It’s the first time all five-foot-nothing of Monroe has ever towered over me. She watches me with a mixture of confusion and residual alarm.
“I repeat,” she finally manages to respond, “what the hell are you doing on the floor?”
“Yoga,” I answer, completely straight-faced. “Just some, uh, pre-dinner-rush yoga. I’m thinking about making all the staff do it. It’s very refreshing and a great way to focus the mind. Would you like to try?”
She raises her eyes to the ceiling. “Sweet baby Jesus, I know it’s a lot to ask, but could you maybe one day help me hire someone who isn’t totally insane?”
I flap the resume at her. “As if you’d want to work with normal people.”
“At least normal people wouldn’t leave me on the verge of a heart attack just from walking into my own office.”
She steps back to give me space to get up. I pull myself to my feet using the edge of the desk and groan at the continued throbbing in my head.
“Are you okay?” she demands. “You’re not concussed, are you? Please don’t be concussed. That would be so bad for business. Should I get you some ice? You should probably sit down.”
In true Monroe fashion, she starts going into Ultra Concerned mode, and it’s all I can do to keep her from pulling out the first aid kit as the pain starts to fade.
“It’s fine, it’s fine,” I protest, giving my scalp a rub. “Just a good whack. We all need a good whack to the head sometimes.”
“We really do not.” She gives me a wary look like she’s expecting me to fall down unconscious at any second as she pulls up a spare chair for me before settling into her own.
“I’ve deduced that is the real reason you were on the floor.” She points to the resume still clutched in my hand.
“Yeah, I, uh, dropped it.”
She tilts her head to the side, her uncanny ability to read any situation coming into play. “You haven’t called her, have you?”
“I, um...”
“Dylan.”
“Yeah, I just, uh, um—”
“Hey, Dylan.” Monroe’s tone prompts me to look up from where I’m tapping on the resume with my fingers. “It’s okay. I know it’s a big jump to go from staff to manager. I had to do it myself—years ago, I know, but still, I remember it wasn’t easy. I don’t expect you to perfect your management skills overnight. It’s a process. I’m still learning it too.”
I nod to show I appreciate her words, but it’s difficult to believe anything about this job is hard for Monroe. She’s infallible. She’s like the messiah of restaurant management, and I’m apparently a very unequipped disciple.
“So,” she continues, “did you call her?”
I still don’t know how I forgot to make the call. Renee Nyobé has been haunting my thoughts like some kind of ghost since Monroe called me into the office yesterday and showed me her resume.
I looked down at the name printed on that piece of paper, and the whole office started to spin.
Renee Nyobé.
Tangled brown hair that never wants to stay tied back and a slightly gap-toothed smile.
I can still see her sitting in the back of the van on the way to nationals, trying to fit an elastic around her hair as she pitched in on whatever pseudo-philosophical debate we were all bullshitting about to help the miles go by faster. It didn’t matter what she was talking about. It didn’t matter how stupid the subject was. What mattered were Renee Nyobé’s words, and everyone who heard her speak knew it.
“I didn’t call her,” I admit. All I want is to drop my eyes to the desk again, but I force myself to face Monroe. “I’m not gonna bother with excuses. I should have got it done, and I didn’t. I’ll do better next time.”
“Thank you for your honesty.” Monroe nods once and then moves behind the desk. I step out of the way and watch the blue glow of the computer screen reflect on her face as her fingers move over the keyboard. “I did mean to ask you something about her, and maybe it’s better I’m asking before you call.”
“Shoot,” I order as the printer in the corner of the room starts whirring.
“I know we’re all pretty close around here, but there’s a difference between being friends with your employees and being employees with your friends. I don’t know how close you and Renee were—”
“We weren’t,” I cut in, faster than I meant to. “Not really. I mean, I knew her fairly well, but it’s been years.”
Three years and one month. Not that I calculated.
Monroe nods. “She was one of the kids you used to do the poetry workshops for, right?”
“Yep.” I rock back and forth on my feet before I catch myself doing it and try to stand still.
“Well if you don’t think it will be a problem to work with her, then it’s not a problem to me.” Monroe gathers the papers from off the printer tray and tucks them under her arm. “I’ll leave you to call her, then.”
She pulls the door of the office closed behind her when she goes, and I’m left with the sound of her question echoing through my head.
Is she one of the kids you used to do the workshops for?
For almost the entire time I knew her, that’s all Renee was to me: a kid. A teenager who showed up at the Montreal Public Library every two weeks and poured her heart into the workshops me and my slam team used to run. She blew us all away from the start, spitting fire and sparks, rain and wind, power and purpose.
Still, she was just a kid. She was sixteen when I first met her. I was twenty-three.
Just a kid, until that moment right at the end—that one single, fleeting second when we both realized she could be so much more.
It was the moment I almost made one of the biggest mistakes of my life.
Three
Renee
EUPHONY: A collection of words or sounds that is pleasing to the ear
“You’re a loser.” My sister doesn’t even raise her eyes from her phone as I walk into the kitchen.
“At least I’m not a pain in the ass.”
She still doesn’t look up. I grab a couple kiwi slices out of the meticulously arranged fruit bowl sitting on her placemat before hopping up to take a seat on the counter. That’s enough to distract her from whatever Instagram has on offer today.
“What the hell, Renee? Do you know how long it took me to cut those? Get your own fucking kiwi!”
“Language, Michelle Francine Nyobé!”
Our dad walks in, jacket and tie still on from his day at work, and starts washing out the sandwich container he always takes his lunch in. He shoots Michelle a disapproving glare from his place at the sink.
“She ruined my aҫai bowl! I was going to take a picture of it. That’s the whole reason I made it.”
Dad starts shaking his head. “Shouldn’t the whole reason you make food be to eat it?”
Michelle drops her chin and raises her eyebrows in that unimpressed expression no one can pull off quite as well as an affronted seventeen-year-old girl who’s just had the importance of her Instagram account questioned. I hold back a laugh as the two of them face off; as ridiculous as my sister can be, I wouldn’t want to face that glare.