size 16 and up demographic. 

  I wonder if, since my presence seems more valuable, I should ask for more money than they pay the slimmer influencers. But I’m sure Raini has no control over the pay scale. Yeah, you know what, send me the link and I’ll apply, I say. I probably won’t apply. Maybe I will, if it doesn’t cost anything but time. I do want to see how much money I can make at 100 click-throughs a week or whatever rate they want. As far as I know, it’ll be more than I could get for the same time at my job now. Money talks, and enough money will convince Owen to get out of here. 

  She sends the link and adds If you’re interested in outreach, I can see if there’s anything in the Qkids division or Qteen. You’d be working on commission, would you be up for that? 

  Shit. There’s the catch. Every interaction needs to charm. This would be the time to back out, but for some reason I push forward. 

  Sure, what’s outreach? Is it marketing? I ask. 

  Reaching out to consumers and talking about the products so they see a human face with the name, they have a contact…it’s sales, it’s basically sales. How big is your network?

  She can see all my social stats, so I don’t know why she’s asking this. I realize she’s talking about a different kind of network – the circle of people under my influence, anyone who will listen to me. I scroll through everyone I’ve interacted with in the past few months. Old acquaintances who posted cool pictures, people who had birthdays, a couple of Owen’s friends I wanted to impress. I’d rather throw myself down a flight of stairs than try to sell them anything. Then again, a few contacts have loyalty to my workplace or my mom. Maybe fifty? 

  That’s it? You’ve got to have more than that.

  I don’t count my viewer stats or anything. God, that sounded so passive-aggressive.

  No, I totally get it, she replies with weird generosity. Most people don’t until they monetize.

  She tells me how she got started looking through people’s photos and complimenting their clothes. That way you ease into a conversation, she says. You build a relationship. QTeen is a lot of fun, honestly. Can you do meetups? Do you have virtual reality access or are you at a kiosk? 

  My boyfriend has VR.   

  Daaaang girl, hitched your wagon to the right star. 

  Lol yeah I guess. Do I want to commit to part-time schmoozing before they commit to me? Should I ask her how long she waited before her first payment? How likely anyone is to get hired off an application without a decent follower count, and how much time I’ll have to put in before I can quit my day job, if I even want to? No, she’ll tell me. Raini is nothing if not honest. 

  Why don’t I get back to you tomorrow. Sleep on it. 

  Sure, sure, sure, she says. She’s doing talk-to-text, I think, and she’s exhausted. I owe her a commission, so I spring for an order of slim-cut flare-leg black pants  in 3D and buy the car-tire shoes. My social score bumps five points for shopping online at an employer-recommended store. It’s all nonsense, but I get a light little thrill. 

  A muscle behind my eyes is twitching.  I could rock up to the office in style, transform so subtly Morgan is like, I’ve noticed you presenting with a lot of quiet authority, and I’m like, Oh I feel so much more confident, and I could pick up some influencing income after work, no big deal, hustling, hustling, and then, then then then, I can set my own terms. Aren’t there people who live like this, who click all the pieces of their life like magnets into place? 

  Limply, I scroll through my feed until I see someone wearing a cute skirt. How hard would it be to just say Cute skirt? I can’t even type it. The image of my future professional self scrolls in the other direction, me checking stats at my day job and losing sleep at night, Morgan saying You don’t seem focused on the kids, S&F saying Just reminding you to hit your minimum click-through rate this week to stay on the platform, Owen saying Why are you doing this, you couldn’t sell water in the Sahara. It’s too late to tell Raini no. Then I’d be the asshole who cost her referral money. I’ll do it all, I’ll be a better teacher, I’ll be a better person once I’ve had some sleep, once I can see the world more clearly.