It took me a little over 30 seconds to remove seven of my nine earrings, leaving only a small, 24-karat stud in each ear. The earring-return later in the day proved a bit longer, but still, I convinced myself that the daily routine was a mere pittance of effort, and the metonymic integrity attached to those seven earrings was undoubtedly worth the exertion of their ins and outs.

But the daily routine quickly faded along with June’s tan, and by late August, my ears were decorated with two small, 24-karat studs, and seven impenetrable scars. Still, despite my permanent change in ear-wardrobe, I decidedly determined that my integrity remained intact that summer, when I finally confronted the precarious line between strategic compliance and soulless conformity.

I was hired as a summer library intern at Donovan Cooper, a prestigious firm known worldwide for its efficiency, meticulousness and colossal bonuses. In true undergraduate fashion, I was awarded the internship not on my own merits, but after my father had called in a favor to an old little league co-coach, who also happened to be a senior partner amongst the 300 attorneys employed by Donovan Cooper. The 30 or so summer interns—all sponsored by partners—were divided amongst the various departments requisite to allow DC to operate as flawlessly as it did. My assignment to the library was both an enigmatic and fortunate one.

The library was located on the 30th floor of our building, and was enclosed on all sides by streakless glass walls. Though spotlessly transparent, those walls sheltered the library from the fraternal and rigid hierarchy all around us. The library staffed 16 women between the ages of 35 and 65, and became a summer home to myself and two petite co-internettes. The offices outside the library flaunted family pictures, children’s drawings and evidence of weekend plans; the space inside the library was occupied by divorcées, bachelorettes (as a generous dubbing) and widows. Daily phone calls were overheard to order in Chinese- and cat- food to be delivered to the homes of my co-workers after their days at the office. As such, my co-interns and I quickly learned to tuck away any symptoms of a summer crush or social life.

I determined in the first week of work, after the library team threw me an unsurpassably awkward birthday celebration that included overzealous cupcake eating, that I would take every chance I could to leave the glass prison of the library. And so, I began each morning with Dunkin Donuts’ most offensive looking coffee, and allowed my bladder to overact throughout the day; I charitably saved the messengers from their grueling task of running around 10 floors, and began to hand-deliver books to the attorneys; I learned of all my co-workers’ cookie-preferences, and made frequent trips to the kitchen to round the floors as a cookie-administrator. But it wasn’t until I received my largest summer assignment that I gained genuine exposure to the world outside of the library, and with this exposure, came a paramount attack to my integrity.

My two co-interns and I, weighing in at a total of 320 pounds, were assigned to update the seven-volume set of the scholarly masterpiece for which the firm’s founding partner, Martin Cooper, had gained world acknowledgement as one of the leading legal minds of the last century. The set was owned by every one of the firm’s partners, and by the majority of the firm’s associates, and was thus collecting dust on each of their office’s shelves. Our task was simple: quietly and unobtrusively enter each office, rapidly remove the 90-pound, seven-volume set, bring it back to the library on old, rusty push carts, remove the binding, precisely add two new introductory pages, reseal the binding, and quietly bring the set back to the office from which it was taken. Our job was to be orchestrated with the utmost discretion, silence and respect, and if even one minute of company time was wasted as a result of our 70-plus office visits, we had failed at our jobs as stainless cogs in a shiny metal machine.

We quickly learned the strategy of our assignment: if the attorney was present, we dutifully waited outside of his or her office until his or her secretary gave us permission of entry. Then, we knocked assertively but quietly, quickly came in and formed an assembly line for book removal, and then quickly left, without so much as a glance from the underlining attorney. If, however, we learned of an office absent from human presence, we were free to linger inside the office, learning the details of this particular attorney’s life- his tastes in couch and carpet, his family dynamic, his framed awards and degrees, etc. The first two weeks of the assignment proved adventurous and rewarding, and we felt like three quiet detectives gaining privileged access into the lives of our superiors. We were hypnotized by their beautiful families and flawless amenities, and it was then that a shift within me formed.

My morning routine morphed into an unrecognizable practice, as I anxiously chose the curve-conscious, clean-cut pencil skirts and button-downs I had formerly ignored. The subway ride to work was laden with a new confidence, an unparalleled sense that I belonged with the handsome suit-clad fraternity reading their papers alongside me, as they hoped that their self-consciously sprayed cologne wasn’t too strong. And finally, I noticed my co-workers treating me differently, assigning me greater responsibilities while wondering if my allegiance to the misfortunate library staff remained intact.

The transformation had taken a hold of me, and soon I became wrapped up in office politics and hierarchies, and I consciously passed each attorney office with a coy glance and knowing smile, and readily welcomed all conversations that inevitably ensued. When questioned by my friends outside of work about my noticeable changes, I launched into a well-rehearsed soliloquy about the challenges to femininity in the corporate world, and how I had finally learned to practice the Gender Studies Major I had spent my parents $200,000 studying. I could be articulate and creative when assigned a task by the wenches inside the library; I was coy and flirtatious when a partner complimented my curls. Finally released from the rebellious grips of my over-pierced adolescence, I was free to be whatever the world wanted me to be, and my mind beneath the makeup remained unpainted.

The culmination of my success was realized when Donovan Cooper’s youngest partner, Eric Davis, began to notice me. At first, it was only a brief glance from his freshly collated briefs, as I swung my hips past his office, smiling as I went to retrieve cookies or relieve my bladder. But before long, he began to converse with me, asking me my name and where I went to school, what I was studying, why I was there. With each day that passed, I felt our friendship strengthen, and I was sure that my stagnancy at the bottom of the totem pole would soon desist.

On one particular morning, I passed Mr. Davis’s office with an unusual cockiness, (likely a result of the still undigested caffeine). We exchanged our routine wishes of “Good morning,” but I didn’t linger, as Mr. Davis seemed busier than usual. I passed his office again, several hours later, to find his desk vacant. Positive that I knew his schedule, I assumed today was a client day for him. On my third stride past, Mr. Davis had loyally returned to his desk, but his afternoon errand had not evaded me. “I really like your haircut,” I uttered, in my huskiest voice. Immediately, his expression changed and his face grew white and sullen, and suddenly, I sensed the empty spaces of the holes in my ears. “Thank you,” he replied uncomfortably, sternly, and he returned to his brief, making sure to forget the idiosyncratic manner in which I pronounce my name.

With a shift of my hips and a retreat of my curls, I turned from his office and staggered back to my comforting glass summer denizen, and for the first time all summer, I didn’t feel the need to pee anymore.