She's the Boss

by Lisa Lim

  Truong met my eyes from across the room and we both raised our eyebrows in reluctant admiration. Everyone seemed to be listening intently, hanging on to Carter’s every word as if he had a direct line to the Almighty.

  In a meeting like this, I undoubtedly felt the influence he wielded. And as much as I hated Carter, I had to admit, the guy was like duct tape. Simply put, he had a light side and a dark side to him … and he held shit together.

  Shit like this call center.

  “And two,” Carter’s voice carried across the room, “the only people who should be in this meeting are Karsynn Higginbotham, Deepak Prasad, Jewel de’Nyle and Shane West. The rest of you, please leave now. This meeting does not concern you. ”

  The conference room started emptying out and I found myself humming, “Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall. Ninety-nine bottles of beer. Take ninety-five down. Pass it around. Four bottles of beer on the wall.”

  And then there were four. Well, if you included Carter, then there were five.

  Carter sat down and began, “The four of you are in this meeting because I’ve received your application for the Project Manager position.” He stopped to let it sink in. “One thing you should know about me is that I have a somewhat unconventional approach to managing my team. I don’t simply look for opportunities to do the unexpected, I create them.”

  Deepak butted in quickly, “I know exactly what you mean! I’m constantly going against the grain, paddling against the tide, bursting through conventional wisdom, so to speak.”

  By now, Deepak had talked himself up so much that his head had blown up a thousandfold. An unlikely vision flashed before me. Deepak’s ginormous head was floating down Central Park West like a giant air balloon in Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

  Someone seriously needed to deflate that giant head of his.

  Meanwhile, Deepak carried on talking about Deepak. “People have always knocked down my ideas because they’re too far out there. But look at Google! It’s one of the most successful companies around and guess what? Like Carter, the Google team takes an unconventional approach to managing.”

  I groaned inwardly. Deepak’s false flattery was so transparent.

  “That’s true,” Carter acknowledged. “Google allows its employees to spend one day each work week focusing on their own projects. It sparks creativity. And this ‘non-work’ time has delivered fifty percent of Google’s offerings. Gmail, Google News and Google Talk—all spin-offs from these personal passion projects.”

  “My cousin works for Google!” Deepak exclaimed, almost too loudly. “And he tells me they have a workshop on campus for their employees. They use it to build projects out of metal, wood and Legos! Can you believe that? Legos!”

  I brightened. Now he had my attention. Legos were the building blocks of my childhood. “So.” I cleared my throat twice. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Carter, but if I’m reading you right, you’re actually giving us permission to play on company time?”

  “Funny you should mention that, Karsynn, because that’s exactly what we’ll be doing tomorrow.”

  “What are we doing?” I asked anxiously.

  “We are going on a field outing and we are going to play on company time.”

  “Why?” I frowned, slightly puzzled by this.

  “Let’s just say that it will help with my decision.”

  I blinked. “So you won’t be holding any interviews for the Project Manager position?”

  “Nope. This whole outing essentially replaces the need for interviews.”

  Hmmm. Interestinger and interestinger.

  Jewel fluffed her strawberry-blond curls. “What kind of outing are we talking about?”

  “Tennis and lunch afterward,” Carter informed us. “So dress appropriately and bring your tennis gear.”

  “It’s too hot to play tennis!” Jewel grumbled, holding a tennis racket that must have weighed more than her entire body. The sun was beating down on the tennis court and Jewel looked out of place and out of her element. To me, she belonged somewhere glamorously decadent. I often pictured her in a flowing stola, lounging on a divan with men in togas on each side, fanning her face and feeding her green grapes.

  “Hey!” Deepak nudged me in the ribs. “Check out the couple over there. You can watch a couple play mixed doubles and know whether or not they’re married.”

  Surreptitiously, I glanced over at the next court. An expensive blonde skipped to the net and missed the ball by a mile. Her partner shot her an endearing look. “Awww. You look so cute when you miss, baby cakes.”

  I turned to Deepak. “They’re definitely not married.”

  “Definitely pre-marital,” Deepak agreed.

  Meanwhile, across the net, the other couple was hissing at each other like a pair of Bengal tigers. “Don’t hold your racket like that, stupid!” the guy with the handlebar moustache was yelling at his partner. As the match went on, he continued to berate and blame his partner for every point they lost.

  “Post-marital,” I said with a gurgle of laughter. “Definitely post-marital.”

  “To err is human,” Deepak proffered, “to put the blame on someone else is mixed doubles.”

  “Anyway,” I carried on airily, “I’d never marry a tennis player. To them ‘love’ simply means nothing.”

  “All right,” Carter called out, “Karsynn and Deepak—you two will play against Jewel and Shane. I’ll umpire the match.” He paused for a fraction, surveying our determined faces. “Any of you have any questions?”

  Was this a test? Will the winning team vie for the Project Manager position?

  Instead of voicing my thoughts, I jogged onto the court, swinging my racket high in the air. Jewel overtook me and smirked. “Scared?”

  “You wish!” I shot back, my eyes following her as she went. I found myself drawn to Jewel’s slender legs; they seemed to stretch on forever and ever.

  I gave myself a mental shake and scolded myself for being grateful that her face had the bone structure of a komodo dragon.

  I began warming up with some aerobic squats and leg lunges. Taking my lead, Deepak started skipping sideways. Just as I felt my hamstrings burning, I overheard some snippets of Jewel’s conversation. “Now listen up, Shane,” she said tersely, “do you want to win or do you just want to play some tennis?”

  Shane huffed, “Of course I want to win!”

  “Then get out of my way,” she hissed, “and let me handle this match.”

  Deepak and I swapped knowing glances.

  Jewel seemed to think that she was all that, but sadly she was about to find out that she was not. For you see, I was about to go full on Venus-and-Serena on her dainty ass!

  “Hey guys!” Jewel taunted, idly playing with a lock of hair that had escaped from its ponytail. “I didn’t know that garden gnomes could play tennis.”

  Goaded, I glared back at her with my nastiest expression, but without her inner conviction of being so superior, I couldn’t carry it off properly. “Don’t you know that dynamites come in small packages? And besides, even the smallest person can change the course of the future.”

  “Hah!” Jewel snorted, aiming her racket at me. “You better watch out! Because I will be altering your future today.”

  “Hey Jewel!” Deepak yelled across the court. “Check your ego! And unless you’re using tampons, quit acting so stuck up.”

  Humph. Jewel could talk smack. I don’t get mad. I just get even.

  I’d show her who was the Wimbledon champ.

  “Quit lollygagging!” Carter shouted from the sidelines. “And let’s play some tennis!”

  “I’ll play the net and you stick to the base line,” said Deepak, jogging toward the net.

  That suited me just fine. “You got it!” I squinted unattractively in the afternoon sun, staring down my opponent. My strategy was simple; play at a steady level, serving hard and smashing low forehands. Jewel would soon be acquainted with my lethal weapon: my serve!

  Sc
runching up my face in concentration, I tossed the ball in the air, brought my racket down hard and heard the delicious THWOP as my racket connected with the ball. It was a one hundred mile per hour serve. The centrifugal force of my topspin struck Jewel right at her abdomen, pulverizing her ovaries.

  “OWWW!” Jewel squawked and Deepak punched the air. “Jewel, my dear,” he said with a satisfied smirk, “you just got served!”

  Carter yelled, “Fifteen-love.”

  Ace on the first serve! Hah! Take that Malibu Barbie!

  I jerked my head at Jewel. “And that was for calling us garden gnomes.”

  “Very nice serve!” Deepak thumped my back. “You were ferosh!”

  “Oh you ain’t seen nothing yet,” I said coolly.

  You only live once, but you get to serve twice. I swept my sweaty hair away from my face, tossed the ball in the air and drove my racket through it, sending the ball down the middle of the court.

  “RUN! RUN!” Jewel shrieked, running in circles. “Get the ball, Shane. GET THE BALL!” Then out of nowhere, Jewel came flying down the court, sprinting after the ball, tearing my eardrums asunder. “GET OUT OF THE WAY! OUT OF MY WAY! I’VE GOT THE BALL! I’VE GOT THE BALL!”

  The bitch was insane.

  As her racket struck the ball, she let out a sort of painful howl, a primal scream. Sweet baby Jesus! She sounded like a woman in the throes of childbirth without the aid of an epidural. The tighter the match became, the more Jewel’s grunts crescendoed into raging roars.

  I found it mildly annoying. I had always assumed that tennis players grunt because it enhances the power of their strokes, similar to how lunkheads grunt when they lift weights to gain a surge of strength.

  Today, that notion was quickly disproven.

  Jewel would lightly tap the ball when going for an easy volley and emit a scream of epic proportions.

  It went something like this: “UUUURRRRRRRRGGGGHHHH!” and “EEEEEERRRRGGGGGUUUUUH!”

  This went on for what seemed like hours.

  This endless sufferance.

  I was ready to slit my wrists and hemorrhage to death right in the middle of the tennis court.

  I wanted to smack her over the head with my racket so she’d really have something to grunt about.

  “What the hell?” I said irritably, wiping the sweat from my brows. “I’d hate to be next door to Jewel on her wedding night.”

  “I kind of like it.” Deepak smirked. “It sounds like she’s got a dildo permanently jammed up her clitoris set on vibrate.”

  “Um, you like hearing grunting noises as fuzzy balls get hit?” I threw him a peculiar look. “Weirdo!”

  Deepak made a face at me. “You’re the weirdo.”

  “No,” I shot back, “you’re the weirdo.

  “Shut up and serve!” Deepak snapped and I did. THWOP! The ball went soaring across the court.

  “OUT! OUT!” Jewel screamed. “The ball went OUT!”

  I yelled back, “The only thing that ball was out of was your reach!”

  Carter intervened, “It was out!”

  “What?” I demanded crossly. “You can’t be serious!” I fumed and flung my racket into the air in disgust.

  “Calm down, Kars,” Deepak scolded, “we need to keep our cool.”

  “I’m cool!” I said hotly, reaching down to retrieve my racket.

  Before I could take my place behind the baseline, Jewel hit a high lob.

  Deepak deemed it unreachable and yelled, “YOURS!”

  With amazing footwork, I ran backward and hit the ball between my legs, sending it back into my opponent’s court.

  Jewel lurched forward and returned it with a weak lob shot. The ball floated so high that it got lost in the sun.

  Hah! She would pay dearly for that! I coiled myself under the sun-touched ball that seemed to be hanging mid-air. As the floating ball gently curved and descended, I jumped up high in the air like a ninja and hit an overhead smash. The ball sliced through the court, kicking up dust near Jewel’s helpless baseline.

  Money shot!

  “YESSSSSS!” I screamed, feeling my endorphins skip with vengeful satisfaction.

  Deepak raced toward me and slapped me a high five.

  We ended up winning the first set.

  The second set went like this: Jewel would hit lob shots with topspin, and I would hit the return with backspin to keep the ball in play. And when she’d hit lobs with backspin, I’d return the shot with powerful topspin. Shane just sort of stood there like a village idiot.

  In the spirit of teamwork, I tried to include Deepak but instead of running toward the ball, he’d run away from it, yelling, “YOURS!”

  Miraculously, Jewel and Shane ended up winning the second set. But by the third set, they had lost steam. And they were no match for my formidable tennis forehand—my meat and potatoes shot. I was physically relaxed, mentally alert and played with poise, whereas Jewel was over fatigued and cracking at the seams. By then her grunting noises were reduced to that of a drowning cat. It was obvious to all that I had the overwhelming edge.

  With the determination akin to a mating salmon, I hardened my resolve and played even more aggressively, rushing, skidding, shuffling, reaching out to get one more shot, sharpening my already lethal service return. When I flashed a cheeky drop shot, Jewel just sort of froze. She stood there motionless, declining to even give chase. And when she did go after the ball, her sluggish backhand kept finding the net.

  I was closing in.

  After a long rally, the ball came close to the net and I chipped it. Jewel lurched forward and managed to get it back to me. I tore down the court and went diving for the ball, but it wasn’t enough. I became painfully aware that there was absolutely no way I could reach the ball unless I pulled a Hail Mary. Arms flailing, I made a heroic leap and flung my racket at the ball.

  Then time stood still.

  Actually, it just sort of slowed down. Everything seemed to move in slow-mo frames.

  Frame one: The racket went soaring through the air and nicked the ball.

  Frame two: Jewel made a low and guttural growl of protest, “NOOooooo.”

  Frame three: The ball went BOING, BOING, BOING, bouncing over the net, cross court.

  Frame four: Carter stood up and announced, “Game-set-match.”

  Frame five: Jewel screamed until she went puce.

  “Victory is ours!” I dropped to my knees, kissing the green court.

  Jaws were on the floor.

  Love was pouring over me like chocolate gravy on biscuits and bacon.

  Spectators were cheering.

  Wait, there were no spectators in the stands. Come to think of it, there were no spectators’ stands either.

  It did not matter.

  “Victory is ours!” I yelled once more, falling backward, spread-eagled and overcome with joy.

  Jewel folded her arms across her cage-like chest. “You were just lucky.”

  “Lay off the champ, will ya,” Deepak snapped. “We were badass!”

  “Damn straight,” I added smugly.

  “Really, Kars.” Deepak extended a hand and pulled me off the ground. “You’re not a bad player—for a girl!”

  “For a girl?” I slapped him on the back, almost winding him. “Talk about backhanded compliments.”

  Still, it didn’t faze me in the least. I was still easing down from the dizzying heights of Wimbledon stardom.

  Carter strode across the court and gave us a congratulatory smile. “Good game guys!” Then he turned his attention to Shane and Jewel. “The two of you can head on back to the call center now.”

  As the sore losers swept past us, Carter added, “Karsynn and Deepak, head on back to the locker rooms and clean yourselves up. You’ll be joining me for lunch at the club house.”

  I’d come prepared. Sensei Truong had taught me well. I was dressed to kill. To slay. After a quick shower, I got myself gussied up. I slipped on my J. Crew power suit and paired it with my studded black M
aneater heels. A quick glance in the full length mirror, a final flick of mascara and I was ready.

  The overall effect was smart business casual meets edgy rock chick.

  Then I power walked over to the power restaurant for our power lunch.

  On the way, I met up with Deepak and we immediately sized each other up to see who was the better dressed (definitely me, I surmised).

  His outfit was giving me the douchebumps.

  I could see the hallmarks of iron creases on the front of his skinny jeans.

  Who irons their jeans? Deuce Bigalow Male Gigolo, that’s who!

  And who wears nut squashers like that to a business meeting? His jeans were so tight they looked like they were painted on. I was fairly certain that if he farted, his Italian shoes would blow right off his feet.

  “So …” I fell into step beside Deepak. “What’s your strategy?”

  Deepak gave me a playful wink. “I’m just going to do what I do best.”

  No further explanation needed. Deepak had elevated ass kissing to a fine art, so I knew what to expect. “You’re such a brownnoser!”

  “Actually,” Deepak amended, “I’m more of an ass kisser.”

  “Same thing.”

  “Nope.” Deepak ran a hand through his gel-slicked hair, flashing his gold cuff-links. “There’s a big difference between ass kissing and brownnosing.”

  “Really?” I said mildly. “And what might that be?”

  “Depth perception.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Deepak, you’re so full of it.”

  “Hey, when I can’t dazzle with brilliance, I baffle with bull.”

  I sighed. Deepak always sounded so rehearsed, like an actor struggling to make the best of imperfect lines.

  “Trust me,” he carried on brightly, “it’s a clever strategy.”

  I raised a skeptical brow. “If you say so.”