I would be so late if I were regular me; luckily enough I am supernatural me, so I might get to work just in time. One of the perks of having superpowers is that I don’t need to actually apply makeup anymore. I simply need to think of a style, and bibbidi-bobbidi-boo it is on my face, impeccably done, magazine perfect.
Minus twenty minutes.
Secondly, having added taxis to a new list of affordable commodities, I can now skip the usual hustle and bustle of running to the subway station just in time to see the train leave, waiting for the next train, making the actual journey packed like a sardine in a box (with the same delightful smell), squeezing my way out of said sardine box, and jogging desperately toward the office.
Minus thirty minutes.
Appraising my total delay time at about forty-five minutes, I will still be able to arrive at the office exactly five minutes in advance.
“Remember,” I tell the genie for the millionth time. “Today you stay invisible, inaudible, and entirely imperceptible.”
“Yes sir,” he replies mockingly. “Or, rather, madam.”
He doesn’t understand. I already don’t exactly shine in the eyes of my boss, and the last thing I need is to be seen with a lunatic only capable of uttering outrageously politically incorrect statements.
Can you guess who my boss’s favorite is? Yeah, right! Dear old Vanessa. Thinking about it, why should I care what my boss thinks? I am going to keep working there only to fake normality for a while and fish for information. I could buy the company with all the money I have now. Maybe I will buy the company and fire him—and Vanessa, too. This, unfortunately, would not prove to be a great strike for her, as she belongs to some rich snob family, the true high society of Chicago. My boss, on the other hand, would probably lose it.
The genie passes his first test of invisibility as we cab to work. The driver seems to be completely oblivious to his presence. Yesterday I bought one of those Bluetooth devices so that if I need to talk to him while he’s invisible, I can do it without people thinking I’m hearing voices in my head or talking to an imaginary friend. I’ve already instructed him about the deception, but I want to test it before we get to the office.
“Um, hello, Arthur. How are you?” I say into the tiny microphone.
“Me? Oh, it is very considerate of you to be calling me by my proper name,” he replies sarcastically.
“Hmm, right,” I say, annoyed by his constant bantering. It’s an important day for me! He should be more serious about it. “I just wanted to check our communications for today. I’ll talk to you later. Bye.”
“Always at your service, milady,” he says, smirking.
I don’t say anything, and scowl at him for the rest of the journey.
As predicted, the taxi ride is much shorter than my usual commute, and we reach my office’s building, which is right in the center of the famous Chicago Loop, in fifteen minutes. Unfortunately, as soon as I am out of the cab, I run into a coworker. Sally is a fortyish-year-old accountant with a bulging figure, oily hair, and absolutely no taste for clothes.
Despite her lack of fashion sense, I really like her. She is always cheery, kind, and collaborative with everybody—with the exception of Vanessa, who thinks that overweight people should be banned from earth and, when presented with Sally’s abundance, can’t maintain her usual angelic façade. She always teases Sally one way or another about how being fat is a choice, and how only weak people…how did she say it? Ah, yes. “Only weak people would voluntarily desecrate the temple of their body in such a disgusting way”. Let’s see what she thinks after she has joined the ranks!
Vanessa is so mean, and from the day she was moved to our floor three years ago, poor Sally has tried every possible diet cited in every book or magazine with no visible results. She must have some real metabolism problems. Maybe I should help her. I could use my new abilities to do some good.
“Hi Ally,” Sally stares at the taxi I just stepped out of in surprise. “Did you cab to work?”
I need to be more careful; I don’t want to blow my normality cover. Next time, because I am never taking the metro again, I’ll have the taxi driver drop me one or two blocks away. Or I could just buy a car. Actually, that would be a good idea.
“Yeah,” I say. “I was so late that Kyle would have killed me this time.” Our boss’s name is Kyle.
We go inside together, and while we’re in the elevator I think her five pounds lighter.
She immediately shrieks loudly in a high-pitched voice.
“Everything all right?” I ask, suppressing a tiny smile. I know the funny sensation she just experienced.
“Yes,” she answers, still a bit shocked. “I just felt a weird prickle all over.”
“It must have been electrostatic air,” I state confidently. “It can give you small electric shocks.” This way she will think she’s having a random electrostatic reaction every time I make her lose weight. And it’ll take a while, as I can’t make her drop fifty pounds all at once. At least, not without seriously freaking her out.
Bing!
A metallic sound announces that we’ve reached our floor. I leave Sally at her desk and move forward to mine with a quick, nervous pace. I settle down while the genie explores the surroundings.
“So, this is your place of work?” he asks.
I nod imperceptibly.
“And what do you do, precisely?”
“Sorry, I can’t talk right now,” I say, and then pointedly remove my ear gadget so he gets the message.
“Hi, Ally.”
Oh, great. Here comes the harpy to prey on me.
“Good morning, Vanessa,” I say.
She is eyeing me suspiciously in silence. Circling the quarry before the kill?
“Can I help you with anything?” I ask, standing.
“Did you change something?” she asks, with a hint of disappointment in her voice. I bet she expected me to be a wreck, which of course I would have been if it wasn’t for the genie.
“New haircut,” I offer casually. Ally-1, Harpy-0.
“Wait, is that Armani?” she exclaims, even more aghast, pointing at my new suit.
“Yep.” It’s all I deign to give her. Ally-2, Harpy-0.
“Well, I just wanted to check if we were good, you know?” she announces with that honeyed tone of hers, but I can hear the malice sneaking underneath.
“You mean for the Dover project?” I feign ignorance.
“No, I meant regarding James.”
I am sure that if she were offering me a poisonous chalice she would use the same sweet, nonchalant tone.
“It was a bit awkward the other day,” she continues. “I spotted you running away when you saw us together…” She leaves the sentence hanging in midair.
“I wasn’t running away,” I lie. “I had forgotten something in the office and had to go back.” I crafted this lame excuse over the weekend. She won’t believe it, but I don’t care.
“Oh good,” she says viciously, “because I know you guys had a fling some time ago blah, blah, blah…”
I don’t hear a thing she says after the word fling. A fling? A fling? We were in a serious relationship for three years! He is the love of my life, and this arrogant, obnoxious bitch is discarding our history together as a fling?
In this moment, I am seriously concentrating on my face to stop it from going red—a typical reaction for me when I am angry, embarrassed, or extremely drunk.
“No worries,” I say, keeping my eyes fixed on the papers on my desk. “We broke up over a year ago.” I sound false even to myself.
“I am sooo glad,” she says with her most fabricated voice.
“Hmm, are you guys serious?” I throw in casually while browsing through my files.
“Actually—” She breathes for suspense. “We’re engaged.”
I shoot my head up and stare at her, astonished.
“You are not wearing a ring.” It’s all I can manage to say.
My voice comes out hoarse and throttled, at the same time I am strenuously trying to control the sobs forming in my throat to prevent them from coming out. I will not give her the satisfaction of crying in front of her. As for the rest of my body, my heart is pounding faster than two hundred beats per minute. A sucker punch in the stomach from Mike Tyson would have been less painful than knowing James is engaged to someone else, to her.
“Ah yes,” she says, finally appearing satisfied with herself and visibly enjoying my dismay. “My fingers are so slim that I had to drop it at Tiffany’s to have it sized.”
Tiffany’s?
Ally-2, Harpy-2000.
I barely manage to excuse myself politely before running away, aiming for the safety of the female restrooms, where I’ll be able to give free course to my agony. I storm into the bathroom and check each stall to see if there is somebody else inside before I speak, like in the best movies.
“Can you magically lock that door?” I shout desperately at the genie, who has followed me in here.
As soon as he complies, I sit on a toilet―gross, I know―and open the dam of my tears to let them flow freely. Frantic sobs make my entire body shake. My shoulders bounce up and down in time with the sobs, and I am not able to stop. I am shivering badly. My stomach is so contracted with cramps and twinges that it aches. I spread my arms wide, resting my open palms on both sides of the tiny stall. The cold metal is somewhat soothing. I concentrate on the cool sensation to try to calm myself.
“Um, are you well, milady?” the genie asks tentatively.
“Does it look like I’m well?” I yell back, still crying uncontrollably.
“You should try to remain calm, milady, and not distress yourself this much. Please tell me, what has happened to trouble you so?” He is muttering apologetically, undoubtedly taken aback by my shouting.
“They are engaged!” I wail. “The love of my life is marrying someone else.” By this point I am howling like a wounded wolf.
“I thought you said men did not get married in this time.”
I grab the nearest thing I find, a toilet paper roll, and throw it at him with ferocity. It hits him right in the face. Correction—it would have hit him in the face if he were substantial. In this case, the roll passes right through him, bounces off the mirror, and drops in the sink. What the hell?
“There is no need to resort to violence,” he says, affronted.
“Then try not to be such a jerk.”
“No need to be offensive, either.”
I grab a second paper roll and hurl it at him. I know there is no point, but throwing things is making me feel much better.
“I want her dead. Dead,” I hiss, homicidal.
“Cannot do.”
If a stare could kill, mine would have pulverized him right away.
“Can you make her disappear?” A sudden illumination on my part.
“I am afraid that is against the rules as well.”
“You worthless…” A third roll is making its way to the sink.
“Would you st—”
Fourth roll landing.
“My fingers are so slim I had to have it re-sized,” I mimic Vanessa. “Did you hear her?”
“You should try to recover yourself and reflect.” The genie is trying to reason with me, but I am beyond reasoning. “I am going to ask this one last time,” he adds. “Are you still sure that this James is the love of your life, considering he is marrying someone else?”
Boom. A fifth roll just crashed on the soap dispenser as my reply. Paper roll throwing: the newest pain relief therapy by Ally Johnson!
After throwing all the rolls at my disposal, I detach myself from the toilet and begin to pace up and down the empty room. By now the genie is being as inconspicuous as he can, in order to avoid another bombing, I suppose.
This doesn’t make any sense. James and I—yes, me, the fling—have talked many times about marriage, he always said that it was the most important decision he could make in his life, and that he would never rush into it. That you have to know the other person as much as possible before committing for the long run. He wanted to live together with a person for at least a couple of years before tying the knot, because living together was the real deal breaker for a couple, and if you could survive that you could overcome anything.
Now, assuming he never cheated on me—which I am almost sure of—he dumped me in early January a year and a half ago. This means that even if he started dating Vanessa right away, they certainly haven’t lived together for two years! Oh, do they live together now? Do they go to sleep together every night? Do they have sex every night?
Ouch, here comes the nausea again. My head is spinning so heavily at the thought that I have to steady myself, grabbing the sink. I open the tap and let fresh water flow on my wrists for a while, before rinsing my face and continuing with my reasoning. Even if they don’t live together, if they are engaged they must have done the deed. Is she better than I am? I bet not. I can’t stand the thought of her hands on him, on my James. My James.
I don’t understand how he could change his mind so radically in just over a year. Or maybe he was just feeding me a bunch of BS because he was playing around with me and didn’t want to get serious. Maybe I really was a fling for him. Could it be that for three years I was living in my happy bubble alone, and never truly understood anything about us? So much so that, the night he broke up with me, I was expecting him to ask me to move in together.
I resume my nervous pacing, pondering my past with James intensively, anxiety building up in my tummy. I’ll probably develop an ulcer or something by the end of this. The sound of somebody trying the door and giving up after a few attempts rattles me even further. I have to go back outside; I can’t hide in here all morning. I need to think of something, and quickly. I will not let her push me around like that. I need some retaliation.
She’ll have him over my dead body.