My steps slow, a tingle of nerves blooming in my belly as I picture myself actually asking our boss for the time off. Kara notices and whispers, “No backing out now, Sunshine.”
I swallow hard against the lump forming in my throat. We slide into our cubicles and sit on our worn-down swivel chairs, the earlier enthusiasm colliding with the monotonous hum of the office.
“But first,” Kara says, popping the cork on the miniature bottle of champagne she brought. “A little bubbly before you go face your fears.”
I watch the tiny, fizzing bubbles rise to the surface, trying not to spiral over the task looming ahead of me. My stomach performs another somersault at the thought.
Our supreme overlord doesn’t like anybody on our team, but she harbors special disdain for me. The Trunch doesn’t try to hide her feelings, nor does she sugar-coat anything. Every conversation is peppered with disgruntled sighs and countless eye-rolls.
If I weren’t so well-adjusted, it’d be a real bummer.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” I admit, raking my lower lip between my teeth. I instantly regret it when my lip gloss smears across them in the least glamorous way possible.
Kara smacks my arm playfully. “Youcan. You’ve been dreaming about this for so long, you’ve earned it. Now strut in there like the baking rockstar you are, and get that time off!”
“Alright.” I pass the champagne into her waiting hands, and crunch the last bite of my cookie before standing and making the world’s least confident shuffle down the hall to our boss’s office.
I take a deep breath and square my shoulders, trying to appear more self-assured than I feel. I knock three times and step back to wait.
“Come in!”
The cheap wood door feels heavier than it should as I push it open. The musty aroma of The Trunch’s office hits me before the door swings all the way back on its hinges. It smells like old paper, burnt coffee, and a cloying floral air freshener that somehow makes everything worse.
Stacks of manila folders teeter on the edge of the desk, forming lopsided towers that look one breath away from disaster. A dusty fake fern slumps in the corner, and the prehistoric desktop computer emits a low grinding noise, the tower rattling against the peeling laminate like it knows it should’ve retired a couple decades ago.
My boss sits behind her desk, arms crossed. Her expression is laced with that special brand of annoyance she seems toreserve exclusively for me. “The shift just started, Taylor. What could you possibly need?”
I swallow hard.It’s go time.
“Good morning, Karen!” I plaster on my brightest smile and make my voice as cheerful as humanly possible. “I have something I need to speak with you about, but if it’s not a good time, I can—”
“Taylor!” Her voice crashes through the otherwise quiet room like a clap of thunder. I wince. “Spit it out. The faster you say what you have to say, the faster you leave my office and go do what we pay you to do.”
Bracing both hands on the back of a plastic chair in front of her desk, I try to steady myself and my racing thoughts before speaking.
“As you have probably gathered, baking is my entire life. My passion, really. And I’ve always wanted the chance to do that professionally, rather than just as a hobby or small—”
“TAYLOR!”
“Right, sorry. Straight to it, then. I’ve been accepted as a contestant on the first season ofAmerica’s Next Great Baker.”
An exasperated sigh escapes as The Trunch props her head on her hand. “Great, congrats. What’s that got to do with me?”
I roll my shoulders in an ill-fated attempt at releasing the tension that’s built up in the middle of my spine. “Well, filming starts next month, which means I need to take some time off.”
“You can’t be serious…”
“Oh, I’m very serious. It’s technically only on the weekends, but they provide a house for the entire time because it’s also a reality show, and I’d really like to be there for the entire experience…” I trail off, figuring she probably couldn’t care less. “I only need one week off from work to start.”
She snorts. “One week? What’s the point of going at all if you don’t think you’re good enough to make it past the first week?”
“I’m going against the best of the best, Karen. You never know what’ll happen. But, you’re right. I might need longer than that, and I only have one week’s worth of PTO. Are there any other options? Please, Karen. I need this more than I’ve ever needed anything.”
I’m not above groveling if it gets me to LA.
“We’ll see if you get further than that.” She taps a pen against her desk, tired eyes flicking back and forth between her computer screen and my face. “Fine. One week of PTO. After that? Unpaid. If you last longer, that is. Don’t make me regret this.”
“Thank you, I won’t,” I stammer, doing my best to hold back a smile as I back toward the door. “You won’t. I mean—I won’t make you regret this!”
