Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 89553 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89553 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
I follow Sharon into her office and take a seat in front of her desk.
I don’t have a notepad, but I pull out my cell from my jacket pocket. I’m pretty strict about using my cell in the office. I don’t even pick it up unless it’s an emergency. When I swipe it open to get to my notes app, I notice a message each from my sister and Hunter. My stomach roils, and I have to fight the urge to open the messages and find out why Hunter is in contact. Hunter and I haven’t seen each other since we shared a cab back into the city from LaGuardia after the Martha’s Vineyard trip. He carried my suitcase up the three flights of my Brooklyn walk-up, and we hugged each other goodbye like old friends. For a few days, maybe even a few weeks, I wondered if he’d call or message. I wondered if I should call or message him. But he didn’t and neither did I. Every day it’s gotten a little easier to stop myself from reaching out.
“Did you want to add to the report?” I ask. “Most things I can get easily from the system.”
“No,” she says as she takes a seat behind her desk. She’s one of the more junior partners, so her office isn’t big, but it’s still an office, and she has a window. “The report was fine. I wanted to talk to you about something else.”
My heart sinks a little bit. I’m always getting pulled onto new projects. I’m seen as a safe pair of hands, and I like that, but it does mean that my workload can spiral a little.
“Did you ever think about being a lawyer?” she asks.
It’s the last thing I expected her to say. I’ve never been asked the question before. People just assume that if you’re a paralegal, you’re not clever enough to be a lawyer.
I swallow, trying to buy some time to think up a convincing answer. “I guess I did at some point,” I say.
“Because you’re smart. I brought up your education record. You got good grades in college.”
“Right,” I say.
“But you never considered law school?”
I smile, trying to keep it together. “I thought about it. But I already had a chunk of student loans, and the job market for law school graduates back then wasn’t great. I could get a paralegal job right away, and so . . . it didn’t happen.”
“I see that happen for a lot of women,” she says as if she’s talking in code. “I think it comes down to the fact that sometimes, women don’t believe in themselves like men do.”
The words hang in the air, waiting for a hook.
She doesn’t need to know about the conversations I had with my parents about law school. She doesn’t need to know my mom told me it would be really expensive, and that most people don’t pass the bar, and most of the ones who do don’t get jobs and end up working in Starbucks. Sharon doesn’t need to know how Mom suggested becoming a paralegal and “seeing how I felt about things in a couple of years.”
“Do you know about our program to mentor junior women in the firm so they become senior women in the firm?” she asks.
“I think maybe that’s a thing for the lawyers,” I say. “Not the paralegals.”
“Maybe,” she says. “Did you know that fifty-two percent of law school graduates joining our firm are women, yet only eleven percent of those lawyers become partners?”
“Well, I haven’t examined the statistics, but that sounds about right to me.” You don’t need to count heads to see the discrepancy in this and every other firm in New York City.
Sharon smiles. “Yes, well, we all see it, because we all live it. It takes statistics to convince some of the men of this firm that there’s a problem. Anyway, we’re trying to address the discrepancy in different ways. I’d like to mentor you, if that’s something you’d be interested in.”
“To help me . . . progress? Get a raise? That sort of thing?”
“Lucy, you’ve done really well at this firm. You’re clever and organized, and you use initiative. But I think you’re capable of more. Much more.”
My stomach fizzes with excitement. “Really?”
“Yes, really. I think you’ve been overlooked. I’m not sure why. But I thought we could work together to help you realize your full potential.”
A lump forms at the back of my throat. I can’t remember ever feeling so . . . like anything but a number at work. That’s how it goes. You’re paid a salary and you have to do a job. Talk of potential and mentorship . . . I don’t remember ever having had this kind of conversation with anyone before. “I would like that,” I manage to croak out.