Chapter 2
Lexie
In the bathroom, I make my way to one of the two stalls. Several women are already changing out of their tops donning the new sweater. “Ooh, this is soft,” moans one co-worker.
“It is. Katya has great taste,” says another one in awe.
Clicking the lock into place, I hang the bright pink monstrosity on the hook on the door. I sigh pulling off my forest green holiday sweater dotted with little embroidered snowflakes. I love green. It’s my favorite color, and it doesn’t hurt that it also looks good with my strawberry blonde hair. I’ve paired the sweater with my tight black pencil skirt. I like the sexy silhouette of the skirt, but I don’t have the mid-section to carry off one without a long sweater, like this green one.
I pull the pink sweater off the hook and replace it with mine. I open the bottom of the sweater and slip it over my head. “So far so good,” I grumble. I push my right arm into the sleeve first then my left. Pulling it down over my face to my neck I keep tugging until it’s over the girls. It’s a struggle, but I get it down until the bottom of the sweater touches the waistband of my skirt.
I look down at myself. My boobs are so squished inside they’re practically bursting out of the V-neck. “Jeez, it’s like a sausage casing,” I moan. This is going to be far and beyond the most humiliating night of my professional life.
I roll my eyes. “Well, one of them,” I say to myself. There’ve been too many to count––hell, several of those humiliating days have happened right here at Parker and Associates. For example, there was that time Mr. Parker caught me demonstrating my Twerking skills to a break-room full of colleagues. When I saw him standing in the doorway, I stopped mid-Twerk, my ass pointing right at him. He didn’t look angry, just confused and, I think, a little embarrassed––for me––as he muttered, “Please get back to work, Ms. Cartwright.”
Then, there was that day Katya had me making copies. I’d only been here for a week or so and had no idea how to run the damn machine. When Mr. Parker walked into the copy room, he looked stunned at first, but that quickly turned into anger.
He bent over to pick up one of the two hundred and fifty copies I’d made of my cleavage, cursing under his breath. Okay, so let me explain. The page I wassupposedto copy fell behind the copy machine. I could see the edge of it, so I reached and reached trying to grab it with my hand. I must have bumped the ‘copy’ button at some point because the machine went crazy spewing out copy after copy of my chest that was squished up against the glass. Now, if my ponytail hadn’t gotten caught on the hinge thingy on the lid, I’d have been able to move up and off of the machine and hit ‘stop’. But, I couldn’t.
Mr. Parker growled at me and helped me extricate myself from the clutches of the evil machine. He barely spoke to me except to say, “This,” holding up a picture of my smushed boobs, “Is going into your file. Have someone teach you how to the use the damn equipment. Today!” he shouted. He added, “And clean this mess up!” as he walked out of the room.
The third time wasn’t quite so bad. Oh, hell. Who am I kidding? It was worse than the other two combined. I was having a candy-eating contest with one of the apprentice architects in the Pit. The Pit is where all of those apprentices work, and it’s usually filled with row after row of drafting tables except tonight it’s filled with stupid holiday cheer.
Anyway, I had just refilled my bowl of candy when one of the new guys walked by snatching a handful of jellybeans. (It was jellybean day.) Anyway, he put a huge handful into his mouth. Giggling, I asked him how many he could fit into his mouth. “I don’t know. How many can you?”
With the gauntlet thrown, I accepted the challenge. We took the bowl and went to the Pit. He went first getting a whopping fifty-seven jellybeans into his pie-hole. By the time it was my turn, we’d attracted quite an audience. When I started, the guys counted for me: one, two, three, and so on. By the time I had fifty candies in my mouth, they were clapping in a rhythmic beat chanting my name, “Lexie. Lexie. Lexie.”
Inspired by their encouragement, I shoved seven more beans into my mouth. Just as I was about to win, the crowd grew silent. Wow! Were they in awe? Nope. Not so much. I slowly turned around in time to see Mr. Parker step up behind me. The guys all scattered leaving me standing in front of my boss; my mouth was so full of beans I couldn’t open any further. I couldn’t swallow them either. My breathing got a little labored, my face grew hot, and I started to choke.
Raising my hands to my throat in the universal choking gesture, I felt light-headed and scared. Without a word, Mr. Parker reached out placing one hand gently on the back of my neck. Whispering in my ear, he said, “Shh, calm down. I’ve got you.” At that point, he took a finger and swept it into my mouth essentially loosening up the glob of jellybeans. After that, one jellybean after another fell from my mouth at a rapid pace onto the brand new carpeting.
When I could control my tongue and mouth, I spit out the remaining beans into the garbage can next to me. Wiping the back of my hand over my mouth, I look up blinking back tears, “Thank you, Mr. Parker.”
“Ms. Cartwright?”
“Yes?”
“Clean this mess up and get back to work.” That’s all he said. ‘Get back to work.’ So embarrassing.
Grabbing my green sweater, I open the door and step out into the bathroom. Two different women are now changing in the bathroom. As soon as they see me their eyes grow three times their normal size. One of them slaps her hand over her mouth. No doubt trying to stop from laughing. I make my way up to the mirror above the sink and stare. Yep. This is, without a doubt, the most humiliating thing to happen to me at Parker and Associates. So far.
“Uh, Lexie?” asks Kim, the one trying not to laugh.
“Yes?”
“Did you mean to tell her that size?” she says pointing at my sweater.
“You mean you got to tell her the size you wanted?”
“And the color,” adds, Shelly, the second woman.
That fricking witch! “I guess I missed the memo.”
“Oh, it wasn’t a memo, she called us,” says Kim.
“And emailed us,” adds Shelly.
“Great.” Just great. I guess the theory that she just forgot to ask me is out.
