Page 38 of How To Plot a Payback

Then an identical black cat peeks its head out from behind the other cat.

Oh, good grief.

“Mrs. Teaberry . . . ,” I call out slowly.

“Meet Wilma and Fred,” she calls back from the kitchen, knowing exactly what I am referring to.

A few moments later she’s back in the living room, bearing a suspiciously fully prepared tray of chicken and rice, and yes, peas, steaming from two plates. And salads. And something round and pink that jiggles with bits of orange floating inside.

But sure. Nothing in the cupboards.

“Here,” she says, dumping the plates on the coffee table between us. She pours a handful of pills like Skittles into my hand. I dump all of them in the little floral napkin and pretend to knock a couple back.

“So . . . how was it then? How was your first day?”

“Awful. I wouldn’t wish such a day on my worst enemy.”

She gives a sort of grunt as she presses her lips together. I pick up my fork.

My ears have been ringing since I raced out of the studio. I ignore it. Just as I ignore the headache created by the little dungeon keeper inside my brain swinging his wrecking ball at my cranium.

I’ve three silent mouthfuls chewed and swallowed when she cracks.

“And what happened?” she says.

“My nemesis released the beasts and then poisoned me.”

Frankly, I don’t want to repeat the story. I’d much prefer to pretend the entire day was a bad dream. And I’d very much like not to dwell on the fact that it’s now six thirty, and my last text from Paula came in at four. Apparently they were going deep into a plotting session and wouldn’t be done anytime soon. Probably midnight, she speculated. And while I asked Paula to explain my situation, then followed up when I was freshly out of urgent care, the next text I received (from an unknown number, presumably one of the PAs) read: MR. GOODWIN SAYS NOT TO COME IN.

That’s it.

No explanation.

No query or expression of sorrow or “So? You lived?”

No praise for being the one to shove this whole, apparently earth-shattering, shift in plot off the dock and into the ocean.

Just: don’t come back.

So, to recap: I was late this morning because Lavender released the hounds. I threw out an idea the team loathed. I dramatically ran out for something so trivial as needing to breathe. And Lavender, meanwhile, is the heroine. Saving puppies. Suggesting betrothal. Very likely bouncing over to the writers room to hash out the rest of the script and take over my job as well.

But there Mrs. Teaberry is, staring at me, waiting for me to go on.

“As best as I can explain, I was ambushed,” I say. “And now, upon Mr. Goodwin’s insistence, I quit Higher Stakes without formally giving a respectable amount of time—not even seeing it through to the end of the season. Not even giving two weeks’ notice. My boss was livid, understandably. But I was stuck between a rock and a hard place.”

What I would like in this moment is a pat on the shoulder and some tender grandmotherly advice.

What I get is Mrs. Teaberry spitting over her shoulder. “You can’t think that way, Finn. It’s a job. Did you break a contract?”

“Yes,” I say.

“As you had to,” she says, not missing a beat. “It’s called moving up the ladder. Higher Stakes didn’t give you the respect you deserved—”

“They’ve actually always been very good to me—”

“But at the end of the day, who cares about respect? It’s about the job security—”

“Goodwin actually made it very clear I may not make it to June—”