Manhattan in the rain was not a fun place to be.

 Emmy stood on 22nd street and felt an icy dampness seep into her only pair of "good" shoes.  Caught unprepared, she tried in vain to sheild her carefully blown out hair with a glossy copy of People Magazine, bought in a panic when the downpour started two blocks ago. She didn't have enough cash for an umbrella, suddenly touted by grinning vendors at exorbitant prices and those clear two dollar cellophane baggie rain hats so popular with the geriatric set, were out of the question. She gripped the magazine as the curtain of rain changed direction, again. With each soggy step Reese Witherspoon's face became an inky blur.

Not Today she pleaded to whatever omnipotent force controlled the weather and job interviews.

She checked the address, carefully recorded in her new Staples planner. Two more blocks to go.

The sunless city was washed in an ashen grey, the concrete and mirror monoliths even colder and more unforgiving. The noise and congestion unrelenting. Everything smelled wet.

Rain per say never bothered Emmy. In fact, back home she would beg her grandmother to watch from the porch if a violent summer storm proved promising on the horizon. There, cocoa in hand, she would ride it out, Nana keeping watch cautiously from the living room window. Emmy would relish the suddenness of the wind, rising in turrets from the ground, grasping at leaves, twigs, a paper lemonade cup; the trees, turning up the silver undersides of their leaves in an exotic tribal dance and the delicious crackle of lightning. She would count...one missippi, two mississipi..after the last ground trembling roll of thunder aching to see the next flash of laser white light to slash the dove grey sky. That is how you measure how far away the storm is, her grandmother had taught her, every second means a mile. 

How many miles had Emmy walked this morning? Two subway trips (should have been one) had brought her close enough to her destination, which on her folding accordion of a map had seemed a mere stone's throw. But the driving rain and unfamiliar terrain had turned a 6 block jaunt into a trek Lewis and Clark would take pride in. There was no cocoa and gaurdian angel to ride out this storm. She passed another ubiqitous overpriced coffee shop and hovered for a moment, drinking in the rich aromas of ventis and grandes. Coffee could help. No. Bad idea, coffee plus terrential rain plus gossip rag mock rain hat equaled major potential spill possibility, and although she was still surprisingly ahead of schedule and suffering severe caffeine withdrawl, the risk of sporting a large expresso stain on her one and only suit was too great. Afterward, she promised herself, depending on how things go.

The concrete monstrocity loomed over her, like an angry parent, past curfew time. She double checked the polished brass plaque solemnly declaring the buildings address. This is it. She swore she glimpsed vultures circling above amongst the heavy charcoal clouds. She held her breath as she lept into the pie shaped compartment of the revolving door, pushing urgently at the handle and almost stumbling into the cool marble lobby, gasping for air. She was terrified of revolving doors. So much so that as a child, she categorically refused to use them. No enticement, not candy, ice cream, the toy section, could lure her through. What if it didn't stop? What if it kept spinning faster and faster, with her trapped inside, alone between plates of glass as horrified onlookers helplessly stood by. Thankfully there weren't too many calls for them in her town. Her only experience with these instruments of terror were during the twice yearly trips to the nearest "big" city, nearly three hours away. But that blip on the map in the middle of the country in no way prepared her for New York City.

So there she stood, like a wet dog in someone's parlor. Reese Witherspoon had done little to sheild her locks and she could feel slick strands of hair clinging to her back, soaking through her jacket , cold and clammy on her shoulder blades.

She checked in at the front desk, tossing her magazine deftly in the cylindrical stainless steel trash container. Even the garbage cans were chic.

She clipped the plastic laminate visitor badge to the lapel of her grey jacket and tucking her planner under her arm walked with feigned purpose toward the string of mirrored elevator doors. 

Dear God! Was that her? The six blocks of precipitaion had not been kind. She smoothed her hand over her wet hair. The mystery was, as she glanced around her, how everyone else in the building was miraculousy fresh, and dry. They had umbrellas, they were grown ups. Despite a birth certificate stating otherwise, she on the other hand was not. She was pretending to be an adult, playing dress up in an adult building with an adult "faux" suede planner, but she would be discovered soon enough. She wanted to leave, to run, she didn't want to play this game anymore.

Ping! the elevator doors slid open. She and four others stepped inside, each engrossed in a world of their own. An attractive thirty something man in an impeccable suit, texted frantically into his blackberry. Perfect complexion, perfect shoes, perfect close cropped hair...too perfect...definately gay. A somber woman with angry eyebrows was corsetted into a single breasted flax colored suit. A scarf tied in a casually studied knot  rested on her shoulders. Hermes, Emmy made out the writing among the swirling patterns of horse bridles and fleurs de lis.

A gentle ping announced every floor, hers was the 31st.

"So, we'll call if we're interested." mumbled the icy middle aged Hitchcock blond tossing Emmy's resume to the side. "Thank You"

The entire process had taken no more than twelve minutes, ten of which she had spent waiting, perched on the edge of a burgundy leather chair in the reception area.

Well that seemes promising, E.mmy joked to herself. Who was she kidding, it was a long shot,, despite what everyone had told her.

 She first realized she had a knack, or gift, as Mrs Forrester had called it, in the fifth grade. Emmy had been treated to a pop test one afternoon and while her peers grumbled and fiddled with pen caps she gazed longingly out the window.

Young Lady, Daydreaming is not going to help you finish this test.

I'm done mrs forrester, Emmy responded meekly.

I doubt that she chortled, ..in seven minutes? She angrily approached Emmy's desk and with a hen like clicking noise ran her pen down the length of her paper. Her smug expression turning to confusion and then humility then disdain. Very Well she snapped, just keep busy until the rest are through. It was only a day or two before Mrs. Forrester realised having a child prodigy in her class was quite the distinction in  Apoloosa Falls Middle School. From then on she doted on Emmy at every opportunity. There were special tutoring sessions, advanced books to pore over and when she entered and placed second in a national competetion, Mrs. Forrester beamed as if Emmy herself had played merely a minor role.