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Three
Islumped over my desk with my head in my hands, watching the calendar swim before my eyes. Marriage license, 2 p.m! It shouted at me. One more month and legally, I was a married woman. Two more months until the wedding. My heart sank a little, and I frowned. What’s that about? I wondered.
“Alicia!”
I snapped to attention as my boss—excuse me, my supervisor—came to my desk. She insisted I call her my supervisor because “it speaks more to our collaborative leadership style here at Browne and Sons.” Collaborative, my ass. What was collaborative about booking all the associates’ appointments and flights and taking calls? I knew they only hired me because they worshipped the ground my mother—Quinta Jones—walked on. I think my boss actually said, one time, “…anything for Quinta.” There’s nothing collaborative about nepotism.
I plastered on my work smile. “Yes?”
“Do you have the finalized travel plans for my conference this week?” She tapped her foot impatiently.
Inwardly, I rolled my eyes. I didn’t know anyone under the age of forty who tapped their foot when they were waiting for something. Except my boss, one of the law firm’s partners. Sorry, my supervisor.
Outwardly, I kept my smile in place. “Yes, I have them right here.” I found the internet tab with the flight and hotel itinerary. “You’re all set to leave this Wednesday at 10 a.m.”
“Good. Were there any additional details?”
“Everything should be in your inbox.”
“Good.” With that, she walked away.
I sighed and turned back to my screen, tapping my nails against the desk. Looking around to make sure no one could see my screen, I clicked on the tab with my personal email inbox. At the top was an email with the subject line, About your inquiry. Taking a deep breath, I clicked on the message.
Monday August 6th
To: [emailprotected]
From: [emailprotected]
Subject: About your inquiry
Dear Alicia Jones,
We thank you for submitting your photos to our contest. Unfortunately, we do not feel that your style embodies the look and feel of our company. We invite you to call us at your convenience if you have any questions.
We wish you the best of luck on your photography journey.
Warmly,
Mannox Photography
I let my breath out with a whoosh. I moved the email to my “Rejected” folder and clicked through a few more emails. I had known it was a long shot, so I wasn’t surprised by the rejection. And it wasn’t like I was planning to quit my job, anyway. Mother would have a heart attack.
But so what if she disapproves?
The thought surprised me a lot more than the rejection letter. I looked at myself in my tiny desk mirror and a defiant face looked back at me for a second before transforming into my Work Appropriate Face. So what? was not a question that you asked in the face of my mother’s generosity. It wasn’t just my boss—supervisor—that would do “anything” for Quinta. That seemed to be the general consensus around these parts even if my mother no longer worked at this firm.
But even as I tried to iron out that question, and keep my life wrinkle free, the question became sprinkled throughout my day. So what if the coffee machine breaks down and I don’t fix it? I thought as an associate cussed out the offensive machine. So what if the flight is at 9:45 a.m. instead of ten? I thought as my boss/supervisor came to complain. So what if I want to leave this godforsaken job? What does it matter, anyway?
“What does it matter, anyway?” I snapped my head toward Andrew. He continued to look at the sky, completely unaffected by my eyes on him. I could tell that he noticed because he smiled slightly in that way that he does when he knows he has my attention.
“So your parents don’t agree that you should be a gymnast.” He pointed to a cloud that looked like a penis and I snickered. “Is it hurting your chances of going to college?”
“Not really.” I tapped an unnamed rhythm on my thighs. “If anything, it strengthened my applications. I got into five different schools, two of them Ivy Leagues.”
“Okay, then, so what if you’re a gymnast?” Andrew turned to me then, his cherry-wood-colored eyes meeting mine. “What does it matter to them?”
“You know how they are,” I muttered. I picked at the skin around my pointer fingernail and watched the blood rush to the spot. “It’s easier to give in than to fight it. I’m still living with them. I depend on them for money, for resources.”
