Page 10 of True Colors

Together, they make a great pair of work frenemies and a terrible pair of colleagues.

Once, I overheard Kathleen say, “Just because she stutters, what are we all supposed to be nice to a disabled person?”

It was done quietly because if they said it loudly and HR heard them, they’d be fired. They know that, so their animosity comes in passive-aggressive barbs and jabs that can’t be reported.

Now, George shoots me a look that says, “Tough break, Starling, but you deserved that.”

Kathleen doesn’t bother hiding her delight.

I walk past them and see Benjamin, our senior quant. He studies my face like it’s a puzzle he’s halfway through solving. Benjamin is who I go to when I want a model reviewed—which he finds endlessly amusing. “Don’t know why you want me to look at your stuff, Anouk. It’s gold.”

But I seek constructive criticism, and he’s the only one in our team who can actually give it.

He’s been coding since models were built in FORTRAN, which makes him the only person who can tear my work apart in all the right ways—down to the logic, the structure, the bones of the equations.

I smile at him. He nods slowly as if deciding I’m alright and goes back to his screen.

Before I can walk into my cubicle, a hand grabs me and yanks me into the one occupied by one of my teammates, who is also a friend, as close as I allow people to be.

Mila is endlessly patient and brings me macaroons from Miette to cheer me up.

Who does that? Just one of the best people I know! And she likes me despite my stutter and deep introversion.

Speaking of the best people, Ian steps into the cubicle right then as if he’s been waiting for me.

“That was a reaming, but you handled it as well as anyone could while they’re unable to speak,” he says, his eyes wide. Ian is socially awkward, as in he has absolutely no filter.

“Ian!” Mila rolls her eyes.

“You okay? Where did you go after the meeting? We couldn’t find you,” Pallavi exclaims as she also comes into Mila’s cubicle, which is now quite cramped. She hadn’t been to the morning meeting because she had a doctor’s appointment, so she probably got the rundown from the others while I was taking deep breaths in the bathroom.

“I’m o-okay,” I manage to say, feeling some of the chaos from the meeting dissipate under their warmth and concern.

“I’ve heard about him.” Mila puts a hand on my shoulder. “He’s always like this in meetings. It’s not personal.”

“And that’s supposed to make his behavior okay?” Pallavi arches an eyebrow. “He sounds like a jackass.”

“It’s just a fact,” Ian retorts. “And if we want to keep our jobs, we have to put up with the CEO’s jackassery.”

I giggle. “I-Is that an ac-ac-tual word?”

We look at each other and burst out laughing.

It feels good.

This feels good.

Luther Grant can humiliate me in a meeting, but I have people around me who care about me.

By the time I reach my desk, I’m in unexpectedly decent spirits.

I settle into my chair and let the sanctuary I’ve built around myself wash over me.

Two monitors. One noise-canceling headset. A notepad with a single pen placed neatly across it.

As someone whose mind is always a little chaotic, I keep my workspace minimal—everything exactly where it belongs. Clutter makes me feel out of control, and when so much inside me already is a mess, I need my surroundings to be calm, ordered, and predictable.

I am safe here, in a world of numbers, where I can disappear into the cross-tabs of my Excel sheets.