“Good morning, Omar. It’s nice to meet you too.”
Background noise increases, and I hear other voices in the room with Omar that coincide with others joining in on the meeting. They must all be in the conference room together, but they’re all on my screen now in little boxes, as well. Sweat prickles at the nape of my neck, and this sweater suddenly feels like a very bad idea.
Tight smile still in place, I manage, “Good morning, everyone.”
“Good morning, Sophie,” they say in unison. Except Mark. Because Mark is an asshole.
“Why don’t we jump right in?” Omar asks.
Good Guy’s words echo inside my head in the deep voice I’ve created for him,Go get ‘em, killer!and I nod.
My cell is silenced, but it begins vibrating on the far end of the table. It’s out of my reach.
But not out of Lola’s, who’s sitting in a chair on the other side of the table. I see her pick it up out of the corner of my eye and am thankful because I think she’ll send the call to voicemail.
She does not.
She answers quietly and then after a short pause says, “No, this is Lola, her assistant,” as she walks toward the front door and disappears through it.
My assistant?
Omar says, “Sophie, I would love to hear about your three proudest achievements.”
It’s taking everything in me to keep my eyes on the screen in front of me and not check on Lo. I clear my throat to give me a moment to collect my thoughts. “Professional achievements or personal achievements?” I ask.
“Either,” Omar encourages.
My eyes slip in the direction of the window, and I see Lola standing in the front yard talking. Ten seconds into the conversation and there’s already a lot of hand gesturing on herpart. Hand gestures are a good gauge of her excitement level. She’s currently at a seven.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter.
“Amen,” the gray-haired man in one of the tiny boxes on my screen says.
I look at him in confusion but quickly realize I’ve inadvertently won over the Christian in the group. I risk another glance at Lola. She’s at a solid nine now. My face feels hot, and my scalp and forehead are beading sweat.
“And your second?” Omar asks.
I consider correcting him that, technically, I’m still on number one, but I jump back in determined to recover. “Professionally, I’m most proud of my rise through the ranks. In my eight years with Nation’s Finest, I went from claims call center representative, to quality assurance analyst, to underwriting, to the commercial lines project management team, to senior project manager. Learning on the job, making lateral moves to gain new skills and perspective, and taking on new challenges provided me with a big picture view of not only my department, but the company and, ultimately, the industry as a whole. Most recently that translated directly into the design and implementation of efficiencies within claims reporting and processing that’s projected to save the company over ten million in quarter three.”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I feel like I might black out. The edges of my vision are blurry, and I can feel the blood pounding in my head. This can’t be normal.
Omar seems pleased with my answer, nodding along and smiling.
A trickle of sweat has formed and is rolling down my forehead, only to be captured by an unruly eyebrow, and I’m thankful I haven’t been able to afford a trip to have them threaded in months. I brush it away, only to have its friendfollow closely behind and somehow break through like a Plinko game. The salt in my eye instantly burns, and when a few blinks don’t flush it, I rub it.
“Are you okay?” Omar asks.
I nod, because the burning has disappeared. “Better,” I say with a smile. Until I look at my fingertips and they’re covered in mascara. This is why I don’t usually wear makeup. I don’t even want to know what my face looks like. If I don’t make a big deal out of it, it won’t be a big deal, right?
“And number three?” Omar asks.
My internal temperature feels like it’s reached two hundred degrees, and I wonder if this is what a heat stroke feels like. If I stretch, I can reach the little tabletop fan I use during the day. I flip the switch in desperation, because fuck this sweater. I have delusions of grandeur that the gentle breeze will bring relief and subtle hair ruffles, similar to what you see on those behind-the-scenes photo shoots. Yeah, nope. The breeze is neither gentle nor subtle. Because when I turn it on, I also manage to change the setting from low to high. High is a setting I never use because it's essentially a hurricane in both decibels and gale force. My hair blows back like I’m mid-race in an F-1 car with no helmet. I’m caught in the downdraft for a few seconds before I fumble and knock it over, which fortunately turns it off.
“Sorry, no A/C and it’s a hot one in Colorado already this morning,” I say, as I lift the hem of the sweater under the table and waft in some air.
Mark snorts in undisguised amusement, the prick, and says, “The drama of the gentler sex, am I right? My wife moans incessantly about hot flashes. Maybe that’s your problem, Sophie. Are you going throughthe change?” He looks around at the other men in the room and smirks. “That would explainso much.”
I scan the faces on my screen, silently scrutinizing each one. Has the blatant sexism made them visibly uncomfortable? Yes. Do they have the decency to speak up and call him out? Sadly, but unsurprisingly, no.
