The Thunder Beneath Us

by Nicole Blades

  CHAPTER 25

  This time the receptionist looks me straight in the face and holds her gaze throughout our interaction. It’s still quiet and creepy up here, but I’m not nervous this time. Not about this meeting. I’m definitely curious about why they’ve called me back for another meeting, but not nervous. My anxiousness centers around the fact that I still need to book a flight to Montreal. Yesterday was all about wrapping things up with this Fatima story for Hudson—and recovering from the Lindee blizzard. I don’t know if there’s a way back with her. I was half-expecting her to be usual Lindee, in a constant state of just DGAF. But she showed me. That was definitely Give A Fuck mode. Somehow I thought she’d appreciate the straight-talk and want to hear me out, give me a chance to do better by her.

  Wrong. I was so, so wrong on that one.

  And with Kendra—this is the longest we have ever gone without speaking or texting or anything. I started writing her a letter last night when I couldn’t sleep. It took me hours, the attention placed on getting the right wording; plus, it’s handwritten. I left a small mountain of ripped-up stationery by my bedside. I still need to finish hers today—a couple more lines and it’ll be ready. The one to Tyson wasn’t as grueling, and I know he’ll definitely read it and get back to me. He’s good that way. Our thing is different. He has plenty of his own secrets and shaded-out bits of life tucked under his fly fedoras. I doubt he’ll judge and jury me. As soon as I get out of this meeting, I’m not going home. Straight to Starbucks with these letters and off they will go. I even have special Love stamps held over from the summer. (Kendra always made fun of me for that, still buying stamps. Maybe the stamp will be the sliver of heart and levity that I need to break through to her.)

  If only this meeting would start already. I should probably use this time to figure out how to tell Agnes and Robot that I’ll be taking more days off to go home because my dad’s sick. I have a feeling they’ll understand. I did just drop a stellar story in their laps, for chrissakes. Actually, maybe that’s what this is. Maybe they called me back in to tell me that they’re making Fatima the cover. I’ll probably bust out in laugh-cry when they tell me. Or maybe I’ll just hold firm and keep it moving, start talking about the details of the cover shoot, like how they should handle her hair makeover. Nothing drastic; keep it understated, modest. Either way, I’m dressed for war, right down to my back-zip, high heel, suede Gucci boots. Trinity will never catch me sleeping again. I’ve even got a few stinging quips with her name on them just frosting up my back pocket, should the need arise.

  Here it comes, the clicking heels. I’m basically forcing myself to not look over my shoulder right now as she approaches. I’m going act like I’m so deep in my super- important thoughts that she’ll have to say my name twice before I acknowledge her. Like I said, I invented this shit.

  “Best?”

  It’s not Trinity, but some knockoff standing there with a weak smile and UGG boots. Her hair is long—like T’s was before she went Devil Wears Prada—and she has a tattoo snaking up her arm: a flock of flying swallows.

  “Hi, I’m Summer,” she says, jutting out her hand right between my boobs. Her voice is raspy like a hungover sorority pledge and her handshake feels similar to squeezing a package of frozen peas. “Finally, right? I feel like me and your voice mail should go out for drinks.” Now, her laugh—how shall I put this? It’s near identical to the sound of a cat choking on wet tissue. I want to reach over and cover her mouth with my bare hand, anything to end the grisly sound.

  “Or maybe a smoothie,” I say. “My voice mail’s been sober for two years.” Christ, what I’m doing? The yucky cackle is out again, louder this time. And she’s bucking her head too—nodding, I guess. And I did mention that she’s wearing UGGs, right? I’m being punk’d.

  “I shouldn’t be laughing,” she says. (No, you definitely should not.) “It’s been a weird week already.” Summer gathers herself by physically pulling the smile down from her face. I’ve never seen anything like this from anyone other than a children’s party clown on television. “Sorry about that. Goofy lately. Are you ready to head in?”

  “Yeah, let’s go.”

  “Actually, we’re heading up to thirty,” she says, and starts toward the elevators.

  “Oh, really? Is legal joining the meeting?”

  “No.” The goofy TV clown is gone and Summer’s face is dour.

  “So, why are we meeting on thirty?”

  She presses the up button several times, pauses, and goes back to the useless move. “You’re meeting with James Kessler first.”

  “First?”

  “Yes.”

  The elevator arrives and Summer rushes in. I don’t. I’m not going anywhere until I get a sense about what’s waiting for me on thirty. Summer is clearly agitated by my resistance. She opens her mouth to speak, it seems, but only a loud cluck of her tongue comes out.

  “What’s going on with this meeting? Is this about my Fatima story? Just tell me.”

  She looks like the unlucky hostage tasked with being the gunman’s messenger, the point of his weapon sharply jabbing at her back. Summer’s hand flies to the inside panel (the door open button, I imagine) while waving the other arm in the open doors’ space.

  “What is this meeting about? I’m not moving until you answer.”

  Her eyes widen. More tongue clucks. “Okay, yes, it’s about your story. Now could you get on, please? The alarm’s gonna go off any second.”

  “Who’s up there?”

  “Best, you need to get on here. Unless you plan to take the stairs.”

  “Just tell me, who all is up there?”

  “James Kessler. That’s who’s up there, waiting. So please, could you just—”

  “All right. Whatever. I’m on. Calm down.”

  Summer presses the button hard. We ride the three floors in silence. Getting my bitch face on straight is proving challenging with her ridiculous boots staring up at me. I pull something out anyway and keep my eyes away from the giant mirror to my right.

  We approach a wide-open office door. The room is long and deep and with the manufactured brightness of a television soundstage. I spot JK first. She’s angled away from the door, sitting on the edge of a high-back leather chair. Her hair is up and from what I can see she’s dressed in total stark black.

  My heart drops to my stomach.

  James Kessler is all about softness and cloudless glow. It’s whites, pastels, gauzy delicates. That includes her shoulder-length white blond hair, which is usually down, framing her milky face. She only does the cold, all-black clothes, high-bun combo if she’s bringing bad news. When she told the staff about the company-wide layoffs: hair up, all black. Announcing the cancer death of Kelly Woodrow, veteran photog and the mag’s first-ever art director: hair up, all black. Even when Hollywood’s so-called hottest couple confirmed their breakup earlier this year: bun, black. (The better blond half of that power duo was on our cover that month, and advertising and PR were basically rolling around on the floor tearing off their clothes in a tantrum like toddlers in the toy aisle.)

  JK is nodding while a woman I don’t recognize speaks to her. I can’t hear a word, not even a lisp. The woman is leaned back at her desk. She’s wearing a navy suit jacket with something silky and draped underneath. I catch a glimpse of some sparkly, long necklace drooped down the front of the jacket—the whole outfit is exactly something the Robot would covet, which tells me two things: she’s got to be from HR or legal, and this is the end for me. I don’t bother looking to Summer for any confirmations, I can feel it. The only question now is why, but maybe that doesn’t even matter. So I step deeper into the Coliseum and ready myself for whichever beast they send for me first.

  Summer knocks on the door behind me.

  “Ah, Best,” JK says, startled. “Please, come in. Shut the door and have a seat.”

  There are two chairs near JK. I take the one right next to her. I want to see her raw blue eyes when she shanks me.
>
  I read somewhere that one should enter into any potential rejection scenario with the biggest smile and shine you can muster (all right, fine—it was a piece in James mag about getting dumped by your man . . . and I wrote it). Acting like it’s your very best day might lead the person turning you down to rethink their decision. It’s very last-ditch, but there were actual studies and experts backing this shit up, so, worth a try. I think I’m about to get pushed out the side of a plane without a working parachute, so last-ditch is my speed right now.

  Stepping right up to Power Suit’s desk, I smile and extend a firm hand. “Hello, Best Lightburn. Thanks for having me in.”

  She seems a little stunned. (The desired effect.) She stands and shakes my hand. “Yes, hello. I’m Kathleen Martin. Of course you know James.”

  “Hi,” I say to JK warmly and gently touch her forearm. “You look great.”

  JK is also baffled and tries to smile her way through it.

  Before I can cross my legs all the way, Kathleen starts up. “Best, I work with both human resources and Millhause-Steig’s legal departments as a consultant. I feel we should let you know straightaway why you’re here.”

  “Yes, please do, Kathleen. I’m all ears.” I’m trying to keep this relaxed brow and smile-from-the-eyes thing going, but I might crack at any minute.

  “James, would you like to jump in here?”

  I turn my hanging-by-threads sunny disposition toward JK; bat my lashes too. She actually looks sad—sadder than the day Susie left.

  “Sure,” JK says. “I’m really sorry, but we’re ending our contract with you, Best. Effective immediately.”

  “Wait . . . what do you—I’m sorry, but ending my contract? I had a meeting with . . . They’re running my big feature story in Hudson and our magazine, together. Both magazines. I just filed all my source info yester—huh. Right. I filed all my background info yesterday.” It’s the sound of a thousand mousetraps snapping at once. “I was still on contract yesterday. So you own the story now. It’s all yours. Of course.”

  JK’s eyes shoot over to Kathleen, but I stay on her. I don’t care. JK’s been in the game a long time. She can handle my red glare.

  “Ms. Lightburn, as you know, this was not a personal nor easy decision for anyone here at Mill—”

  “Are you serious, right now? This is what you’re doing to me?”

  JK finally looks my way. “Best, this is not an attack. You know there have been issues and this was a difficult decision, for everyone.”

  “Issues? I just brought in a huge story for you. A winner. What issue do you have with that? You don’t want to win awards—real ones that have nothing to do with red lipstick and workouts to help you drop five jean sizes in a week?”

  “That’s not fair, Best,” JK says.

  “Fair? Do you really want to talk about fair?”

  “Excuse me, Ms. Lightburn,” Kathleen says, “but this is not the kind of discussion we planned to have. The decision has already been made and it took a great deal of consideration on all parts. However, I should remind you that we have a full file with documentation about everything.”

  “Everything. Everything like what?”

  “Dating back two years ago, your deposition is still in here. More recently, we had an incident with serious inaccuracies in a story you wrote”—she looks down at a notebook—“for the shame issue for James magazine. There were a number of attempts made from various and numerous coworkers at the magazine to contact you to discuss these inaccuracies. All efforts were unsuccessful. There are records of phone calls, voice mails, copies of e-mails sent to you that went unanswered. There was even a meeting called with the research department, your editors, and manager that you chose not to attend. It’s also noted that you were contacted about the meeting by James Kessler’s then assistant—directly by phone—yet you still refused to attend.”

  “I was away in Canada, visiting my parents. I remember speaking to Trinity, or James’s then assistant, in person earlier that week, reminding her of my time off—which was approved.”

  “There are also some serious issues with this last story you filed. You falsely stated to a Mr.—”

  “I’m sorry, but I did what I had to do to get the story. I got it. It’s good and two magazines here are publishing it. Everything in that story is true and the backup—which you now have, by way of three-card monte—shows that. There’s nothing false about any of it.”

  “Best, you falsely used the magazine and the company’s name and reputation to move through this story that was never assigned or approved,” JK says. “Trinity has proof of all of this. No one’s just making it up.” JK is talking to me like a teenager busted for cheating on the final or stealing Dad’s car or whatever restless, uninspired children do.

  “Trinity has plenty of proof about plenty of things, it seems,” I say, shaking my head.

  “Best, that’s not fair,” JK says again, her face washed in disappointment.

  “James, it’s fine,” Kathleen jumps in, holding her hand up. “Ms. Lightburn, the purpose of this meeting is not for you to argue your case or accuse coworkers of deception. It’s been decided. We’re letting you go.”

  “But keeping my story.”

  “Actually, it’s Millhause-Steig’s story, Ms. Lightburn, and again, we’re not here to argue through this. The section on ownership rights and representation is clearly outlined in your original and updated signed contracts. The purpose of this meeting is not to rehash any of that.”

  “So what is the purpose of this meeting, then? To throw acid in my face, rub salt in?” I turn to JK. “Because that’s what you’re doing here.”

  “We called you in so that we may be clear about what’s happening: Your contract has been terminated and we need your signed acknowledgement showing your acceptance of that fact. If you have any questions regarding severance or 401(k) contributions, there’s information that might answer those concerns in this packet.” Kathleen slides the thin envelope to the end of the desk toward me. “There’s also contact information for Wendy Myers, who handles exiting employees, with a focus on editorial contracts.” She looks at me and through me, as if pity would be too much for her to spare.

  “And, Best, I just want to say that I’m sorry,” JK says. “This is not how anyone hoped things would go. But you’ll be fine. I know that much.”

  Kathleen keeps her frozen stare on me.

  JK’s neurons must be melting throughout her brain and she’s likely grinding her molars to dust at Kathleen’s brusque approach. JK hates the lack of grace more than anything, more than gum-chewing, more than stay-at-home mothers—and those two sit pretty high on her loathing list as it is. But she also can’t stomach disloyalty.

  “Are you prepared to sign?” Kathleen says, almost yawning.

  There’s something my father would often say to us when we were trying to argue a point with him about why we didn’t want to do the homework or the chore or the whatever. We—usually Benjamin or me—would try to hold our ground in our arrogance, just wrong and strong, battling against Dad’s clear experience and common sense. And he’d say: There’s nothing more pitiful than a confident fool.

  I feel JK’s sad eyes on me, and I nod. “Yeah. I’ll sign.”

  CHAPTER 26

  MagDrag.com is doing me dirty. It’s been three-and-a-half weeks since I got axed and there’s been a crappy post about me every other day. Move the fuck on. If I ever meet “a source close to Lightburn”—clearly a good, caring friend who knows me so very well—I’m going to spit clean in their eye. All the bullshit this “source” person has been spewing about me, about my past stories, about my rumored relationships. The only reason I even read these dumb posts and the comments sections on these dumb posts is because I’m terrified someone will rip the covers off of everything between Nik and me. But nothing. Not even a whiff of something funky. Instead they linked me to Eldon, from the mailroom. How would that even help me, having a secret relationship with th
e head of the mailroom? First, that Eldon is sex on a stick. If you ever had the good fortune of bumping into him in the Millhause skylight gym—sweat nasty, rocking those basketball shorts, that tight tank—you will consider yourself blessed. Getting to roll around with that dude on the regular—please, I would not be keeping that shit secret. Poor Eldon, dragged through the social-media mud for no good goddamn reason. At least his picture popped up in a thumbnail a few times, looking princely and sweet with those chalk-white teeth. That should net him a few cell numbers and business cards from hot-body gyals in a de dancehall.

  At first I could’ve sworn the source was Trinity, still digging her dagger in my back. Then there was the Miyuki Butler factor, but she had no clue how much I despised her, unless Trinity decided to enlighten her on my regular clowning fest. It still didn’t fit. Miyuki Butler is not the “revenge is a dish best served” type. Plus, there’s nothing in it for her. She has the job she always wanted and I’m gone. She’s pretty set.

  Some of the information in the latest MagDrag posts sounded straight made-up, and that smog blog has never been about integrity. The fact that they’re trying to call mine into question is laughable . . . although I’ve found it hard to skin my teeth about any of this stuff.

  Oh, but I did catch a reprieve earlier this week when the story broke about the Robot’s marriage flameout. Bauer actually broke the story on Tell Me More; MagDrag picked it up, as did “Page Six,” the real New York gossip god. The Robot’s husband, Gordon Gregory, filed for divorce after finding out that she’s been having an affair with a former Major League pitcher from the Mets. That she of buttoned-up navy suits and broaches was even sneaking around is mind-blowing enough, but add in the other bits—Affair going on for three years! Ballplayer’s a longtime, good friend of Gordon’s! Possible sex tape!—and we’re talking paradigm shift. It turns out Bauer was trying to get ahold of me near the end there to dig up more dirt on the Robot. He figured, who better to know what’s going on with the Robot than the only other black journalist at the magazine.