Who You Know (26 page)

RETTE

M
onday morning my period arrived three days too soon. I had to be a tampon mooch. I hated that. When I asked Eleanore if I could bum a tampon, she was kind enough to let me know that
she
was
always
prepared.

I took a couple of Advil for my cramps. I'd heard that in places like Africa where women got enough exercise and didn't consume caffeine or chocolate or artificial flavors, the symptoms of PMS didn't exist. But was avoiding cramps really worth forgoing chocolate? Why not drink coffee and eat chocolate and simply pop a Midol? This was the kind of thinking that made America great. Why deny yourself when you could simply create a product that mimicked health while still enjoying all that your heart desired?

And can we talk about bloat? I'd forgotten what a landmine of fattening foods the office was around Christmas. For the entire month of December, there were chocolates and baked goods around every corner. I tried to be strong, but for every few brownies or cookies I successfully avoided, there was a baked delight I absolutely had to try.

As if my day weren't heinous enough, I had to go Christmas shopping amidst mobs of rabid consumers. Every year I put off Christmas shopping in hopes I would mysteriously come across some money with which to buy gifts, which of course never happened. Plus, I had to spend a ton of money because I needed Mom and Jen to think that I was better off financially than I was.

Dad was both impossible to shop for and easy to shop for. Impossible because I could never think of something that was just right—something interesting and original that he would love. But he was easy to shop for because he was equally unexcited by any gift anyone got him.

Mom was a challenge, even though I knew what she liked. She liked expensive clothes and expensive jewelry and a lot of it. Jen also liked expensive stuff. Both Mom and Jen always bought themselves whatever they wanted. It was difficult to buy gifts for people who liberally pampered themselves. Getting Mom a day at the spa for a manicure, pedicure, facial, and massage would have been a good gift if she didn't spend one day every other week doing exactly that.

Greg was the hardest of all to shop for. I could get him books and CDs and cologne and a watch and some new shirts (which he desperately needed), but I couldn't think of something original, something he would love but wouldn't buy for himself. And I only had a single weekend to get inspired.

Avery was easy. I got her some handmade candles from a local artist, a framed picture of me and her from her Halloween party, and a book of poems by Adrienne Rich. She was the only person whose gifts I was excited about. For everyone else, I bought uninspired gifts just to have something for them to unwrap.

I got home from the mall tired, hungry, and depressed.

“How'd shopping go?” Greg asked.

“Don't ask. I'm only halfway done and I've already spent three hundred dollars, and I'm not particularly excited about anything I got anyone.” I still had to buy a tree and decorations and enough groceries and liquor for five people for four days of festive overeating and drinking.

“Maybe this isn't the right time to ask you,” Greg said.

“Oh god, what?”

“Well, I was wondering if you might be able to pick up something for my parents and brother. I'll give you the money of course.”

“Why can't you go out and buy their gifts? You're out of school for three weeks, I work full time.”

“It's not like I'm sitting around. I have a lot of reading to do, and I have an incomplete to finish. I figured if you had more shopping to do, what's the big deal with picking up a couple more things? If I pay and you buy, then the gifts will be from both of us.”

“What do you want me to get them?”

“Whatever. I don't know. Get my parents a juice maker and Sean a beer maker. A beverage theme.”

“You need to pay me cash. I'm not putting anything else on this credit card.” I refused to even look at how much interest I was being charged each month. I couldn't believe I had become one of
them
: a typical American with revolving debt. I'd been living paycheck to paycheck; then suddenly I needed to put in several hundred dollars worth of work on my car, and then there was my four-month bout of unemployment, and then along came Christmas—and well, there I was. Paying sky-high interest rates and falling victim to inescapable debt.

I
shopped all weekend. What an evil, evil holiday. I'd been suppressing my inner capitalist for months. I hadn't bought myself new clothes, new books, new CDs, nothing, not the smallest treat for myself since we'd moved to Colorado in June. Now I was overcome with desire. I wanted jewelry, makeup, pajamas, bras, underwear, and new shoes. I wanted new outfits for work and more clothes for hanging out at home. I wanted expensive face creams and facial cleansing systems. I wanted dishes, bath towels, wineglasses, candles, and decorations for the house. I had a good reason to look at my clothes, my home, and myself with a critical eye: My mother was coming for a visit.

Mom of the never-chipped nails and always-immaculate home. I wasn't looking forward to her seeing my cramped apartment. I was twenty-seven with a college degree and still had chipped, mismatched dishes and ancient Goodwill furniture. Sure, Greg and I were just starting out, and when Mom and Dad were starting out they were broke, too, but by the time they were my age they had two cars, a house, two kids, and took a vacation every year. They didn't lollygag about through their twenties deciding which poorly paid occupation they wanted to try out. They just earned and saved and stayed at the same miserable job accruing benefits year after year.

I blamed them for my misery. They were the ones who led me to believe if I worked hard and got good grades I'd grow up to get a rewarding job that paid enough that I could go out to a movie every now and then without breaking the bank.

 

 

A
ll morning I looked forward to lunch, even though my lunch consisted of a Weight Watchers frozen dinner. I started every day with the best of intentions, then by about 5:30, I felt so deprived I spent the rest of my day making up for it—lavishly.

Paige was ahead of me in the line for the microwave. “Mine will be done in thirty seconds,” she said.

“No problem.”

Eleanore burst into the lunch kitchen, all smiles. “I just got my hair touched up.” Her voice was as welcome as the shrill of an alarm clock in the middle of a deep sleep.

I nodded but said nothing.

“It's so funny,” Eleanore said, “because as I've gotten older I've watched all my friends' hair get lighter and lighter. But I was already blond, so it's not that big a change for me.”

Paige said quietly, “I was thinking of getting my hair dyed the color of Margarette's hair. What do you think? I think your hair is gorgeous, Margarette. I read somewhere that tons of women are dying their hair to get the shade of red you have naturally.”

Eleanore offered what was probably supposed to be a smile but looked more like the expression of someone charged with changing a particularly rancid diaper. “I'm sure that would be lovely,” she said. Eleanore got her Tupperware dish out of the refrigerator, and with a curt nod, exited the kitchen.

At once, my mood improved considerably. I didn't even bother to hide my smile.

AVERY

S
haron never got back to me about my request to pursue new challenges. Instead, Monday morning, the first e-mail I read had the subject line “Congratulations, Jen!” It was sent from Sharon to the entire office, and it announced that Jen would be the interim manager while Sharon was on maternity leave.

 

 

I
called Les's extension and asked him if he could meet me outside by the picnic table.

I slipped on my coat and went outside to wait for him. I didn't know how to handle his declaration of love for me, so I decided to ignore it. I hoped he wouldn't bring it up again and everything would be the way it had been between us.

I watched Les come outside and cross over the yard to the bench where I sat.

“What's up?” he asked.

“Did you get the e-mail?”

“What e-mail?”

“Sharon announced today that Jen, who never does any work, gets to take over for Sharon while she's on maternity leave. I can't believe this place.” I waited for Les to say something, anything to make me feel better, but he didn't. “So don't you have any reaction?”

“I'm sorry you didn't get the job. You deserved it.”

“Les, what's up? Is something wrong?”

“Avery, I can't do this.”

“Do what?”

“I can't just pretend I don't have any feelings for you. I just can't be your buddy. This is too painful. I love you, Avery. I've never met anyone like you.”

“What are you saying, that we can't be friends anymore?”

“I hope we can be friends again. I just need some space. I can't talk to you or see you for a while. I'm sorry.”

“What about our dance lessons? What about yoga?”

“I'm sorry, you'll have to go by yourself. I can't see you for a while.” Les walked inside, leaving me alone in the cold.

 

 

A
fter work, I came home and made myself a tofu and broccoli stir-fry and listened to the very loud silence of the phone not ringing. I ate dinner, listening to myself crunch. Eight o'clock, nine o'clock, and still no word from Les. He couldn't be serious about not talking to me, could he? For the last month, Les and I had talked on the phone or gotten together every night, often talking for hours at a time. I kept thinking of stuff I wanted to tell him. Plus, I really needed to talk to someone about this Jen thing. I obviously couldn't call Jen or Rette. Mom would listen, but she wouldn't really understand.

I picked up the phone. I set it down again. He would get over me soon enough, right? He'd find someone else and then we could be friends again. Of course if he found someone else, he'd be busy with her all the time, and I'd be in the exact same place I was now.

 

 

A
t a little after noon the next day, I was approaching Pam's office to pick her up for lunch when I heard Mark's sharp voice.

“The deadline was Monday. That was five days ago. We can't wait any longer!”

She said calmly, “Mark, Expert hasn't approved the copy yet.”

“It's your job to see that they do.”

“I sent it to them three weeks ago. I've followed up three times this week, gently reminding them that the deadline was Monday, but if they don't approve the copy, we can't go live with it. They are the client; if they don't have time to approve it just now, we have to accept that.”

“You're just going to have to give me what you've got. We can't wait any longer because you can't meet your deadlines.”

“But what if Expert has changes? Won't that just be more work for your programmers to have to put it up and then replace it with new text?” she said calmly.

“Yes, but I don't see that we have any choice.”

“Okay, I'll e-mail you what I have. I'll give Expert another call and see if I can impart the urgency of the situation.”

Mark stormed out of the office, nearly barreling into me.

I apologized even though it wasn't my fault. He rolled his eyes.

“That sounded fun,” I said to Pam.

“He's a little passionate, but at least he cares,” she laughed.

“Do you have time for lunch?”

“No, but I never have time for anything. I do need to eat. I've really been looking forward to catching up with you.”

We went to a deli nearby. I told her over sandwiches and chips that I'd be interested in moving into her department if there were any openings. I told her I enjoyed writing and reworking the research reports, and I'd love to do something a little more creative like write copy.

“I don't have a ton of experience in writing, but I've been reading up on writing persuasive copy,” I said. “I've kept a journal for years. I wrote for my school paper in high school. I know that's not much, but I did enjoy it. And I read a lot.”

“I don't have any openings right now, but I'd be happy to give you a shot at writing a brochure. Writing copy isn't easy. Unlike graphic design or computer programming, everybody thinks they can do it, and they're not shy about letting you know their opinions. But if you're serious about it, I think you'd be great.”

“I'd love some new challenges. I haven't been doing a very good job of moving up the ladder here, and I don't quite understand what I'm doing wrong. I work hard. I have good people skills. I've been here as long as Sharon has, but she keeps getting promotions so much faster than me.”

Pam studied her sandwich. She looked like she felt guilty about something.

“What?” I prodded.

“Of course I didn't work here at the time—” she began, “but I've heard that Morgan's had some concerns about you since you sent a brochure to the printer without his approval? Apparently there were some errors in it, and it turned out to be quite an expensive mistake. He expressed some concerns that maybe you weren't a team player.”

“What are you talking about? I never—wait, do you mean the time
Sharon
sent a brochure to the printer without his permission?”

“That's not the way I heard it.”

I felt sick to my stomach. Suddenly, it all made sense. Why Sharon had been promoted ahead of me: She'd pinned the brochure debacle on me. For four years, Morgan had thought I'd deliberately thwarted his authority. Morgan rarely had occasion to work with me directly. He spent far more time with Sharon, who could tell him anything she wanted to about me, and obviously did. She could, say, take credit for work that I did. And I let her get away with it.

 

 

I
spent the afternoon in a daze. When I got home and unlocked the door to my apartment, I paused for a moment, looking at the empty, quiet rooms. I couldn't face another long evening alone.

I had to talk to someone. Les was the only one who would understand. I'd feel better if I could talk to him. But he'd been avoiding me at work.

I missed him. I missed our friendship. I missed talking to him and hanging out with him.

I picked up the phone and dialed his number. I got his voice mail. Was he really not there or was he screening his calls? “Hi Les, it's Avery. I really want to talk to you.”

He didn't call back. I went to bed around midnight, but didn't sleep. My spirit felt bruised.

 

 

I
went to work the next day bleary-eyed and groggy. As soon as I walked in the door, Mary charged toward me, stopping me in my tracks.

“Did you hear?” she asked.

“Hear what?”

“They fired Pam. They're making her take the fall for Expert backing out of us doing their Web site.”

“Pam? It wasn't her fault IT was late in development.”

“Mark said she was behind on the copy, which delayed the rest.”

“But Mark could have done the initial specs and storyboards without the copy . . .”

“I saw Pam with her box of stuff going down the elevator,” Mary interrupted. “It was so awkward. I just wanted to die. It's so sad, isn't it?” she said, not looking at all upset about it. “I guess that's the way it goes sometimes.”