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At first, I think about firing him back my unfiltered response:
Hi, Gravis (oh? You’re not Gravis? Well, guess what, I’m not Julie. It’s Jolie, you prick!). No need to sugarcoat it. You want me gone because you and Trish meet at the kitchen three times a week before her shift and do some ungodly (and unsanitary) things on the counter. I am more than happy to offer my excellent services to someone who appreciates them. Have a nice life. –Jolie.
But, of course, like the good Southern girl that I am, I settle for being agreeable:
Travis, thank you for your message. I regret to hear about your firing me (because that’s essentially what this is), but I’m in no way going to argue with you about it. Since your response to my altercation with Trish was immediate, I think it is only fair that my resignation will be immediate, as well. I will drop by to pick up my last check next week at a time of your convenience. Thanks. –Jolie.
After getting fired—just when I think things cannot get any possibly worse—I land my butt in a library’s chair, trying to study for my next lit exam, and open up my MacBook. Five seconds into reading an essay about the history of the English language, I rub my eyes, trying to concentrate. When I feel something gooey and warm connecting with the side of my head, I freeze. It slithers down my hair and slaps my face, and my first reaction is to cover my face with both palms. After I hear the knock of whatever’s been thrown at me dropping to the floor, I raise my head and look to my right, where the thing came from.
Amber.
Sitting at the desk beside me.
Smiling.
I look down. It’s a Starbucks cup. I touch my hair, sniff around me, the shock still working its way to my system. It’s my now-cold pumpkin latte with marshmallow. Jesus H.
Bitch.
I know her reasoning behind it, and I get it, I do—it hurts. I can’t even begin to imagine how much. But it is also not my fault.
My chair scrapes the floor as I stand up and make my way to her. She is sitting with her sorority friends, their army of cardigans, pearl necklaces, and mechanically straightened hair in full attendance. I look sloppy in comparison. My Chucks are dirty, my blonde is also red, and my clothes are too casual. And still, they can’t treat me this way. Ever.
“You need to stop this.” I slap my hand on her desk, lifting my chin up to look down at her. She stares up at me with a conceited smile I’m dying to wipe off of her face.
“No, I don’t. You have something of mine that I want back.”
“And I suppose that’d be Sage?” I tilt my head sideways. She shrugs, snorting out an unattractive laugh she’d never allow herself in his presence.
“And his money. And his future. And his status. Basically, everything. The best thing about being upfront with you about it, is that you’re too goody-two-shoes to even tell him I ever said it. Because you don’t talk badly of people, do you, sweet girl? I know all about you and your running-to-see-mommy-every-other-weekend tactics.”
Tactics?
Tactics?!
She thinks I go through life trying to impress someone? My best friend? Is she nuts? I don’t even need anyone to answer this question. Of course, she’s nuts. No one of sound mind would ever think in this direction. I lower my body, lean into her face, and whisper, “I know what happened to you, and I’m sorry that it did. I am. But you cannot break us up, Amber. I suggest you move on, and while you’re at it, take a very long look at your behavior and priorities. Because you’re not being assertive or street-smart here, girl. You’re being a manipulative bitch.”
The words slap her, one by one, and I see her cocky smile melting into a shocked, wide-eyed grimace. One of her friends—a brunette who is wearing a lemon yellow cardigan and a matching headband—crinkles her nose.
“Wait, how do you mean after what happened to you? What exactly happened to you?”
“I…I…”
Another girl, who sits directly in front of her, bolts up from her chair and shakes her head. Her face is so red it is completely possible she might explode.
“Jesus Christ, Amber! Tell me you didn’t go through with that stupid plan! Faking a pregnancy and then a miscarriage? Like, hello, newsflash! Your life is not a bad General Hospital episode!”
I stagger backwards, gripping the end of my desk and staring at a very embarrassed, very angry Amber as her eyes broaden and her chest heaves up and down, the adrenaline of the lie catching up with reality.
Everything turns red.
Then black.
Then white again, because the lie is not mine. Not mine to keep, to be burdened with, nor to carry.
