I used to dread Mondays. I thought of them as the broccoli of weekdays, harsh and bitter, only paying off in the long haul with no immediate rewards. I’d yearn for Fridays, for mornings without choir practice before school, for lazy afternoons that lacked homework or bedtimes.
When I graduated from school and joined the ranks of the adult world, I faced a new reality in which summers melted into one giant season, and Monday offered a reprieve, a fresh start to the monotonous loop of weekly life. The day I had always dreaded became the one to look forward to—a clean slate, a new horizon. Like New Year’s and your birthday rolled into one. This was the attitude I adopted during my time at Vinyl—focusing on being grateful for another week at my so-called “dream job,” for another chance to make something happen, to ensure this week would be the week.
But the Monday after Vinyl folded and all of Print was laid off does not feel like Christmas morning.
I spent the weekend in bed, resting after my brush with death. Okay, not death. But surely fainting is death’s cousin. It gives a brief looksie into the other side of the door. And let me tell you, I did not like what I saw. If memory serves, limbo looks a little too much like Penn Station.
Leila nursed me back to health like a champion. She brought me ash, which is basically Iranian soup, and peppermint tea, just like Maman used to make, with a pinch of lemon and honey. Together we watched hours upon hours of trash TV, from Southern Charm to Million Dollar Matchmaker. We allowed our butts to sink into the couch until they formed an indentation. We vegetated as if we were in a mutual medically induced coma.
Willow stopped by too. I’ve discovered she and Leila are actually quite sweet with each other. They held each other gently on one side of the room as Willow scratched Leila’s back and played with her hair. She gave me her condolences about the news and made me laugh by reading me some of the funnier headlines I’d been avoiding on Twitter.
Best of all, they both served as a distraction. They helped me kill time by recounting horror stories from the shoots they’d been working on—the outrageous demands and runner lists of the clients, the horrific Photoshop disasters, the secrets spilled on set. I tried my best to hang on to every single word, without letting my mind wander too far in either direction.
And then Sunday came and went, like a series finale, bringing me face-to-face with my supposed blank slate. But for the first time, I have no interest on dabbing my quill in ink and dotting the page.
I called Loretta over twenty times this weekend. I texted her multiple messages each day. But she hasn’t responded, not even to an email. I’ve reached out to all my ex-coworkers to ask if anyone has managed to commiserate with her or received a conciliation text, but no one has heard a peep.
In my tenth hour, I remembered I actually have her active on Find My Friends. Ironically, she had suggested it herself, after agreeing to attend a dinner in Harlem one night and asking if I’d keep a watchful eye on her location, in case anything “fishy” went down. According to the app, she’s been at home with Sarah this entire time. She just can’t be bothered to pick up the phone to tell me that. Or, you know, if I still have a job.
Monday. The first day. A new day. A chance to start over. Who knows, Loretta might even come in today. She’ll apologize for her blackout silence, claim Sarah held her hostage. Maybe she’ll let me go on the spot because of everything that went down before this drama began and shook up the office like an Etch A Sketch. Your guess is as good as mine. Anything could happen.
As I begin my march to work, I remind myself of one vital, key fact that promises to get me through my day: Thanksgiving is on Thursday, and Wednesday is an SPP company holiday. That means I’m staring down the barrel of a two-day workweek. I can make it through two days. I can do anything for two days.
Cal also texted me a few times over the weekend. Just to check in, he said. He heard all the details of my fainting incident on Thursday, and he wanted to know about the state of my health. He wondered, could he bring me any chicken noodle soup? He also wanted to know if I had heard from Loretta.
Is she staying on as editor in chief? He had texted me. I don’t care or anything, I just wanna know.
Get in line, buddy. You and everyone’s mother. His messages had just made me roll my eyes. His fishing expedition is as transparent as the Chanel PVC quilted mini.
When I arrive at Vinyl, I’m surprised to see everyone else bothered to come in on time today too. I guess everybody left is still on edge from last week. But what the fuck are they are they going to do if we’re late, fire us?
I know, I know. Too soon.
Instead of sitting at their desks, plugging away at stories, the entirety of the Digital team appears to be lounging on their desks, gossiping. In fact, the only table surface not covered by an editor’s tush belongs to Saffron. There must be issues with the JMZ Subway lines or something. Lest we forget they’re traversing all the way from Bushwick. It’s less of a sprint, less of a marathon, and more like an eighty-day pilgrimage through the heat of the Sahara desert.
“There she is!” Seb cheers as I walk through the double doors. “Woman of the hour!”
“I told you guys,” I say, rolling the purple, puffy bags beneath my eyes. “I don’t know anything. Loretta hasn’t spoken to me.”
Seb and Lola exchange looks, grinning from cheek to cheek. Staci on Social begins to chew on her nails, despite clearly having just gotten a gel manicure.
“Okay,” I say, giving in to the suspense. “What did I miss here?”
The team all looks off into different directions. Crystal pretends to read something on her phone, even though I can tell the screen is very clearly blank. Alex scribbles something into his notepad—doodles, most likely.
Enough of this filibustering.
“Okay. Out with it. What’s going on here?”
“Do you know, like, why you got to stay on when no one else on Print did?” Lola asks innocently, widening her Brita-water blue eyes. I narrow mine.
“You know as well as I do that it’s a mystery.”
“Really?” she asks, taking a step toward me.
“Really,” I say, taking a step back. December is so close I could snort it, yet somehow, it suddenly feels very hot in here. I fan my face and take off my coat.
“Noora, what caused you to pass out last week?” Seb jumps in.
“I didn’t have anything to eat that day. Why do I feel like I’m on trial here?”
“So there were no other stressors you were dealing with that day,” Seb pushes further. “Nothing out of the ordinary going on in your day-to-day life.”
Okay, am I under investigation or something? It’s not my fault Vinyl Print folded. It’s also not my fault all my peers are being let go. I’m a lowly assistant, literally so far down the ladder that I spend most of my days shoveling shit!
“I’m not going to stand here and take this,” I tell them. “Either you explain to me what the fuck is going on, or I’m turning around, walking out the door, and working from home for the day.”
I’m bluffing, but who’s going to call me out on it? My boss literally might be in Witness Protection.
“It entirely depends,” Alex says quietly to himself. Without turning my head to look, I can hear in his voice that he’s blushing.
“On what?”
“On who we’re talking to.”
“What?”
“Noora or C. Bates.”
Oh.
OH.
The entire room begins to applaud. Seb lets out a hiss. Alex can’t help but join in with a whistle.
“I…I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” I stutter.
Behind my mess of a mouth, my brain is doing cartwheels. How do they know? How did they find out?
“Oh, give it up, Noora!” Crystal laughs. “We all know it was you! We’re so proud of you, dude! Guess we all know why you got to keep your job now, huh? Why would the Liberators let go of their Brutus?”
“I didn’t betray the Print team, Crystal.” My voice is shaking, as are my hands.
“Sure, Noora,” Lola says, shaking her head and pursing her lips. “Keep telling yourself that. You’re a total Angelina! And here I had you pegged as a Jen.”
She scans me up and down, then lets out a tsk.
“I guess you are a true Gemini. I knew I was right to keep an eye on you.”
The crowd stirs, celebrating among themselves. Once the hysteria begins to settle down, the editors slowly start to sit down at their desks and open their laptops. It must feel strange working as if this is any other Monday—assigning stories to freelancers, top-editing pieces from last week, scanning Twitter for news. As if nothing is wrong, and everything didn’t change. But they don’t have any real direction, no clue who their boss is right now, just like me. So they act as their own managers. They use their better judgment. They make the call.
“Guys, listen to me. It’s not what you think. I didn’t! I mean, I did. But not for the reasons you think I did!”
“Noora,” Saffron says quietly, coming up behind me. “Let’s go to your desk.”
As they put their arm around me and walk me to my little cube outside Loretta’s office, I feel my entire body tense up. We walk silently, our limbs tangled together, until we’re out of the immediate sight and sound line from the rest of the Digital team. The second I’m in the clear, I pull away from them. They stumble, knocked a bit off balance. When they’re back on their cowboy-booted heels, they turned to face me.
“I know you’re going through a lot right now,” they say. “We all are. But seriously, what the fuck? You do realize you passed out in a closet just a few days ago, right? I found you there. Do you know how scary that was for me? I thought you were dead! Then you ignore all my texts checking in you, making sure you’re okay. The magazine shutters, half our coworkers get fired, and you never bother to ask me how I’m coping. And the very worst part? You refused to let me tell Jade about your secret identity when it was my head on the chopping block, but today, I get to work to find the news circulating faster than DeuxMoi. Noora, I thought we were friends. Not work friends. Real friends. What gives?”
I clench my fists, digging my nails into my palms once more.
“I know what you did, Saffron.”
They cock their head to the right, confused.
“Well, that makes one of us. Maybe you can enlighten me?”
I feel my face getting hotter and hotter.
“How could you tell them it was me? Especially at a time like this! They’ll never take me seriously now!”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, you need to chill,” they say, resting their right hand upon their heart. “First of all, I did no such thing. Second of all, if I did, would it be such a bad thing? Wouldn’t it prove your loyalty to the Digital team?”
I shake my head in disbelief.
“Not at the expense of Print. Not when people’s jobs are at risk. Their livelihoods. Beth’s livelihood!” I’m talking so fast that I hawk up too much spit and pause to chuck it into a nearby trash can.
Saffron wrinkles their nose and mouths ew.
“You’ve officially lost it. I know you don’t trust anyone right now, but you can always trust me, remember? Even when you’ve been a shitty friend to me, I’ve been there for you.”
“YOU’RE THE ONLY ONE I TOLD!” I scream at the top of my lungs.
There’s no way the rest of the team didn’t hear me. I bet people all the way in New Jersey heard me. And I oop—
“Not the only one,” Saffron says, before turning on their heels and walking back to their desk.
I stay behind, stirring with fury, choking on their dust.
The only two people who knew that I was C. Bates were me and my editor, aka Saffron. I didn’t even tell Leila! And I tell Leila everything, including when I accidentally used her retainer as a bracelet in the fifth grade. Well, actually, I guess Loretta knows now too. But she’s been on house arrest for four days straight.
But what would she have to gain from that? Admitting she had nothing to do with the column would only make her look even weaker than she already does. And if that were the case, what am I still doing here?
No, it wasn’t Loretta. It had to be Saffron. They were the only person privy to the information, the only one with all the facts. The only soul with the power to destr—
And then it dawns on me.
It’s like standing right in front of a Chuck Close painting and seeing nothing but a mélange of colored circles, like eyeballs or polka dots, then backing several feet up. Suddenly, you’re looking at the full picture. You’ve never seen so clearly in your life. The image calms into focus, and you have the revelations that what you’ve been studying is not, in fact, random shapes and arbitrary colors but a face. Eyes, nose, teeth, ears, lips, all belonging to one man. A man you thought you knew but was always a stranger to you.
A man with a dimpled smile and a Howard T-shirt.