Pretty Smart Girls

by Shae Ross

  “Good morning.” Mrs. Trott bounces in with a sunny smile, followed by Jillian. “And how’s everyone feeling after their first day of competition?”

  “Great,” Jett says with an arrogant smile. Mrs. Trott laughs and nods.

  “Well, congratulations on your win yesterday, gentlemen, and, ladies, let me just say, there’s plenty of game left. Today may very well be your day.”

  “We’re certain it is, Mrs. Trott,” I say in a definitive tone, not bothering to look at Jett.

  At the back of the room Robert is making his entrance, now ten minutes late. “Sorry,” he murmurs as he sinks into his chair. He’s pale and unshaven, but Mrs. Trott seems unfazed as she claps her hands silently together. “Let’s get started then. It’s been brought to our attention that there may be some animosity developing between teams.” She clears her throat, and her freckles disappear into the crinkle of her nose. “Or at least between certain team members.”

  I’m sure the blush flushing my skin is making me look guilty as charged. I glance sideways at Jett, and he’s staring straight ahead with an unaffected expression. Oh no, it couldn’t possibly enter Mr. Perfect’s head that she might be talking about him.

  “It’s natural that these sorts of issues develop, particularly when there’s a lot at stake. But here at Trott Ventures, as in the real world, there may be times you have to work with people you may not care for; people whose goals and motivations may even contradict with your own.” She holds an upturned palm into the air. “For example, you may have to work next to someone who is competing with you for the same promotion.”

  Robert interjects, “Nonetheless, it is a value that Trott Ventures instills in our people. Everyone treats one another with respect.” His eyes land on Jett. My mind echoes, You tell ’em, Robert.

  It’s Jillian’s turn, and she’s looking at me. “Our father taught us we have both external and internal customers. Our external customers buy our products, but I would encourage all of you to think of your fellow employees as your internal customers. The happiness of our workforce is of great importance to the security of our operations.”

  Mrs. Trott steeples her fingers and continues. “Today’s mission is meant to demonstrate the importance of respecting your coworkers and your competition.” I uncross my right leg, shift in my seat, and cross my left leg. I do not like the way this is going.

  “This morning you will be dividing up into three coed teams. You and your partner will work together to accomplish your assignments. At the end of the day, you will score each other’s performances. The board will consider the scores and award the final points to each individual. To win today’s competition, Team Ryan or Team Jett will need to have the most cumulative points.

  “Any questions?”

  Crickets.

  “We will allow you to pick your own partners, but they must be from the other team.” Before she’s even finished the sentence, Vaughn is standing next to Jade. Devi steps back and slides up against Ben’s shoulder. Ben raises his chin, and they stare straight ahead like American Gothic.

  I glance at Jett, and he has a look of mild amusement on his face. We can hardly complete a sentence without sniping at each other. I’m hoping the truce he offered me at the bar last night extends to the boardroom, but somehow I doubt it. I certainly don’t trust him. It’s gonna be a loooong day.

  Jillian escorts the teams to their separate rooms. Jett and I follow her with the speed of pack mules starting off on a trail ride. She hands Jett a manila task envelope and makes a cheeky noise with her mouth. “Play nice, kids.”

  The door clicks shut behind her.

  “I’m not any happier about this than you are,” he says, tearing open the envelope.

  “Just get to it,” I snap.

  He shoots me a warning look. “I hope you don’t think you’re going to boss me around all day, Sassy Pants.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  He unfolds the document and reads aloud, “Trott Ventures believes in supporting worthy causes with our time and resources. This year, our target goal is to divide our charitable dollars between three national charities. We have already identified two charities and will pick one more from the teams’ proposals today. Agree on one national charity and create a pitch to share with the board. Choose a spokesperson to present your proposal. Trott Ventures will donate $50,000 to the winning team’s charity.”

  “I’ll be the spokesperson,” he says without so much as a glance my way.

  “Why you?” You arrogant lout.

  He looks at me as if my hair is purple. “Because I was president of Michigan’s debate team and we won the nationals last year.”

  “So what?”

  He laughs at my sneering response. “Well, I guess we could make the decision based on something other than credentials…” His eyes move up and down my body, and I swear I’m going to karate chop his face before this day is over.

  “The important word is we,” I remind him. “We make the decision, not you.” I wave my hands dramatically across the air in a circular motion in front of him. “Hello, I am still here. I do exist.”

  He tilts his head down and raises an eyebrow. “Believe me, I know you exist, Rose.” Our eyes hold in a standoff. “Okay then, tell me your credentials,” he says.

  I raise my chin. “I’ve had plenty of experience on stage.”

  “On stage doing what?” I hesitate a moment, and he shakes his head. “You’re not talking about that stint you did as an auto-show model, are you?” My mouth drops open. His head falls back, and he laughs aloud.

  “How did you know that?” I snap.

  “If you do a web search for Ryan Rose, it’s the first picture that comes up; you wiggling your assets next to the new Alante.” He presses his elbows tight against his midsection and moves his hips in an exaggerated circle.

  “You are absolutely not doing that right,” I say, raising a cynical eyebrow.

  He turns his backside toward me and shakes it. “How about now?”

  “Nope— not even close,” I say, fighting off a laugh.

  He stands and faces me again. “Well, perhaps you could give me a lesson after the real work’s done,” he says in a playful tone, as if it’s a challenge he’d be happy to accommodate.

  “That’s not my only experience in front of an audience,” I say.

  “How about we decide who will present once we have our proposal material nailed down?” he says, pulling a seat out for me.

  “Agreed.”

  “I already have a proposal we can use,” he says, flopping into the seat across from me.

  “What?”

  “I wrote a grant request for Ele’s Place last semester. We can pull the information I compiled, tweak a few lines, and we’ll have our proposal.” I’m staring at him, contemplating what he’s saying. “Ele’s Place is a center for grieving children who have lost their parents,” he starts to explain.

  “I know all about Ele’s Place. They’re a great organization but…”

  “It makes perfect sense to me—if I already have a proposal, why not use it?”

  “And what are we going to do all day, stare at each other?”

  “Actually, I have some work to do for my job.”

  “Your job? What job?”

  He hesitates a beat. “I’m filling in for someone at my dad’s company.”

  “You’re working on the side while the rest of us compete?”

  “You don’t understand my dad.”

  “Right now I’m trying to understand you.” He lets out a long breath and rakes his hair with his fingers.

  We stare at each other and his face mirrors the frustration I’m feeling. “I have another idea for a proposal,” I say, trying to remove the edge from my voice.

  He shrugs. “Let’s hear it.”

  “Well, it’s not written yet.”

  He looks at me like he’s not going to budge on using his proposal. “All right then, just give me an outline.”
<
br />   I drop my hands into my lap. I really wanted to propose the pancreatic cancer organization— but if I tell him that, he’ll want to know why, and I’ll end up having to talk about my dad’s death. I need to organize my thoughts before words start tumbling out of my mouth—there’s always the chance when I talk about my dad I will slide down the emotional slope of no return and end up sniveling. I smooth my hands over my skirt and think while he watches with an expectant look. I’m torn. I really don’t want to pass up this opportunity to do something good for the organization that did so much to help me and my mom after Dad died. Fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money. “How about if I just put my presentation together and after lunch we can present to each other and decide which one we use,” I offer.

  “And how will we decide which one to use if we each prefer our own?”

  “Rock-paper-scissors,” I say.

  “Works for me.” He swipes open his iPad and shoots me a smile that makes his eyes spark. “Let me know if you need any spelling help.”

  “How do you spell fuck off?” I ask, returning a closed-lip smile.

  “Come on now, Ryan. I told you, you’ve got to use more two-syllable words.”

  “Oh yeah, that’s right. How about fuck off, asshole?”

  “That’s better,” he says, laughing.

  “I’m glad you’re happy. Now shhhhh. I’m trying to work here.”

  I open the laptop and watch the remnants of his smile disappear as he starts reading his screen.

  The time ticks by with nothing between us except the intermittent tapping of my fingers on the computer keys. I sneak glances at Jett, engrossed in his work. He’s moving between his iPad, cell phone, and a pad of paper, crunching numbers.

  I finish writing my first three pages of content and glance at him over the top of my screen. He’s turning a pencil back and forth in his hand, tapping point then eraser, contemplating a series of numbers. I wonder if Jade and Devi are having more success working with Ben and Vaughn, and something about that thought makes me sad. I rest my elbow on the table and lean my chin on a closed fist. I’m sure this isn’t what the Trotts had in mind when they paired us up. Is it my fault? I’m sure he thinks I’m too bossy to work with. I’m at least partially responsible.

  Jett looks up and I realize I’ve let out a small sigh.

  “You need me?” he asks in a genuine tone.

  I shake my head, a bit surprised by his offer. “No,” I say, and drop my gaze to my fingers on the keys. On to page four.

  At twelve thirty p.m. Jillian comes in and tells us there are sandwiches in the conference room on the fourth floor. I’m starving. I stand up and massage the sides of my neck with my hands. Jett’s still crunching numbers. Hmm. My hand reaches for the door and I stop. “You’re not coming?”

  “No. Thanks. I’m gonna keep going here…see if I can get through it.”

  I delay my step, considering whether I should offer to bring him anything, but his attention is already back on his iPad. I head out.

  When I return to Jett thirty minutes later he’s where I left him, reading across his screen. Sitting in the break room watching Devi laugh with Ben and Jade and Vaughn discussing the order of their presentation, made me feel…well, bad. I had the idea to bring him lunch as sort of a peace offering. He looks up and sees what I have in my hands and his eyebrows raise.

  I motion toward him. “I brought these for you.” He leans back in his chair and inspects me with a skeptical gaze as I lay the chips and half a turkey sub in front of him. I hold the Coke out and he leans slowly forward and takes it from me.

  “Thank you, Rose.” He starts to unwrap the sandwich with an amused look. “Do I need to check this for hot peppers or worms or something?”

  I cast a sideways glance but don’t answer him. What am I going to say? “I really am a nice person?” Jett sure hasn’t seen much of that. This day is even worse than I thought it would be. I thought we’d spend the day taking shots at each other. Instead we’re completely disconnected and not even attempting the task that the Trotts presented. I can see Jett out of the corner of my eye, still watching as I cross to the other side of the table and sit.

  He cracks open his Coke. “How’s it going?” he asks. I glance up at him and see his expression has mellowed into a look of concern.

  “It’s fine,” I say, sounding anything but fine. I flip open the laptop, resolving to get back to business. I see him watching me as he bites into the sandwich. He finishes the Coke and crumples the waxy sandwich wrap into a ball. He raises an arm and pitches it across the room. It hits the wall and thuds into the wastebasket. I keep typing.

  I have organized all of the factual data I want to use in my PAN-CAN presentation. I finish writing my sixth page of content. Now I want to focus on talking about my dad and how the pancreatic cancer organization helped my mom and me when he died. I just need to find a balance between presenting material that’s too emotional for me and material that stirs a response in the others. I rest my elbows on the table and let out a sigh.

  My fingernails click against the keys. “My dad was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer two days before Thanksgiving and died January third. We spent our last Christmas with him…” My fingers stop and I brace my elbows against the table. I steeple my hands and lean in so that they cover my mouth. Deep breath. I won’t be able to say that without breaking down in front of the group. I need a better transition. I hit the return button and arrow up.

  I write about how my mom and I started attending PAN-CAN events. “When you’re a child and a parent suddenly disappears from your life, you feel completely alone…” Tears blur the words on the screen. I hit the return button twice. I’ll come back to that.

  “We lost Dad but we also lost our lifestyle, and watching my mom crying while she tried to break the news to me that we had to stop dance classes, cancel the spring break vacation, and move to an apartment was the worst. Watching her sadness magnified my own. The PAN-CAN organization afforded me the opportunity to be with kids who shared similar experiences…” The sound of my fingers tapping the keys fades as the gray letters blur behind the tears glistening in my eyes. I try to hold back but I blink one loose and then another. My thoughts are now muddled with my tangled emotions. Shit.

  Jett has his feet up on the corner of the table, ankles crossed, iPad in his lap, eating chips.

  A sniffle escapes me and he looks up.

  “Hey,” he says. His voice holds a tone of shock. I keep typing and ignore him. He drops his legs off the table, sets the iPad and chips down, and leans forward.

  “Ryan? What’s wrong?”

  I keep typing and two more tears plop down my cheeks. I type in the words, “I can’t do this!” I punch my finger over the exclamation key and it makes a hard thumping noise. My hands form L’s on the bottom of the computer. I shove it across the table and stand. Jett bolts upward and looks as if he’s going to come toward me. I hold my hands in front of my waist to keep them from shaking and I glance between him and the laptop.

  I let out a defeated breath. “I’m going to the bathroom,” I say, and I start to move past him. His hand reaches out and grips my forearm as I pass. Warm fingers hold me in place.

  “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  “It’s nothing you would understand,” I say.

  “Try me,” he says.

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath. His thumb moves over my skin. I shake my head. “I can’t do my presentation. I really want to but I don’t trust myself to get through it…we’ll just go with your material.” I wipe the back of my hand over the wet streak down my cheek.

  His gaze skims my features.

  “The subject I am writing about is too emotional for me.” He tilts his head a notch and his gaze softens. He’s about to say something but I interrupt before he can. “I just need a minute.” I nod to the door, my eyes pleading with him to let me go. It’s torture for me to stand here in front of him, blubbering. His fingers move reluctantly down m
y arm and slide off of my skin.

  I exit our workroom and see Jillian and Robert conversing in the hallway. They hear me and turn. Crap. Robert’s mouth drops open and he flies to my side.

  “Ryan. Are you okay?” His hands hold the top of my arms in a too-familiar grip. I scrunch my shoulders and pull back.

  “What happened?” he asks, and he turns an accusatory look back toward our workroom.

  “I’m fine,” I say, trying to act as if nothing’s happened. He counters my efforts to pull back by tightening his hold.

  “Are you sure? You don’t look fine.”

  “I’m sure. It’s not what you think.” His eyes squint at me and he looks as if he doesn’t want to leave off with that explanation.

  “Can I get you anything?” he says, and his gaze roams over my face.

  “No.” I smile dismissively at him. “Really, I’m actually feeling much better.”

  “You let me know if…if you need me,” he says, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. Ewww.

  “I will. I promise,” I say, moving his arms down. Jillian sounds an audible tsssk. Is she serious right now? Like it’s my fault her brother’s a perv. I pass to the bathroom and press a half smile at her, which she doesn’t return. The vibe I’m getting from Robert Trott is turning into an unsettling rumble shifting my stomach.

  Fifteen minutes later I come back into the room. Jett’s standing, staring out the window. He turns and his look reaches out to me. “You all right?”

  “I’m fine.” I shrug my shoulders and offer a quick apology, hoping to dismiss the incident. A long silence passes, and I can see him measuring my words.

  “You still want me to present my material?

  “Yeah. If you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind,” he says, and his voice sounds willing to help.

  “Did you want to email yourself the Ele’s Place report?” I notice he’s turned the computer screen toward his side of the table already.