Heart hammering like a woodpecker against oak, I step into the tenth-floor conference room where Tim holds court, wondering if they’ll even accept me as a team member. I might have been brave about it when facing Amanda earlier, but now that I’m here, all I want to do is leave with my tail between my legs.
All eyes snap to me as I stand next to a chair at the farthest end of the table, deliberately distancing myself from this tribe where I don’t yet belong. The chatter and keyboard tapping resume, but quieter now.
The sensation of being the new kid crushes against my chest, squeezing my lungs until each breath feels shallow and insufficient. Elementary school, freshman year, first apartment potluck—none of it compares to the excruciating social calculus of switching teams in a workplace that already views me as an interloper. Worse than all of that is the reality settling like a stone in my stomach: I’m not on Jake’s team anymore.
Across the room, Tim and Amanda huddle together, heads bent in whispered conspiracy. Their furtive glances in my direction leave little doubt about the subject of their conversation. So, the first thing she did was run here to warn him of Judy’s decision.
I did this to myself, really. My outburst at the gala might as well have been a wrecking ball to my comfortable position on Jake’s team. Now I have to become one of them, or at least a convincing facsimile.
Amanda glides in her chair closer to Tim, her smile as authentic as a department store mannequin’s. Between them, they exude the aura of high school royalty about to deliver judgment on a social outcast.
Tim clears his throat, one finger tugging at his collar as though what he’s about to say requires extra oxygen. “I have an announcement to make. We have a new member of our team. This is Sarah.”
I look around. Not a single smile brightens a face, not one nod offers welcome, not even polite applause breaks the quiet. Shifting my weight from foot to foot, I stand there like an exhibit in a museum of workplace awkwardness. Heat climbs my neck and spreads to my cheeks as I try to put on a brave face and scan the room.
Guarded looks meet mine, with one guy actually leaning back in his chair, arms crossed like he’s warding off bad luck. Someone exchanges a glance with Amanda—not friendly, but calculating, as if I’m a math problem that needs solving. A quiet murmur finally ripples through the room, breaking the silence.
“Isn’t she from the other team?”
“Doesn’t she work with Jake?
“Why is she here?”
Well, this is off to a great start.
“Judy transferred her to our team,” Amanda says, her voice dripping with saccharine insincerity. “We are so lucky to have her.” The sarcasm in her tone could strip paint.
With a small wave that feels more like a surrender flag, I finally sit down and sink back into my chair and flip open my notebook. In the history of workplace welcomes, this must rank somewhere between getting a dead plant as an office-warming gift and finding your name spelled wrong on your business cards—after you’ve corrected it three times.
Deep breaths and water help calm the initial panic, but the reality remains: I need to work fast.
Somehow, some way, I have to earn their approval. If I want to uncover Tim and Amanda’s schemes against Jake, I need to transform from grudgingly tolerated outsider to indispensable insider. I need to become someone they need, someone whose value outweighs their suspicion.
Glancing around, I notice something odd—or rather, notice what isn’t there. No materials. No whiteboards displaying campaign progress. No visuals, charts, or data points anywhere. It’s as if Tim and Amanda have deliberately scrubbed all evidence of their work from view.
Tim hunches over the tablet, swiping through what appear to be visuals desperately in need of refinement on his tablet.
A chance to make myself useful. “I can help with those” I offer politely.
“I don’t need your help, Sarah,” he says, his voice clipped. “I got this.” His eyes never leave the screen, dismissing me without even a glance. “Go make copies of these notes for everyone,” he adds, thrusting the bundle of papers onto the desk with the arrogance of a king dispensing unwanted tasks to the lowliest servant.
I take the papers and walk out of the room, my fingers clutching the edges so tightly the corners crease. In the hallway,the fluorescent lights buzz overhead as my mind whirls through what-ifs and should-haves that make my chest ache.
Maybe I’m not cut out for this after all. Professional, composed Sarah Lake—the one who impressed teachers in New York—wouldn’t be skulking down hallways with menial tasks to perform. A sigh escapes my lips. I suppose it’s all my fault. If I had simply put my feelings aside, kept Jake at arm’s length instead of letting four years of hurt explode like a shaken soda can, none of this would have happened.
Guilty as charged, I’ve sentenced myself to Amanda-and-Tim purgatory when I could be collaborating with Jake and Wendy, creating something brilliant for Étoile. The three of us would have nailed the campaign, working in that rare creative rhythm where ideas catch fire.
Get your head in the game, Sarah. This isn’t about Jake anymore—well, not entirely. It’s about uncovering whatever scheme Amanda and Tim are hatching before they can sabotage Jake’s chance at promotion.
At the copy machine, I press the buttons and watch it hum to life, spitting out duplicates of what turns out to be—seriously?—a newsletter from last week’s meeting with Judy. My eyes roll so hard they might get stuck looking at my own brain. Busywork, plain and simple, designed to keep me away from whatever they’re discussing in that conference room.
Shuffling the warm papers into a neat stack, I straighten my spine and prepare for round two of “Let’s Pretend Sarah Belongs Here.” Down the corridor, Amanda approaches.
“Get those copies, rookie?” She smirks, her expression confirming what I already knew to be true: they have it in for me; they’ll keep me at arm’s length; I am not to be trusted. What other tasks do they have in mind to torment me with?
A dozen retorts clamor for release in my throat, but I swallow them down and let her pass me as she heads toward the bathroom. No point giving her the satisfaction.
When the copies are done, I walk back to the conference room and push through the door. A co-worker’s complaint reveals something about files and assets being hopelessly disorganized, costing everyone time. Still holding the useless copies, I watch as accusatory glances dart around the table, finally landing on me with the subtlety of spotlight beams.
