Modelle's

    Monica’s bag hit the floor and her upper lip curled when she rounded the corner for her cubicle. The kitchen trash was strewn across her desk, coffee grounds sticking to her keyboard and a black and slimy looking banana peel hanging off the edge. Empty creamer packets sat atop of it all, and a few sugar packets had found their way onto her chair. Monica dragged her fingers through her hair, covered her face with her hands, picked up her bag, and began the work of scraping the mess into her trash can.

    Working at Modelle’s was supposed to be fun. For years she had followed the brand, buying every article of clothing and accessory that she could and pinning runway photos to her wall. The supposedly eco-friendly, wallet-friendly, yet still stylish as hell brand had been her life, and now here she was, working as their social media coordinator.

    When she had found out that she had an interview for the position, she had screamed aloud, jumped up and down, and began the very serious work of picking out the perfect outfit. Modelle’s patent pumps in sage, their stretch-fabric mini skirt in burnt auburn, their I-Mean-Business blazer in autumnal floral, and their button down in cool cream. She slicked her brunette curls back into the perfect business ponytail, put on the perfect neutral-toned makeup, and she was out the door. Monica couldn’t tell you anything about the interview for nerves had blocked her memory, but she could tell you that every employee that she had met was extraordinary nice. Looking back on it now as she tried to maneuver coffee grounds out of her ergonomic keyboard, she began to think that the niceness at the interview felt phony and over the top.

    At the time, though, it felt like a dream. Even more dream-like was the day that she received another phone call from Modelle’s telling her that she had gotten the job and would start the next week. Monica had collapsed on the floor, grinning and sobbing. That night she had treated herself to a bath, a glass of wine, and the last of the fine imported chocolates that her girlfriend had bought her for their anniversary the week before. That night, everything seemed like it was coming together. Soon after, it had all started to fall apart.

    Her first week on the job wasn’t so bad. Queueing Instagram posts, compiling lists of captions and photos, and tracking down other possible ways and places to advertise was actually quite fun. She enjoyed spreading the message to “Buy Modelle’s: Save the Earth while Looking Gorgeous”, and she enjoyed filling captions with information about how the fabrics were obtained and recycled. She enjoyed talking about the affordability and the sustainability. That is, she enjoyed it until she overheard her boss, Elise, talking about the state of the overflow.

    Monica reached around the slimly banana peel and into her desk drawer, searching for a pair of rubber gloves. Her nails snagged onto them as Elise walked by her desk. She slowed and glanced over her glasses at Monica, her red bob swaying, before pushing her glasses up her nose, shifting her armful of magazines, and walking away. Monica’s brows furrowed, her scowl deepening as Elise’s words from a few weeks ago played on loop in her mind: “we need to find a new garbage service to get rid of these extra clothes. The old one changed routes and will no longer service us”.

    Throwing the unsold clothes away. The words had caused Monica’s head to snap around to Elise, her stomach churning, brows knit. Modelle’s always claimed to reuse, donate, or recycle all unsold items. The betrayal had caused tears to spring into her eyes; now it caused her to throw the banana peel off of her desk and into the trash bin with a satisfying splat.

    After overhearing Elise, Monica had run to Jason, Modelle’s production manager, leaving her desk so quickly that her chair had sat alone, spinning in her cubicle.

    “Jason, is it true?” Monica asked, both her hands planted firmly on his desk, her chest heaving from running up a flight of stairs.

    “Yes of course it is,” Jason said, pulling of his glasses and biting the arm of them.

    “But that’s so—”

    “Wait, Mo, did you actually believe that we don’t throw any of them away?”

    “Yes! I did! It’s one of the many reasons that I loved Modelle’s!” Monica said, sinking to a crouch, her fingers arching on the desk.

    “Mo, honey, I’m sorry. It’s what Elise demands. It’s easier on her; a lot less to think about when you don’t have to find someone to compile lists of charities and think of clothes designs that use bits of old ones.”

    “But that’s so terrible and horrible and stupid,” Monica said, banging her head lightly against Jason’s desk.

    Jason leaned forward and placed a hand between Monica’s head and his desk.

    “Mo, please don’t injure my desk. As for the policy, I know it’s shady, but it’s a good way to make money. If you can just turn a blind eye to it like the rest of us, I’m sure you’ll rise up the ranks in no time. When you can rivel Elise, you can fight it.”

    “But you rival Elise and you’re doing nothing! And who cares about the money when the company’s this messed up? There are so many ways to take care of those clothes! Chop up the scraps and make bigger sizes! Hold them for a while and do cool re-releases! Hell, you could cut out the waste all together by doing pre-orders on items!”

    “You think I haven’t tried all of that? Elise thinks bigger sizes will ‘ruin Modelle’s image. Re-releases aren’t cutting edge enough. Pre-orders cut down customer loyalty due to longer item-arrival times.”

    Monica pressed her head forward into Jason’s hand, pinning it against the desk. He yelped slightly, and Monica rose to her feet, teeth set, jaw clenched, hands balling into fists at her sides.

    “Absolutely. Horrible.”

    “Mo, I know—”

    Monica turned and stomped away, grabbing her lunch from the fridge and heading towards the Modelle’s gardens, slamming every door behind her.

    She slammed the trash bin back onto the floor and swiped at her chair, sending sugar packets into it. This had happened every day for the last two weeks, ever since the conversation with Jason. She didn’t know who had overheard their conversation or who had been dumping the trash on her desk, but she no longer cared.

    Monica kicked the trash bin of of her way, sat in her chair, and logged onto her computer. Instead of logging into Instagram like she was supposed to, she pulled up Swivari, Modelle’s biggest rival in the fashion industry. They were hiring an advertising manager. Monica smiled, her fingers steepled beneath her chin as she perused the job listing. Perhaps it would take far too long to do anything about Modelle’s from the inside. But from the outside? Monica chuckled as she pulled up the application, the noise drowned out by the sound of her furiously typing.