We’re all piled into the big boardroom on the fifth floor, and we’ve sat here long enough that the sharp cologne Jean Adler’s been dabbing into his neck since, like, 1984 has all but disappeared.
All the beady freaking eyes face forward; this room feels more like a stadium. I twist the metal water bottle sitting on my lap in my clammy hands and try to steady my breath.
Cliff is sitting at the end of the largest table next to mine. He’s got his notepad out, and the way his pen is moving, I’d bet big money that he’s doodling. But when I tried to squint and see earlier, he caught me peeking and smiled.
Armin had his HR meeting earlier today. When he returned, he DMed me: Went well for you. Didn’t tell him about my mom. And as relieved as I was that he vouched for me, it hit even harder that he confided that.
Gregory is standing at the front of the room, listing off a new policy that has already been emailed company-wide several times. Rhonda nods, smiling way too hard. She’s propped herself front and center at the table to take meeting minutes that nobody asked for. She’ll likely file them away in some cabinet afterward, never to be seen again.
My mind feels like it’s literally shaking in my skull. All the words I’m going to try to say replay over each other in discordant nonsense. I wish I could see Cliff’s cat sketches from here.
Gregory claps his hands once as he shifts topics. It seems like he’s close to wrapping up. “Before we go, it’s time for the ideas and opinions session. I myself have been brainstorming an exciting incentive program”—he pauses to raise his brows enticingly—“But I’d love to hear any thoughts you’ve all been tinkering with first.”
All the expressions remain neutral and uninspired by this, except for Caitlin, who nods way too hard.
We start with two suggestions from supply chain people that have already been suggested a dozen times before. With each passing comment, every tick of the clock, my skin tightens and cools. I look around the table and try to decipher if anyone will be sympathetic should I faint in the middle of the room when my brain snaps from nerves.
Larry stands, shiny sheen on his forehead, armpits darkened and heavy from perspiration.
“Good god,” comes from some unknown voice in the back.
My breath halts in involuntary sympathy as he clears his throat. “I think we should implement some type of town hall meeting every now and then to really form a cohesive office.” He stares at Gregory, an intense smile pointed toward him like an attack. “We could share ideas and go over some of the bigger elements that affect multiple departments.”
Did he just suggest the very thing we’re doing? My eyes draw to Cliff, who is wincing and nodding along. He writes something down, lips pressed together.
Larry grins like he really said something there and lingers while a tumbleweed passes. Finally, Greg mutters, “Thank you.” Larry retreats to his seat.
Taking advantage of the opening, Caitlin juts out her chin. “I was thinking we could sort information going to other departments into categories to better streamline.” She stands up and begins passing around photocopied pages of her plan. “I’ve got a list of areas this would optimize and prevent lost communication.”
A few people in marketing nod enthusiastically. Gregory looks at her document and does his version of a smile.
It’s an unfortunate win for her. She raises her eyebrows toward Garret in silent celebration.
But Joy mutters, “What about the chain to invoicing?”
“Ah yes, well, I’ve designed a—” Her phone dings and she pulls it from her back pocket, tapping it. “Sorry, forgot to silence.” Her brows crease together. “Where was I? I meant I’ve made a plan for . . .” Her eyes float across the table until they catch on me. I divert from her gaze, and she blinks several times. “That’s something I’m working to incorporate as well. Thanks.” Her voice is meek, her entire aura suddenly smaller as she makes her way back to her mesh boardroom seat.
Gregory clears his throat. “Any more suggestions after Caitlin’s helpful one?” He looks pointedly at Larry.
I have to speak. I’ve prepared for it. I need to just. Do. It. I suck in a breath that is way too tight and hot.
My hand raises, shaky and sweating. Gregory’s expression shifts to almost a scowl, almost offended. “Miss Smith, do you have something?”
Every single face in the room turns toward me. My stomach flips as I stand. My legs have morphed into Jell-O. I open my mouth, but all the words in the world seem to mesh on my tongue and I’m sure I’ll say something offensive instead, because my brain likes to fuck me up like that.
I clear my throat, but my voice is still pitchy as I say, “I noticed several departments keep important data in silos, like supply chain and accounting regarding seasonal sales.”
All the faces remain deadpan, their eyes glassy and lifeless. The only sound in the room comes from Larry Goodwin chugging his water bottle.
I may be internally dying.
My gaze pulls toward Caitlin, who is slumping in her chair with her arms crossed. Garret is sitting beside her, equally unsympathetic. My eyes shift to Rhonda, who is pursing her lips. Then to Armin, who raises his eyebrows.
I look toward Cliff. He puts his pen down and nods at me encouragingly. Now that I’m standing, I can see his notebook. He’s drawn three cats in the margins.
And it hits like a rush: I can pretend. I can be good at talking sometimes. Like at the ice-cream shop, or when I was helping Rhonda, or when I met Armin’s parents. Everything is so much easier when it isn’t real.
What if this wasn’t really my life?
I lift my chin. “What I mean is, several departments do all this work to reach similar conclusions from different ends. There’s got to be a way to divvy this labor up more efficiently.”
A breath of life washes through the room. Eyes blink. Chairs shift. Marla leans over to Stu to mutter something, and he nods, stroking his chin thoughtfully.
What if this place wasn’t soul sucking?
I pick up my folder and take out the papers I’d prepared, handing them around. “As you can see here, I’ve created a flow chart for how certain info could be handled.”
Rhonda’s cupped her hands together over her chest, proud mama smile on. When I pass Cliff to give him my printout, he meets my gaze and grins. The ground below me seems firmer.
What if the people here were good humans?
I keep talking; it’s like an out-of-body experience. My voice is less shaky than any of the rehearsals I did in front of the mirror last night. I manage to share more details about my idea, and I actually say what I’m thinking.
When a few people chime in with questions, I’m able to answer them. My voice has evened, my bouncing leg finally still.
Faces begin to light up as they look over my printout. A few murmurs of praise carry across the room like a song.
Gregory puffs out his entire chest and claps once. “How long have we missed that? This. This right here is why I like to have these discussions.” Sure, he’s basically found a way to praise himself for my thoughts, but people are smiling at me.
In fact, so many people are still looking at me. A nightmare.
Only it’s not.
I never realized there could be a difference.
Caitlin crosses her arms. “How did you figure this out? I mean, how did you know how inventory operates while working our job?” She twists a brow. “Have you been spying on them?” She says this like it’s a joke, but she and I lock eyes. A few others mirror her suspicious gaze, while others are more quizzical.
I don’t dare look at anyone directly.
And how quickly perception can turn bad—the fickle beast. I wipe my hands on my thighs. “I’m just assuming that’s how things are handled, based on what I’ve seen from my end. I could be wrong. In which case this flow chart will be a funny little keepsake for the bulletin board.”
A fair amount of laughter for that terrible joke pulls through the room. Jean Adler says, “No, you nailed it. Thanks, Jolene!”
My mouth twitches, but I’m too shy to smile. I make my way back toward my seat. I scribble on my notepad, trying to look calm and focused, mouth twitching to smile.
For reasons I don’t understand, the words I write are:
The meeting draws to a close, and as people shuffle out of their seats they shoot me grins and nods and call out short affirmations like “nice job.”
A lightness takes over.
I want to see Cliff smile at me again, but he’s too busy talking with Gregory and Larry in the corner. The poor guy.
Caitlin marches in front of me with dropped shoulders as she stabs her phone. She frowns, red-faced, like she might burst.
I take a breath. I can relax now.
I spend the lunch hour walking to the mall, something I’ve done countless times before, only this time isn’t as isolated or dire as my usual ganders. Joy and Marla even wave to me from a jewelry kiosk as I pass. Aritzia is having a rare sale, so I pop in and find a perfect blazer. It looks good on me, and the discount is steep enough that I can manage it—an investment in my future at Supershops, if I can just get in a bit more mirror practicing. If I can control my thoughts enough to not freak out when I’m in front of a crowd, or sometimes alone. If I can continue being okay enough, I might just be able to enjoy this.
My size is out of stock, so the store clerk offers to ship it to me for arrival next week. That’s for the best. Walking back into the office with a shopping bag is such a catastrophe. People always want to see what you bought and then have you show it off with a song and dance for our capitalist lords.
When I return, the afternoon office is mostly silent, apart from the hum of the health hazard of a fan on Jean’s desk that’s smudged grey with caked-on dust and human debris after years of slowly dying in this place. Water leaks from the cooler in torturously unpredictable drips, yet nobody is willing to simply stop it, myself included.
Only Caitlin isn’t taking this time of rest seriously. She’s been zombie-focused on her screen since the meeting, frantically pulling out folders and notebooks and clicking her mouse faster and more often than usual. As she marches toward the copy room with a document in hand, I dare a peep her way. Her jaw is set and her eyes look tired.
Rhonda marches around to my cubicle as soon as Caitlin’s out of sight. “Can I come in?” she whispers.
I nod, and she sidles even closer than her visit here last week.
“So, as you know, Caitlin’s engaged.”
“Yes.” I force myself to smile as brightly as Sir Sunny D, even as dread spins up my spine. I know exactly where this is going.
“So, us Morale Boosters should plan a surprise engagement party on Friday, when she normally goes for drinks. Just a small one with us friends at work and the happy couple.”
I don’t mean for my expression to shift—I really try—but Rhonda’s eyes droop a bit as she notices my reaction. “It’ll be small,” she continues. “Nothing to outshine Gregory’s work anniversary in two weeks. You won’t have to do much, but could you help me on the day of with decorations? Your first assignment?”
FFS.
At face value, it’s such a small ask, decorations. Only the idea of going to a party to celebrate Caitlin may make me break out in hives. But if I say no, it’ll mean Rhonda has to do everything alone, yet again.
I nod and force out, “Happy to.”
Her whole face brightens. “Thank you, dear. We now have two parties to plan—so fun!” She lowers her voice as Caitlin rounds the corner. “I’ll go make a call in the boardroom to book the table.”
My mouth twitches; I can’t help the smile as Rhonda marches off. Because her steps are bouncier.
Caitlin squeaks back into her chair, and I sneak another glance her way. She’s typing rapidly, yet the bags under her eyes rest heavy like flags of defeat.
Caitlin deserves a party before I beat her out for this job, at the very least.