I should be glowing from his words, but all I could do was force a smile and thank him. This is not like me. I need to reassert myself into my own life. Even if it’s super hard to actually care about any of it right now, I’m still saving myself from a lifetime of heartache.
Although it doesn’t help that the ICF World Championships are coming up this week, and I can’t stop watching the promo videos. Ronnie slaps my phone out of my hand every time she catches me, and has even threatened to take it away so I don’t have to see “those assholes.”
At least my professor’s praise kicked my ass into gear long enough for me to send his note and the article to Carl. If my professor thinks more newspapers should be running articles like mine, then I might as well start at the one I’m interning at. Besides, I need to move my focus from my not-boyfriends back to my career, where it belongs.
It’s weird coming into the newspaper on Sunday afternoons from my dorm instead of from the guys’ house, without my overnight bag. My purse looks lonely and small tucked down under my desk by itself.
As I log in on the computer to check for any emails, I glance across the bullpen to Carl’s office. The door is open, and I can hear his regular bursts of laughter as he sits in there talking to Brad.
No emails. Not surprising.
I cast another glance at Carl’s office. I want to swoop in there as soon as Brad leaves and ask what he thinks of the article I emailed him on Friday. It’s been long enough that he should have had plenty of time to read it.
Resetting the break room takes very little time. All of these little tasks I can do with very little brainpower, and I keep peeking out the door to check on Carl’s office. I don’t want to miss an opportunity before he gets sucked into another meeting.Although from the sound of his laughter, he doesn’t appear to actually be working in there. But he’s the boss, so he can do whatever he wants, I guess.
Since no one is around and I’m waiting for the coffee to finish brewing, I pull out my phone and check to see if ICF has put out any new promos.
There’s a new video featuring Sebastian. It’s not even a choice. My finger clicks on it automatically. It’s not even a choice.
“The best advice I could give to someone who wants to solve a cube is simply to decide what they want all of the colors to be on each side, and then break it down step by step to get there,” he says. “You just have to follow those easy steps, or layers, then you’ll have solved the cube. It’s not hard.”
A sound escapes me that’s half laugh, half sob. Of course he sees it so simply. Just decide you want to do it, and then do it. All there is to it. But the thing is, he’s not wrong. I mean, he’s wrong about just anyone being able to solve a cube so easily; your brain has to be wired a certain way for that, I think. But in a broad sense, he’s right. If I want something in life, like a successful career in journalism, I just need to decide what steps it takes and then follow them. No deviation.
Ignoring the brewing coffee, I march up to Carl’s office. I can’t keep waiting around for my boss to notice me. I need to take things into my own hands.
Before I have a chance to knock, I freeze.
“And then she says, speedcubing is about found family and that’s one of the most important things in life,” says Carl, choking out the words through fits of laughter.
“It’s like she has no idea what’s really going on in the world,” agrees Brad, shaking his head and matching Carl laugh for laugh. “Has she ever read a newspaper?”
“She thinks it’s a fucking sport!” Carl laughs even louder. They can probably hear him on the other side of the bullpen.
They’re obviously talking about me. About my article. Did he share it with Brad? He couldn’t be bothered to reply to me about it, but he can forward it to that asshole for a laugh?
The door swings open in front of me, and it takes me a moment to realize I’ve pushed it open. I didn’t even realize my hand had reached out.
“Fuck, Rebecca, get in here,” says Carl, wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes. “I didn’t think you had a joke like this in you.”
Flames of rage lick at my skin. “It’s not a joke,” I grit out.
“Come on, you can’t be serious. This is a real newspaper. You can’t expect us to run a fluff piece like that.” Carl waves his hand toward the computer screen, where my article is pulled up.
“I’m completely serious,” I tell him, my nails digging into my palms. I can’t believe I’m standing here having this conversation. I knew it was a long shot that he’d actually run the article, as much as he dislikes me, but I hoped he’d at least give me some real feedback. I never once thought he would take it as a joke.
Or make fun of me to my face in front of a coworker. Especially one as awful as Brad.
“And to think she slept with them to get that story,” Brad sneers, looking at me as if I’m as big a joke as he apparently thinks the article is.
“Oh, now, wait a minute,” says Carl, sitting up straighter in his chair and getting serious. “Did you sleep with these speedcubers to get this story, young lady?”
I freeze, my brain refusing to provide me with the words to deny it. “I. Uh. I didn’t—” The guys did help with the story, and I was fooling around with them, but the two things have nothingto do with one another. But how do I explain that to my boss? Why should Ihaveto explain that to him?
All traces of amusement have disappeared from Carl’s face. “That is a violation of ethics, Rebecca. You say you want to be a reporter? Well, reporters don’t trade sex for information. You’re fired. Clean out your desk and leave. Now.”
“Not much of a loss there,” says Brad, crossing one ankle over his knee and leaning back to look at me. “She’s a shit writer anyway. Way too many emotions. And she never fills the creamer basket enough.”
Too many emotions? A shit writer? I want to punch Brad in the face. But I have approximately half a second before my tears spill over, so I do the cowardly thing and run away.
