Piece of Work

by Staci Hart

  “I asked for you to compile information about Medici’s bank, not the man himself.”

  Her cheeks flamed, her shoulders sagging. “But you said Cosimo—”

  “Only in relation to his founding of the bank,” Bianca snapped.

  “But you never asked for the ba—”

  “We can’t use any of this,” she said, addressing me as if the intern weren’t in the room. “This was exactly what I was afraid of, Court.”

  The intern shrank almost visibly. And I realized two things: she had been confident when she walked in because she was sure of her work, and Bianca hadn’t been clear with her instructions, which had set all of us up to fail. The girl had brought Bianca a dead bird, and Bianca had scolded her for it and tossed her out in the cold. And I found myself inexplicably annoyed with Bianca for being vague with her directive and a flickering of something else, some unnamed, rankling discomfort in my chest when I looked at the intern.

  Pity, I realized.

  My frown deepened.

  “I’m sorry,” the intern said, her head bowed and hair swinging into her face. “I’ll rework it tomorrow, first thing.”

  Bianca fumed, her jaw set. “You’re excused for the day.”

  The girl said nothing, just backed out of the room by those two modest steps and disappeared.

  “I’m sorry, Court. I’ll get it for you myself tomorrow, and it’ll be done right.”

  “Send it to me.”

  Bianca glanced up at me, confused. “What?”

  “Send it to me. Her research.”

  Surprise and something like disgust shot across her face before she schooled it. “One second.” Her fingers clicked against the keyboard, and half a second after they stopped, an alert pinged on my screen.

  I opened the email, noting that Bianca had most definitely not requested information on Medici’s bank, the message nonspecific and unclear. The intern’s document was next—I skimmed the thorough research, the writing in the work itself sharp and clever, her voice apparent without being overbearing, drawing me into each point. And the more I read, the more impressed I found myself.

  And the more irritated I was with Bianca.

  I held her still with a glare. “First, don’t speak for me regarding what I can and can’t use. This is not only useful, but it’s relevant. And second—next time you delegate a task, be crystal fucking clear. You could have wasted not only her time, but yours. She is a direct reflection of you and, by extension, me, so I’d suggest taking more interest in how she spends her time and the work she produces.”

  Crimson smudged her cheeks, an argument glinting behind her eyes like blades, but she only said, “I will,” before closing her laptop and excusing herself to sulk.

  And I watched her go before turning to the document once more.

  An idea formed as I read through the intern’s work again, a concept for a publication that could accompany the exhibition, an angle I hadn’t considered sparked from the mistake Bianca made. And I found myself wondering if the intern might be of use after all.

  4

  Cherry on the Cupcake

  Rin

  A content sigh slipped out of me as I sank into the tub as best I could. The day hung around me alongside the steam from the water, all vapor and ghosts. I didn’t bother waving them away; they seeped into me like the heat that soaked into my bones.

  I’d read over Bianca’s email a hundred times on the train ride home, trying to sort through how I’d missed the mark and chastising myself for not messaging her to confirm what she wanted. I’d thought I’d save face, but in the end, I’d only looked worse. And to think, I’d gone into Dr. Lyons’s office thinking I’d actually done something right.

  So naive.

  I’d messed up, and Bianca was pissed. Dr. Lyons was disappointed or affirmed. Or both. And as a result, I would spend another day with Medici in the archives where I would hopefully begin to rectify my mistake.

  It was an unmitigated disaster—my job, my day, my life. I was a disaster, from my inability to perform simple tasks, like talking and walking, to surviving in public and professional environments.

  I wish I were kidding about the walking part. My Korean genes didn’t know how to drive all that extra arm and leg, as evidenced by the bruises all over my legs. I lifted one of the long appendages out of the water, inspecting my shin, which sported blossoms of color from deep purple to fading puce in shapes from strawberries to slashes. I sighed, returning it to the water, all but the span of my mid-thigh to just under my knee.

  Disaster. Total and complete mess.

  Claudius hopped up onto the edge of the tub, his tail flicking as he watched his reflection, and I reached for my book, eyeing him, imagining what would happen if he fell in. And once he finally moved on and took his claws with him, I read. I read until my brain was quiet and the water had cooled so much that, when I moved, currents of chilly water mingled with the warmer water around my body, sending goosebumps down my legs and up my spine.

  I popped the plug and hauled myself out, wrapping myself up in a big, fluffy maroon bathrobe before wandering into Amelia’s room. I found her curled up in her bed with her Kindle propped up on a pillow, her flaxen hair in a messy bun. She looked like a painting, bathed in golden light, her bedding white and her clothes colorless. She smiled when she saw me, shifting to make room.

  “Hey,” she said as I climbed in with her.

  “Hey,” I echoed.

  “Was work any better today?”

  “No.”

  Her smile fell. “I was afraid of that when you got straight into the tub without saying hello. What happened?”

  I stretched out on my back and stared up at her ceiling. “I spent all day researching the wrong thing. I was so sure I was going to nail it, that they’d congratulate me on a job well done and pat me on the head. But instead, I got in trouble.”

  “Oh, Rin,” she said without pity, just commiseration.

  I sighed, the sound heavy and long. “It’s like I don’t know what to do without a syllabus. The second I walked into the research library—where there are clear rules and facts, bibliographies and annotations—I felt like myself.”

  Amelia chuckled. “You sound like Katherine.”

  “I wouldn’t say I’m as obsessed with the Dewey decimal system as she is, but I get the appeal.”

  “Do you have to redo it? The research?”

  I nodded. “Tomorrow. But at least I’ll get to be in the library again. I know what I’m doing there. But I’ve got to get over my fear that I’m going to look stupid and ask questions to make sure I don’t screw up again.”

  “Trust me, I get that fear. I can’t even order a pizza over the phone.”

  A little laugh escaped me. “Thank God for the internet.”

  “Oh, I know. And grocery delivery.”

  “And Amazon.”

  “Exactly,” she said on a giggle. “Maybe Val’s right. Maybe you should try the lipstick.”

  My nose wrinkled. “I don’t think that will help me, Amelia. I already feel out of place. I mean, I spent twenty minutes staring at my closet trying to figure out what to wear and then felt self-conscious about it all day. I haven’t paid attention to what other people wear or how it relates to me since high school.”

  “Well, eighty-five percent of people in college wear pajamas to lectures. It’s not exactly a place you go to impress your peers or be social.”

  “It’s not a place we go to be social. Plenty of other people do. I just…” I paused, trying to collect my thoughts. “I feel like I missed the life lecture where they teach you how to dress yourself and put on makeup and use a curling iron.”

  She made a face. “I don’t think it’s a bad thing that you’re not hung up on appearances, Rin.”

  “Maybe not in theory, but now I have to try to find a way to succeed in a professional environment with a closet full of holey sweaters, leggings, and jeans that are too short.”

  “Well, maybe it
’s time we went shopping. Get you some jeans that fit.”

  I gave her a look. “Do you know of a store that has jeans with a thirty-seven-inch inseam?”

  She frowned.

  “Yeah, me either. The thought of shopping gives me hives. I don’t know what to wear, what I like or what I don’t like, so I wear the same thing over and over again. Half of my sweaters are from the men’s department because at least I know those are long enough. My legs are too long for dresses. The ‘tall’ inseam in a regular store is what I wore in eighth grade. It’s hard enough to find something I think will look decent on me without factoring in my height.”

  “There has to be some way to make this easier,” she said, pushing herself up to sit and reaching for her laptop.

  I rolled toward her, watching her screen as she pulled up Pinterest and typed tall girl style into the search bar.

  “Look!” she cheered. “Tall girl tips. Twenty-one denim brands recommended by tall girls. There’s a ton here—we just have to research. Your favorite.”

  Hope lit in my ribs, but I didn’t stoke it, knowing better than to let myself get too excited.

  “And then you can’t avoid trying the lipstick. Val’s right. It’ll make you feel like the boss bitch the sticker on the bottom of your lipstick promises. Think of it as the cherry on the cupcake.”

  I frowned, my aversion to the idea twisting in my chest. “I don’t know, Amelia.”

  She fixed me with her gaze. “Tell me you’ll at least try. Can we go shopping? If I can find a way to make it foolproof, will you at least think about the lipstick?”

  I did for a moment. That little tube was a silent presence in my backpack, the promise that I could be more than I was. That I could be brave and bold.

  “I’ll think about it,” I said.

  And she smiled, assuaged. “Good. Oh, look, tall girl fashion tips. Wear beautiful shoes.”

  I laughed. “I guess that’s number one on the list. What else?”

  An hour later, we had a full pinboard and a stitch in our sides from laughing, and I thought maybe, just maybe, there might be hope for me after all.

  5

  Nice Try

  Rin

  Sometimes, all a girl needs is a little Wu-Tang to turn things around.

  Method Man encouraged me to protect my neck as I pulled on my sweater the next morning, my mind cataloging the research points I’d focus on today. Points I’d fix, and I was determined to do it. I could impress them. I just had to do my job well. Be the best damn researcher to ever research.

  I’d like to say that I didn’t care that Bianca hated me, but that would be a lie. I wanted her approval just as much as I wanted all of my professors’ and parents’ approval. I’d had professors who were hard-won and some who were determined to see me fail despite my efforts. The latter were the hardest; it was like my enthusiasm about my education somehow offended them, like they’d rather I didn’t want to learn anything, like they’d prefer if only students who were failing did the extra credit without seeming to consider that maybe I wanted to do it. Not to be an ass-kisser, but because I genuinely enjoyed learning.

  But Bianca was on a level I’d had yet to encounter, like I was inconvenient and in her way. I wondered if I were more like her if she’d be more inclined to work with me. If I were bright and shiny, confident and outgoing, would she have respected me on first glance? If I had a closet full of pantsuits and pencil skirts, would she have been impressed on the jump?

  I sighed, popping in my headphones as I headed out of my room, snagging an oatmeal pie and opening my book on my way out of the house. Ol’ Dirty Bastard suggested I knock a motherfucker’s teeth out, but I figured assault probably wouldn’t help me secure a positive review.

  Thanks anyway, ODB.

  I nibbled on my cream pie with my nose in my book, moving with the flow of pedestrians easily. That was, until a woman darted through to the curb. She slammed into me—my book spiraled into the air in slo-mo, and my oatmeal pie hit the pavement with a splat. Our height difference face-planted her directly into my boobs, sending us teetering, righting ourselves almost too late.

  “Holy shit,” she said, trying to step back, but she pulled me with her.

  We looked down, confused. In an attempt to catch herself, she’d thrown her arms out, and her bracelets were caught up in my sweater. But rather than take five seconds to untangle them, she yanked herself loose, unraveling the open knit, leaving a gaping hole next to a dangling loop of tan yarn.

  She was immediately off without another word, running for the curb with her hand in the air, calling, “Taxi!” like any of the cabs could hear her.

  I sighed, looking for my book, which had been stepped on, then my breakfast, which had also been stomped, leaving a boot print in the pie and the cream squirting out onto the sidewalk. And I did my level best not to cry.

  Inspectah Deck commiserated in my ear that life as a shorty shouldn’t be so rough. Not that I was a shorty in any sense of the definition, but still.

  Book dusted off and clutched to my chest, I made my way into the subway without reading a word, not willing to risk another collision. And, once sitting, I sighed at my ruined sweater, tying the long loop in a knot in the hopes it would hold for the day.

  I buried myself in the story, and by the time I got to work, I felt a tiny, little smidgen better. That was the only good thing about the long commute to the Upper East—I had plenty of time to get over ruined breakfasts and sidewalk collisions with sweater-rippers. And as I climbed those steps to the museum, I found a bit of the determination I’d had in abundance that morning.

  The museum was quiet, and the office was quieter, the only sound that ever-present hum of the air-conditioning, the halls abandoned but for one other curator who passed without looking at me. And as I approached Bianca’s office, I took a deep breath, straightened up, and stepped in.

  I forced a smile when she glanced up at me and dragged her eyes down my body, pausing on the stretched out hole in my tan sweater and once again on my khaki pants, not even making it to my shoes, which were brown and comfortable and admittedly a little ugly.

  I kept my smile where it was but felt it tighten unnaturally. “Morning,” I said, moving past her to my desk. “I’m sorry about yesterday, but I’m ready to take another shot. I had some ideas—”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  I paused. “I’m sorry?”

  She snapped her computer closed, her eyes glinting when they met mine. “I said, that. Won’t. Be. Necessary.” Each word was enunciated with painful, patronizing clarity. “Dr. Lyons was…unhappy about yesterday, and I’m not willing to disappoint him for you. If your performance reflects on me, I’ll make sure there’s no opportunity for error. So, I’ll take care of it myself. Go to the stacks. Work on your dissertation. And stay out of my way.”

  “I know I can do this, Bianca—”

  “Dr. Nixon,” she corrected coldly.

  My cheeks flushed so hard, they almost hurt. “I…I’m sorry, Dr. Nixon. I promise, I won’t get it wrong again.”

  “I don’t have time to find out whether or not that’s true. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

  She turned to her computer, and I stood there for a painful moment before turning on my heel and rushing out of her office, my head down and nose burning with tears.

  But before I could escape, I slammed straight into a marble statue.

  Dr. Lyons’s body was hard enough to hurt when I bounced off him, his hands like clamps on my upper arms when they caught me, his eyes like flint when they met mine. His face was chiseled and stony, his jaw square and set, his lips full and sensual, flat, except for the slight curl at the corner of one side.

  Amusement, I thought, and my horror deepened.

  I imagined that was as close to laughing as he ever got. And he was laughing at me.

  “I didn’t see you there,” he said, his voice deep and rumbling, close enough that I could feel his breath
on my face, smell mint and spices on his breath and suit, see the flecks of silver and blue in his stormy irises.

  “I…” I breathed, my eyes locked on his for a second too long before I pulled away in a whirl and fled.

  My heart thundered as I beelined for the bathroom, the sound of my pulse deafening, my breath ragged and aching with every draw. I blew through the door and pushed it closed, leaned against it and closed my eyes, wishing I could disappear.

  Rejection and shame slipped over me like a rogue wave.

  Bianca—Dr. Nixon—had cut me off at the knees, leaving me no chance at redemption, giving me no quarter. I would be confined to the stacks, potentially all summer, to learn nothing about the job or department I was supposed to be interning for.

  It was almost worse than being fired.

  And then there was Dr. Lyons.

  I didn’t see you.

  No one ever did because, typically, I didn’t want them to. I was recognized strictly as an oddity and then passed by, dismissed. When I looked down at my clothes, I couldn’t even blame him for missing me—I was wearing fifty shades of khaki. Nothing about me stood out but my height, and for once, I hated the fact that I’d cultivated an appearance of such colorless camouflage. I was dressed head to toe in the equivalent of oatmeal, bland and lumpy and unappetizing.

  But I didn’t have to be oatmeal. Not when I could be Boss Bitch.

  I turned to the mirror, inspired by a manic shot of bravado, setting my backpack on the counter so I could rifle through it in search of that little tube of salvation. Hope sprang when my fingers found it. And when I saw that shiny metal bullet in my hand, all I wanted to do was fire the gun. So I did.

  I twisted the base, the blood red rising to meet me, the angle of the tip perfect, untouched. And with more confidence than I knew I had in me, I touched it to my lips. It went on smooth, but my unpracticed hand was timid, taking far longer than it should to figure out how hard to press, the best angle and motion to use. Shaping the edges to match the shape of my lips was the hardest part of all. I couldn’t get the damn line straight, and it wobbled in spots, but after several minutes of hyper-focus, I stepped back to assess myself.