Have You Met Nora?

by Nicole Blades

  She’s moving her head in an almost circular nod. Trinity doesn’t want to answer me and she definitely doesn’t want to look at me. I try to read her jerky movements anyway. Trinity Windsong Cohen (yes, real) is the worst with secrets. All three of my promotions were spoiled by her; the good news blurted out while she was latched to my forearm, in a red-knuckled grip. I move closer to her, lean in, open my clenched torso for any impromptu choke holds and last-minute reveals, but I hear nothing, just the muffled swish of the year-round space heater at her feet.

  “Um. Let me just check with James,” she says, finally. Her words are run together, her voice barely above a whisper.

  The churn in my stomach returns, and I brace for what’s coming. Maybe they’ll skip the meeting; have Trinity walk me to the kitchen for cupcakes and put me down with one bullet to the back of the head, Mafioso-style. I really wasn’t supposed to be here this long anyway.

  Trinity slams the phone down and looks right at me. “They’re ready for you.”

  “No cupcakes?” It falls out of my mouth before I have a chance to tuck the thing deep under my tongue.

  Her face wrinkles.

  “Sorry. I’m—I should go in.”

  JK meets me a few paces outside of her doorway, smiling, her eyes squinting. That’s exactly what she did last time too. It’s only been three months since I was here, walking toward JK’s tight grin and stepping into a roomful of dead-eyed, dark suits. It was my first transgression, but nothing about it feels truly forgiven. I know they’re all waiting for me to put my other pump square in the middle of the shit pile once more, and their collective doubt will be realized. No more waiting, suits, because here we go again—me being summoned to the office, again, for some mysterious reason. Again.

  All right. So that this doesn’t become Chekhov’s gun, here are the three things you need to know about what we’ll call The Mistake:

  1. Wrote a big cover story about a famous yoga instructor with A-list celeb clients, who occasionally taught classes for the Rest of Us out of her impossibly fabulous SoHo loft.

  2. The impossibly fabulous SoHo loft, I found out, actually belonged to her married beau. The married beau is also the publisher of your favorite celebrity-gossip mag and blog.

  3. I slipped this slimy piece of info into the story. Cut to a threatened defamation suit, a horrifying deposition with legal, and a retraction and apology. The PR girls still spit when they hear my name.

  I want to pray or vomit. I can’t figure out which will actually help. Instead, I clear my mind and step lively toward JK’s giant snow-globe office (seriously, everything is dusted in white). She opens her arms, waving me in like a banking jetliner. As I clear the corner, I see that no one from legal is there. I let my deep breath out, slow and quiet. However, the stranger seated by the window—this gives me pause. Shit. Maybe they found out about the honor-killing story. I’ve been working on it in ultra-stealth mode for months. It’s going to be my golden ticket, my way out of here. Of course, now it will be literally my way out of here. Not golden at all. More like gray, or whatever color goes with insubordination. I’m not technically supposed to be doing this story. But how did they find me out? These people here are barely journalists; there’s not a newshound in the bunch. Unless the mailroom guys—my guys—fucked up, and this is what it looks like right before the bus rolls over you.

  “Hey, superstar. Glad you could join us,” Susie says, as if I had a choice. Her voice is a little shaky, odd. All curly, auburn hair and outsized Clark Kent glasses, Susie is always steady. This right now is the opposite of steady, the opposite of Susie. She’s practically warbling. I plant my feet and slide into ready mode. I just decided, this minute, I’m choosing fight over flight. The only thing I don’t like is that my back is to the door, not the wall.

  I hear JK’s voice coming up alongside me. “Yes, come on in, Best. Very excited to have you here.”

  Stranger Woman, her skin like tempered dark chocolate, barely moves. Only her eyes angle toward me. Already, she’s not impressed. She remains seated, even though JK and Susie are standing.

  “Make yourself at home,” JK says. She gestures to the chair next to the woman. I want to say something strong, unfazed: No, thanks, I’m good here. But it’s tense enough. I walk over to the white leather seat to the woman’s right, leaving enough space between us for our mutual disapproval to rest. “Best Lightburn, meet Joan Marx,” JK says. Her grin is a little too wide, eyes glassy, like she just took a toke.

  Finally the woman moves. She stands up, her slim pigeon’s body bends at the middle, a smooth, shallow bow toward me. Her hair is in micro-braids and her makeup is too much. She’s dressed like the plainclothes detectives I see at the all-hours diner near my brownstone, but instead of a wrinkled silk tie to finish the look, she sports a large broach on her left lapel. It’s silver and shiny with raised, colored jewels. The control panel, I presume.

  I float my hand out to shake hers. The grip is fine, but her hands are clammy.

  Strike one.

  JK sidles up next to me and touches my arm, gives it a light squeeze—more a soft pulsing—call it whatever, it’s her trademark nurture move, something she perfected in twenty-eight years of running magazines filled with disparate, desperate (and often disordered) personalities. It works; my heart rate is slowing. Her moves always work on me: the arm pulsing, the wink, the random clothing compliment in the hallway, and the masterful combo of all three. It makes Janice “James” Kessler seem approachable (but she’s not) and makes you feel considered (but you’re not).

  Susie, still skittish, interrupts the tired magic trick and I get my arm back. “I’m actually a little nervous,” she says. “Maybe we should start. Sooner we do, sooner I can get that martini.” We all chuckle and mutter things, light, easy, like it’s being recorded for background noise on a movie. Stranger Woman is back in her seat, waxen and stiff. Before anyone has a chance to wipe the tight, cheap smirks from our faces, Susie takes a dramatic breath. “Okay. So, here’s the quick and dirty on our wonderful friend Joan here: She is the former deputy editor at Sports World Magazine and before that she was at New York News. And before that, she put in a tour of duty in local network news for a few years. And now here she is, ready to join our team, and we are absolutely thrilled to have her.”

  I nod in her general direction. JK catches me and her smile dims.

  Susie moves through a series of quick, weird tics, the last of which is rubbing the top of her pen. It’s annoying and awkward, like everything else about this meeting. If she removes her glasses next and buries them on top of her head, I might as well lean back, expose my neck, give them full access to my carotid artery. Maybe they’ll let their New Black One do the honors and have the first cut, although I can’t imagine JK being down with bloodstain patterns all over this whiteness. Master move, getting another black woman to do me, though. Who knew JK was so artful?

  Another deep breath. “As you know, Best, I love this magazine. It’s the child I never had.” Susie pauses, looking down at her bouncing knee. “I’m immensely proud of it, and this experience—that’s the best word for it, really—it’s one for which I remain eternally grateful.”

  Wait. This is a resignation letter. She’s leaving. Susie’s leaving and Robot Joan is taking her place. I didn’t realize it at first, but I’m shaking my head now as it clicks together. Talk about being clueless. Ten minutes ago, I was positive this meeting was going to be my last day at James. I was sure that The Mistake had somehow resurrected itself and was going to finally bite me in the ass. I had every detail planned too: whom I’d call first (Kendra, then my dad), where we’d go to drink right after (Seeks Same bar, the cornerest booth), and what my parting words would be to the entire edit floor of James magazine (something from either Jay Z or Biggie—this part was totally game time, but it involved the word fuck).

  But this time, this whole thing, it isn’t even about me. Actually, now I’m pissed. I almost shit my pants, and for what?
An intro to Robot Joan? At this point, either tell me how this changes my world here or break out those martinis you mentioned. Make a move, because I’m on deadline. The vagina waits for no one.

  “Oh, Susie,” JK blurts out. “This is so bittersweet, I know.” She turns her head toward me. JK looks legitimately sad. “As you may have already guessed, Susie is leaving us, leaving the company; back to the world of transformative long reads and spellbinding stories in hardcover. We’ll be making the official announcement later, but we wanted to let some senior staff in on the news first. And I know you and Susie have such a wonderful relationship, Best, but I’m sure you’d agree that we’re all going to miss her.”

  I should say something. That was my cue.

  “Well, I am really surprised and also really excited for you, Suze.” I turn my chair away from Robot Joan. Of course, it squeaks. “You’ve been my mama bird here for so long. JK’s right: We’re all going to really miss you, miss your spirit, miss your New York crazy anecdotes, and all that warm wisdom you share with us every day. And I’m going to miss our talks—I’ll treasure them.”

  I hit all the right notes. Tears are pooling at the base of Susie’s eyes. And JK’s face is flushed. They exchange warm looks. The sincerity of it all curbs the weirdness that has been muscling through the room since I stepped in. I steal a glance at Joan. She’s still in greetings-people-of-Earth mode.

  Oh shit. She looked right at me. I must be smiling because she is trying to do the same now, but hers is crooked.

  Clearly, this android is last year’s model.

  Nicole Blades is a novelist and journalist. Her features and essays have appeared in Cosmopolitan, NYTimes.com, WashingtonPost. com, Health, MarieClaire.com, SELF, BuzzFeed, and BlogHer. Born and raised in Montreal, Nicole now lives in Connecticut with her husband and their son. Follow her on Twitter@NicoleBlades. And visit her online at NicoleBlades.com.