Say he stole and ate your lunch. That’s more believable.
Titty Truesdale, I can’t believe he admitted that was his nickname!!!
It’s true! He told me during lunch. He always wants me to stay in and hang out with him. It’s so weird.
God, he’s such a disgusting pig.
Of course, I did what any self-respecting professional would do: I quietly closed the Chromebook, retreated to the staff bathroom, and burst into tears—not my finest moment, I admit.
Believe it or not, I don’t blame Oddish. He was probably just trying to fit in. But his betrayal, on top of everything else, broke me. I couldn’t fathom doing this every day for the rest of my life, standing up in front of a roomful of preteens, opening myself up to their judgment and ridicule. It had taken me years to get over the bullying I experienced in middle school, on campus and at home, and I didn’t see how I could go on without sacrificing my mental health.
I decided it wasn’t worth it for the crappy pay and long hours I knew awaited me. The only dream I’d ever had—at least, the only one I might realistically be able to achieve—was over. The owner of a useless advanced degree and $20,000 in debt, I called the school and told them I wasn’t coming back. It was the hardest decision I’ve ever made, one I still feel guilty about to this day.
If I were thin, would I feel so ashamed of calling it quits? Or would I just chalk it up as a learning experience, count myself lucky for not wasting years of my life doing something I hated?
Either way, my goal now is to find a different path into education. For the last four years I’ve volunteered with various groups, and six months ago I found my perfect fit with Future Makers, a local organization that provides tutoring, mentorship, and college-application assistance to disadvantaged youth to help them become first-generation college students. I LOVE it! As a volunteer tutor I get my fix of shaping young minds without the pressure of having to stand at the front of a classroom every day. I’m more like a big brother to my tutees than a teacher. They care what I think far more than how I look.
Ideally, I’d love to work somewhere like Future Makers full-time and get paid for it, but after years of searching and applying for jobs, nothing has worked out. The only positions that pay a decent wage—manager and director roles mostly—require moreexperience than I can reasonably claim, and with rents rising something like 10 percent a year, I can’t afford to take a pay cut and make the jump.
And so here I am at Target five years later, watching my coworkers earn raises, awards, and promotions while the store manager rewards my loyalty by suggesting I “might enjoy a more back-of-house role—say, security, or nighttime stocking.”
Fuck off, Rick, I’m a people person, I don’t want to stock shelves!!!
No advancement. Shitty benefits. Not even a boyfriend to come home to at the end of the day. My life getting ever smaller while I only seem to get bigger.
But I still have hope. 2023 is going to be my year, I can feel it.
Until then, I’ll take a venti caramel iced latte with oat milk, extra whip.
CHAPTER 2
The dogs greeted Emmett at the door. Tubbs, Lizette’s black Frenchie, scratched at his knees and snorted. Bella’s floppy ears flapped as she pogoed. Emmett bent down to rub them hello, speaking in his best doggish accent. He knew he shouldn’t, that he was only reinforcing the bad behavior, but at the end of the workday only two things could make him feel human again, and the dogs’ unconditional welcome was a very close second.
“Ouch, okay, you’re hurting.” He pushed them gently off and stepped inside. Their noses followed, sniffing at the takeout bag dangling from his hand.
Lizette was in her room, cutting a pattern out of beachy chiffon to match the garment draped in muslin on the full-figured dress form. It was the larger of the apartment’s two bedrooms but too small by half given its side hustle as the main production, distribution, and operations center for her extended-size clothing brand, GORDITA.
Two years in, Lizette had amassed a growing cult following on Instagram. Sales were up but not yet profitable enough for her to quit her barista gig and go full-time. For that she needed to get her stuff into stores, but despite the demonstrated demand, the local boutiques were hesitant to stock larger sizes in sufficient quantities, offering helpful feedback such as “We have more of an upmarket vibe” and “You could probably make a killing at the swap meet!”
Emmett stuck his head into her room and called dinner.
“Thank fuck,” Lizette said.
All four of them gathered on the couch. Emmett put onFriends, their current dinner show, and unloaded the food onto the coffee table: a thirty-dollar feast from Cotija’s Cocina Mexicana, the taco shop where they ate at least three times a week.
The polystyrene container released a breath of steam as Emmett lifted the lid on his carne asada fries, loaded with melted cheese, refried beans,sour cream, and guacamole, four plastic, lidded cups of hot sauce at the ready. Lizette had taken her usual bean and cheese burrito and chicken rolled tacos with guac, knowing Emmett could be counted on to polish off what she couldn’t.
From the first bite, the tension of the day ebbed from his body. The echo of his coworkers’ gossip and spluttering faces faded in the dopamine glow of his fullness. He ate until he could eat no more, then sat back, slightly sick, stroking Bella beside him.
He still remembered rescuing the chihuahua-spaniel mix as a puppy from an adoption event outside Petco. “You’re gonna have to walk her,” the adoption coordinator had said as Emmett filled out the paperwork.
“Yep.”
“But I mean every day. It’s really important.”
If it had also been “really important” for the average-weight family adopting a Lab as a companion for their three-year-old son, she apparently hadn’t felt the need to remind them. “I get it,” Emmett had said curtly.
The woman had the nerve to act offended. “I’m just saying…”
