Liza doesn’t look up from her iPad when I step quietly into her office. Cold sweat breaks out between my shoulder blades, pricks along the back of my neck. “Liza?”
“Mm, yeah, grab a seat, Lexie.” She gestures for the chair across her insidiously organized desk. I can tell from the reflection in her glasses she’s reading something on BuzzFeed.Like a doctor that chain smokes.“So, you scheduled some time to chat? What’s on your mind?”
“Liza,” I say, forcing a smile through my nervousness. “I really appreciate you taking the time to speak with me. I know how valuable your time is.”
“My pleasure.” She says this mechanically, still not looking up.
Liza isn’t from here. She’s from Boston, and she’s got two degrees from BU, but her and her ex-wife went through a shitty divorce and the ex, I guess, took the whole city. She gives off this Darwin-like vibe, like she’s come to our strange, uncultured little hamlet to find some subspecies she can bring back to the metropolitan world for examination. I think, in the back of her head, she’s always imagining the Pulitzer at the end of this strange, experimental chapter of her life. She can pull it out at dinner parties and win back her friends, and flip up the bird at the woman who chased her out of town.
“And what was the purpose of this, um, meeting?” Finally Liza straightens, like waking from a nap, and switches off her iPad. “I hope this isn’t about a raise.”
Jesus.The wind goes out of me. “Oh, well, as you know, Liza, I’ve been—”
“Yes. Here for three years. I know. But,youknow, Lexie, when you take maternity leave—”
“Only seven weeks,” I say, a little desperately. “Fortriplets—”
“And if it were in my control, you’d have had sevenyears, Lexie. This isn’t for lack of sympathy, it’s for…infrastructure. You understand.” Liza waves her hand flippantly. She wears her black hair with a severe middle-part, accentuating the sharpness of her features: cheeks, chin, eyes. I’ve heard some of the interns call herthe harpy.Right now, I’d have to agree. “If one bridge in the road decides to break, a sturdier one is built to take its place.”
“I didn’t break,” I say softly. “I gave birth.”
“Yes, and, perhaps to your surprise, I know the feeling. Intimately.” Liza steeples her hands. She suddenly looks very tired. “Do you know why I don’t keep photos of my children in my office?”
Because you drowned them all in the bathtub and can’t stand the guilt?“No, ma’am.”
“Because they don’t belong here. Are they…editorial columns?”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes, with some effort. “No.”
“Are they weather reports?”
“No. They’re not weather reports.”
“Are they breaking news?”
I lift a brow.
“Look,” Liza says. “You’re a hard worker. You’re disciplined. Reliable. Amiable. But your reporting…”
“With all due respect,” I say, more steel in my voice than I intended. “If I were given more tasks, if I were givenhalfthe chances the men here—”
“This isn’t amanissue, Lexie. It’s awillissue. Look, I like you. A lot. But you’re not…” Liza flaps her hands, and I take a little grim pleasure in the accuracy of her nickname. “A rule-breaker. You’re not a risk-taker. To be a good reporter, and a truly,reallygood writer, you need to bend a little. Not play it so safe.”
I want to fight back. I want to tell her she’s wrong, that she doesn’t know me, or what I’ve been through, or what I’m capable of. But in that second I just feel that’s who I used to be—and maybe, now, she’s right.
Heat stings my cheeks. Shamed, I drop my eyes. “I see.”
“It’s not personal. It’s business.”
And I’m not worth a tiny, pathetic fucking raise.I resist the urge to cry, my throat and chest constricting. I think Liza would fire me on the spot if I dared. “Okay.”
Liza gives a long, put-out sigh. I realize she’s disappointed I’m not putting up more of a fight.That makes two of us.
“Prove me wrong, Lexie. I’d love to see you do it.” She turns her iPad back on and begins scrolling, the reflection leaping in her glasses. “Until then…” She gestures toward the door and I rise obediently, barely pushing out into the body of the office before tears begin streaming down my cheeks.
* * *
“She’s a dick.”
