While I enjoyed working with other designers and I felt that I had a lot to contribute artistically to the company, there was no question that working in an office for me was like trying to style bangs that had been cut too short. There was nothing I could do but hope that time and growth made it look less awkward.
Having slept on yesterday’s meeting with Miguel, I decided to approach Sophie in her office and find out if there was something specific going on with Miguel. I wanted to know what I was dealing with in regards to his relationship with Carson, but she and Miguel were out with a client. When they returned, I was in a design meeting, which Carson had begged out of, citing a previous appointment. By the time Booker, Luz, and I had finished, Soph was gone again, and according to Nyah, there was no telling when she’d be back.
I finished my day, feeling frustrated. It didn’t help that I ran into Carson at the elevators.
“Annabelle,” he said.
“Carson,” I returned.
The rest of the staff had already left. It was just the two of us.
“I owe you an apology,” he said.
So it was snowing in hell? Because, honestly, I had not thought Carson was the sort of person capable of apologizing for anything ever.
“Oh, really?” I asked. “For what exactly?”
Was he going to own his awful behavior toward me and try to make amends? I’m not a grudge holder by nature, too exhausting, but I wasn’t sure if I was on board with that. He’d caused tension between me and my friend, and I really resented it.
“I was wrong,” he said. He looked contrite and then he grinned and said, “Your office is going to be mine within three months when you blow your probationary period as we both know you will. I mean, Christ, you can barely get here on time. How much longer do you think you can fool everyone into thinking you’re qualified to be creative director?”
He looked smug. For the record, smug isn’t a good look on a man. I mean, it’s not a good look on anyone but most especially a man, okay, this man in particular when he was looking at me.
As a typical bully, he wanted to make me react. He wanted to see me pout, cry, whine, or lose my temper. Yeah, no. I knew the best way to defeat a bully was by not giving him the reaction he wanted, so I squelched my urge to stomp on his instep or knee him in the junk, and instead, I just tossed my hair over my shoulder and kept my face free of any emotion.
“It’s weird how you’re so intimidated by me,” I said. I adjusted the strap of my purse on my shoulder and reached around him to press the down elevator button.
“Me? I am not intimidated by this,” he said. He waved his hands to encompass my whole being. I was wearing a deep purple broomstick skirt with biker boots, and a long black crocheted vest over a white cotton dress shirt, which I had buttoned to my throat, with the cuffs folded back at my wrists. It was definitely one of my artsier looks.
I glanced at him. Dress shirt, shiny shoes, creased slacks, and a power tie. He was the very definition of fragile male, trying to hide behind designer labels.
“Right,” I said. I was pleased that I had executed it with the correct amount of sarcasm. Like frosting on a cupcake, the ratio was important. I stepped closer to him, getting into his personal space, or leaning in as some might say, and said, “I wouldn’t start planning your move to my office anytime soon if I were you.”
And then because the universe loves a fighter, the elevator arrived with a ding as if to punctuate my words. As the doors slid open, I stepped inside and turned to face him, blocking his entry. “I’ll send it back up.”
Nick
12
“She’s persistent, you have to give her that,” Jackson said. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the hippo in a tutu, singing “You Got a Friend in Me” to me. It was not my birthday; there was nothing special about this date in early March in any way, shape, or form.
“Me . . .” the hippo concluded the song. It did a pirouette and then handed me a bunch of balloons and a note.
I looked at Jackson. “Tip her . . . him . . . it.”
Jackson sighed and pulled a wad of cash out of his pocket. He handed the hippo a twenty and it blew kisses at us as it jogged down the steps toward its brightly colored van.
“You were wonderful!” Lupita cried, laughing and clapping.
I handed her the balloons. There was no way I could navigate my wheelchair and the balloons and get back into the house. Plus, I was very aware that I bore a horrible resemblance to the old man in the animated movie Up, being in a wheelchair with helium balloons all around me, but, of course, Lexi didn’t know that.
I spun around and Juan opened the door, letting me through so I didn’t have to hit the automatic door opener. I felt hot and itchy in my own skin. The hippo had said, “This is from Lexi,” before it broke into song. At this point, as soon as the bright-colored van had shown up, I’d known it was from her. What was my little sister playing at, and why did it have my emotions rocketing all over the place? Over the past week, she’d been relentless. Every other day had brought a new message from her in some form or another.
First, she’d sent a picture of five-year-old me, holding her as a baby. I had the same picture somewhere, and it gutted me that she’d obviously kept one, too. Still, I was able to shake it off. I reminded myself that she really only wanted me in her life to help her with her project; otherwise why hadn’t she shown up before?
But Lexi was playing hardball. Next there’d been a stack of comic books, particularly Flash: The Next Generation, which were the same comics I had read to her when I was eleven and she was six and our family was beginning to unravel. Flash had gotten us through some seriously dark days.
Frustrated by her obvious tactic to manipulate me emotionally, I had sent Jackson to tell her to cease and desist. That had been so successful, note the sarcasm, it was followed up by a cake delivery the very next day. It wasn’t just any cake.
“What sort of cake is this?” Lupita asked with a frown.
She lifted it out of the box, and I felt my throat get tight. I’d seen this cake before, hell, I’d made this cake before. The recipe is quite simple. Have two junkie parents who forget it’s their seven-year-old daughter’s birthday. Take one twelve-year-old big brother, who loves his sister enough to risk being arrested for shoplifting for her. Have him pocket all the candy bars he can fit into his backpack along with a can of Betty Crocker chocolate frosting from the grocery store, and run like hell when the clerk spots him.
At home, find a marginally clean pan in a round shape and chop up all the candy bars, mashing them into the pan until they form a solid block in the shape of a cake. Frost the round block of candy with the stolen frosting. While the parents are out trolling for drugs, present the cake to the little sister and sing her “Happy Birthday.” Have her look at you like you are the single greatest person who ever lived, and for one brief shining moment your life isn’t a complete shitstorm.