Margie cracks out a laugh. “You always blame me. But I didn’t funnel wine and vodka down your gullet by the glassful tonight. And your old college pals Goldschläger and Jägermeister did it to you back then.”
I moan and plug my ears. “Never mention those two beverages to me ever again.”
“And by the way,ingrate,” Margie continues, “for your twenty-second, Avery and I threw you averynice surprise party.”
We both grin. “‘Drink specials? All of our drinks are special!’” we recite at the same time, mimicking the bartender’s proclamation from the birthday party in question.
Another bang from next door.
Margie narrows her eyes and marches over to the wall. She kneels on the sofa, her mouth right up against the plaster. “Instead of bickering with your hot neighbor, Pen, you could be sinking your teeth into that ass of his.”
I stumble in my haste to make it to the sofa, alarm pouring out of my every cell. I wave my hands in Margie’s face and mouth “Oh my God” and “Stop” and a whole lot of other four-letter words.
Margie’s smile just widens. “I mean clearly there’s some sexual tension that needs working—”
My hand is over her mouth. I feel her tongue against my hand. Skeeved, I rear back. “Ew, you licked me,” I hiss.
“Bet you wish it was the hot… Okay, okay!” Margie laughs as I smack her with a pillow.
We settle on the sofa next to each other, and I hold on to her arm for dear life, the spins starting in earnest. To the wall, I loudly state, “I wouldn’t get with that d-bag if you paid me.”
“Didn’t know you were selling your services,” comes Jack’s immediate response. His voice is muffled by the wall but still too loud and clear for a man who’s currently sitting in an entirely separate apartment.
Margie laughs. At my glare, she holds up a hand. “I know we hate him, but that was funny.”
3
I push my mouse around, a tired cat playing with prey out of habit, and wish my headache away. Margie was right: it’s day two of my hangover, and I should’ve called in sick. It didn’t help that Jack cooked something yesterday that made the hall smell like a cow died in his apartment, and then played LMFAO’s “Party Rock Anthem” full blast, on repeat, starting at an ungodly hour. I can almost admire his style—he’s suffering to make me suffer, which takes a lot of commitment. But hearing the lyrics “Every day I’m shufflin’” thirty thousand times in the space of forty-eight hours buries my admiration under the animal urge to take a machete to his head. Or to my own.
“It absolutely makes sense,” I hear my boss, Rochelle, say. She sounds close. I’d peek above my beige cubicle to see where she is, but sudden movements shake up my innards and worsen the jackhammering in my skull, which in turn worsens my nausea. At the thought, the necessity for the bathroom overtakes every other item in Penelope’s Hierarchy of Needs.
My phone vibrates against my desk, a rhythm that mirrors the throbbing behind my left eye. Call from Mom. I almost answer despite my pain, but my brain is now liquid, and it just sloshed out of place. I text instead, asking if we can chat after work.
I stand on newborn colt’s legs and start when I see Rochelle and another VP about to pass my cube.
“Oh, hi, Penny,” Rochelle says. “Sam, this is Penelope Huff. She’s on my team.”
The man, in his expensive navy suit, his silver hair slicked back over bare patches of shiny scalp, smiles at me. I clamp my lips tight, turning up the corners as much as I dare, and Rochelle continues with the introductions. “This is Sam Greenfield. He heads up—”
“Marketing for North America. Right. Nice to meet you, Mr. Greenfield.” I shake his hand, desperate to be away.
He inclines his head, his grip firm. “Call me Sam.”
“Sam’s actually about to be promoted to global vice president—hush-hush until the announcement. But I’ll be filling you in on a project that came up just as soon as I walk Sam out. Pretty exciting. We’re going to be building a new global marketing framework with the other regions. It’ll transform how we go to market, harness economies of scale…” Rochelle smiles brightly. “I mean, we need to keep the lights on until implementation, but this is going to be a fun problem to solve.”
That last bit lands like a tart cherry, bright and jarring. I swallow with difficulty. In Rochelle-speak, “fun problem to solve” loosely translates to “Lots of work. You’re in for a world of hurt,” and “lights on until implementation” means “This is your new night job.”
I race to the bathroom the second they continue on and beat Rochelle back to my desk by only a few seconds.
She glides over, professional and poised in her brandy-colored pencil skirt and cream silk top. I don’t know what time she wakes up each day, but her tan skin always glows with good health, and her makeup is expertly applied. Her dark brown, auburn-highlighted curls are forever perfect, too, and she owes her enviable physique to what she calls “pre-workday workouts.” Nothing short of not sleeping would have me out of bed early enough to work outandmake myself that exquisite by eight thirty in the morning.
Rochelle looks me over curiously but doesn’t comment on my appearance. Instead, she begins to read me in on the project, and the more she tells me, the more I recognize that I was right.
“And since you’re my superstar, you’re going to lead the charge for me,” she finishes.
My throat tightens. “Superstar” means I do what she asks with very little pushback. I am a driven doormat, desperate to maintain a steady paycheck. I don’t want to lead any charges. I want my apartment. I want my comforter and my Rolling Stones tee. “That sounds great,” I hear myself say. But then I hesitate and pray to the Patron Saint of Spineless Bitches. “It doesn’t… It won’t come with additional pay, will it?” I fold my arms around my torso, a self-hug.
It’s a question I try not to ask too often, rounding up the nerve maybe once a year. Rochelle’s face twists into a maybe-so, maybe-no kind of expression. She’s a good manager. Kind. Recognizes my value. But she hasn’t been able to get me a salary increase in three years. I brace myself for the answer I usually get, and when it lands, it barely stings. “You know how corporate is about that stuff, but with this project… Maybe we can try and make the case for it.”
