The morning has just settled after the chaos hour of people marching around to caffeinate, put lunch bullshit in the fridge, and pretend to care about Marsha’s opinion of the TV show she watched last night with her husband. Armin slipped in about fifteen minutes late, with bloodshot eyes and a pale forehead, all recorded by Rhonda.
I take a long swig of coffee and swish it around in my mouth to warm my tongue, still cottony from the wine last night. I tried not to, but it was the meeting with Cliff. Every time I closed my eyes on the bus home, I saw her. Specifically, her face when she realized my lie . . .
I need to focus. Today is a new day. Today will be better.
When I passed Caitlin’s desk this morning on the way to my own, I saw she had several documents open; she’s probably working on ideas for the multi-unit meeting. I should be doing the same, but this particular battle might already be lost. Coming up with ideas is the easy part. It’s the speaking-in-front-of-the-group piece—all their beady eyes and dry expressions zooming in on me—that always sends me into a panic and trips me up.
I’m just going to have to beat the system from the side.
As if on cue, a DM dings onto my screen from Caitlin to Rhonda, and I am all too eager to read it.
Hey, remember to send me the May inventory data today and then Jolene tomorrow?
Understanding dawns on me. No wonder Caitlin’s been so fast lately! “Can you give me the leg up again this month?” Caitlin had asked Rhonda yesterday. I couldn’t figure out how she was managing to complete her spreadsheet only an hour after the data arrived, but holy shit, Rhonda’s been giving her a sneak peek. What a sad, petty little place this is.
At least I have a leg up of my own this round. I switch to Gregory’s inbox—with caution this time, as I am not mentally prepared for the depravity I might cross—and sure enough, the data from all the branches arrived last night. He hasn’t even sent it on to Rhonda yet!
Caitlin’s responsible for A to M in this grid, and I, L to Z. It’s going to be glorious when I complete mine first, even with no “advantage.”
I just can’t believe they’ve stooped to this flat-out method of sabotage. And Caitlin was so brazen about asking; clearly, they’ve been doing this for a while. If they’re keeping the monthly inventory grids from me, what else could they be hiding?
I click into Rhonda’s inbox. And holy hell, it’s awful here. It’s a sea of red flags marking emails as “to-do,” but aside from that, there’s barely any organization whatsoever. It’s appalling how much vital information she has access to that she hasn’t shared.
There is one subfolder with a curious title: Things to Figure Out.
I click it open.
Every email is from Gregory. A whole collection of requests, some dating back months. And she hasn’t done them. He asked her to digitize several archives and to create online versions of common documents. She’s replied to him, On it :), but I can’t find any evidence that she’s touched a thing.
I peer over my cubicle wall. She’s filling out a hard copy of the EAE schedule with a pencil as she munches on an apple. “Drat,” she says, as she picks up the only physical eraser in the office.
Back in her inbox, I see last month’s corporate credit card statement has come through for the card she reported missing. I have to stifle a giggle. Whoever stole Miss Rhonda Staples’s company card somehow managed to charge $64.12 to the Supershops Liquor Depot the day before the account was closed. Bold of them to use it where you can get a company discount. No wonder HQ flagged it as suspicious. Did Rhonda accidentally charge a personal expense and then report it stolen? Maybe that’s why she seemed a bit cagey when Gregory asked.
Beneath her emails is a folder that contains her desk phone’s log records. She’s on that thing all day long, so I quickly skim through it. Mostly she’s talking to other department heads or to Gregory. But one odd pattern draws the eye. Every day, like clockwork, she calls the same outside number at least four times. And every single time, it’s marked as unanswered. I scroll back at least seven months and it seems almost ritualistic—like she’s calling a ghost.
It’s probably nothing, but I pull a Post-it from my drawer and write the number down.
I shift to Caitlin’s inbox next. Unlike Rhonda, she’s got folders for everything. And subfolders inside of those folders. I start to wonder if she makes a new folder for every piece of mail she receives. Then I come across one with the title Passwords.
I open that bitch up so fast—and ding ding ding! It’s a freaking folder full of her passwords for work. She emails them to her personal box monthly. Her most recent one from April 13 reads:
Work email and login: Iamworthy44
Inventory spreadsheet: Iambeautiful19*
Work folder: Iamagoddess19*
Please let me hold it together. Let my cackling at her expense stay inside my heart. My mouth twitches, threatening a chuckle. She’s actually typing this stuff to herself several times a day? No wonder she’s so cocky. Then my excitement withers; obviously I can’t use her passwords to actually send anything. She would definitely notice that, and the goal is to not get fired. But now I can at least log in to her locked folders.
I quickly add the passwords to the Post-it note, while glancing from side to side to make sure no one sees. Not all spies get the glamour of one Jean Adler heavy breathing outside Gregory’s office while wiping dandruff from his glasses.
“Hello again, everyone.”
I nearly vault out of my seat from shock, half shoving the Post-it under my keyboard. Cliff is striding around the corner with a familiar yellow box in his hands. He’s wearing a blue plaid shirt that looks really soft. His smile is not quite bright enough to counter the furrowed brows and frowns he’s getting in return. “I brought some mini donuts from my favorite place,” he proclaims.
Crickets in response.
Cliff’s smile is hesitant and small. “Just wanted to say hi again. I’m looking forward to getting to know you all.”
A message flashes on my screen, from Caitlin to Garret:
Please lord, let me hold my cringe.
“I’ll just leave them over here.” Cliff’s voice loses its spark with each word. His shoulders round as he places the box on the communal table near the pods.
Finally, Caitlin breaks the silence. “You got us little donuts, aww! You’re so sweet.”
Cliff looks up sharply, clearly delighted. Too bad. I thought he might be beyond falling for Caitlin’s fake bullshit.
“I hope you enjoy them.” He tilts his chin toward the name plaque on her cubicle. “Caitlin, is it? Glad to meet you.” Then he raises his voice a little and turns in a half circle so he’s not got his back to anyone. “I’m going to be booking meetings with each of you over the next week. I just want to get to know more about you and your roles here. It’s really an open mic for you to share anything.” At the blank stares, he clears his throat. “So, just wanted to come by again, so you know the meeting request isn’t spam or anything bad.” He points to himself. “I’m a real guy on the fourth floor and my door is always open.”
Expressionless sets of eyeballs, including my own, peer at him like emojis.
“And these donuts are real too,” he adds. His chuckle mixes with the sound of keyboards frantically typing—and so the gossip mill begins. I feel pain in an unknown part of my body on his behalf. But then Cliff locks eyes with me and his expression brightens. “Jolene, hey!”
All my pity for him vanishes in an instant.
I catch Caitlin smirking, and she shifts her gaze from Cliff to me. My skin tightens as more eyes tilt in my direction.
I give Cliff a small, curt nod. I can’t even muster a smile. He doesn’t seem to register the vibes I’m giving off, because he makes his way to my desk and leans an arm against my cubicle wall. The sweet scent that permeated his office has followed him here, and everything in me seems to liquefy.
“Can you meet me by my office after work? We can take the parkade elevator from there.”
A nod is all I can muster as I sink farther in my chair, willing it to absorb me like another random mucus stain. Cliff should know that you don’t give the fucking vultures anything while you’re in the ring. At best, he’s reminded everyone that we know each other because of my mandatory training. But at worst . . . The last thing I need is my fellow professionals picturing me having sex, which is a thing people do when they think two people are dating.
Then he leans over a touch more into my cube’s space and points a finger toward my desk. “Hey, can I have that Post-it?”
My stomach nearly drops onto the carpet. My head whips toward my keyboard, where the incriminating yellow paper I’d shoved under it is poking out.
Then I realize Cliff’s finger is actually pointing at the block of unused notes. I shove the whole thing toward him, too relieved to trust myself to speak. He takes a piece from the top as well as the pen that had nearly rolled off the corner of my desk and holds them up to my cube wall so he can scribble a quick note.
“Well, it was nice to see you all,” he announces to the room. “I’ll go back to my cave now.” He holds his head high, but his shoulders have a slump to them as he walks over to the donut box and presses the note on top of it.
More crickets as he disappears down the hallway, the blue jeans schedule sheet on the bulletin board flapping in his wake.
A split second after he’s cleared the room, it’s like someone’s hit the on button. Chairs push back, footsteps descend upon the box. Rhonda, Armin, and Caitlin are the first to arrive on the scene, pulling the lid back and tearing into the little gourmet treats.
Heat burns through my stomach as I watch them pick the box clean like hyenas. Jean Adler scrunches his face so close to the box that I’m sure there’s a powdered dandruff flavor being made before our eyes.
“These are from that new place,” Armin says as he pops one in his mouth. “I’m not saying they’re good, but I’ve just found the will to live.”
Caitlin places a hand on his shoulder. “You have to stop pulling all-nighters. You’re too old to be gaming like that.”
He blinks through his puffed eyes. “I wasn’t online last night.”
“Has he booked a meeting with you yet?” Marla asks Caitlin.
Caitlin huffs. “Not yet, but I’ve got plenty to say.” The insistent way Caitlin glances at Armin makes acid burn in my stomach. But both their gazes draw to me too quick. I drop my eyes, but not in time.
Caitlin makes a big show of taking her hand off Armin’s shoulder as she hardens her stare at him. She continues. “What’s weird is he’s trying to act like he’s our friend, when we all know what he’s really here for.”
But they don’t know the half of it. I stare, imploding inside, when a message from Cliff appears on my screen.
Cliff: Hey, sorry if I assumed—no pressure if you don’t want to carpool today. I should’ve confirmed via email.
The pit in my stomach hardens as I picture him, typing to me alone from his trinket-filled office after that embarrassing display. He’s the only person who’s been nice to me for no reason here. And I’m a venti-sized pile of shit.
Jolene: I still want to! Sorry if I seemed off.
Cliff: No need to apologize. See you later then.
I type: Cool. Hit delete. Type: Thanks. Hit delete. Rotate between the two twice more until not replying becomes my only option with the time that’s passed.
The swarm is beginning to dissipate from the donut box, so I stand up and head over. However, there’s nothing left—these animals have picked it clean.
The Post-it Cliff left on top reads: Not Poison ;)
I peel it off. I take it back to my desk and stuff it in my locked drawer along with the more incriminating one containing the passwords.
Caitlin finishes off the last bite of her second donut and says, “He could’ve sprung for full-sized ones.”
Bunch of dickheads.