It’s all Stacy Peterson’s fault. If I have to hear one more annoying question coming out of her overly lipsticked mouth, I think I’m going to snap.
“I’m just confused about the part of the project where we talk about the different parts of Albuquerque,” she says.
That’s it, I think, and then I remind myself to take a deep breath.
The thing that I really want to do— which is to rip out Stacy’s highlighted hair, strand by strand— might feel good in the moment, but it won’t get me out of here any faster. I try to think fast: how can I to get her to shut up?
“Emily, the locale differentiation portion was your idea,” says Professor James. “And a great one at that. Why don’t you explain it to Stacy?”
Oh, great.
While I’m pleased that Professor James— who is not only the teacher of this class but also the head of the entire Social Work Master’s Program— has noticed my ambition, and while I want this project to be a success, I really don’t have time to explain such obvious matters to Stacy— who will undoubtedly be asking me the same question tomorrow anyway.
She is definitely the weakest link in our group, and the main reason we had to stay after class and ask for extra help from Professor James. When I agreed to do it, I’d had no idea we would be here for two more hours. I’d obviously underestimated her stupidity.
It’s always the rich girls who are clueless. Somehow a guy just like Stacy swindled my own dad out of his life savings in some kind of ponzi scheme. He hadn’t had a lot of money but what he had is gone now. And that’s why I think rich people are shameless: they look for any chance to make more money, even by taking advantage of poor people like my dad.
“Our program should identify different areas of town and incorporate plans for each of them, so as to show where the areas of need are greatest,” I explain, although the dumbfounded expression on Stacy’s face remains the same. “The needs of girls in the South Valley, for instance, will be quite different from those of girls in the Northeast Heights.”
“Because…?” prods Stacy, her face a blank look.
Oh, my God. I want to explode.
I want to tell her, “Because girls from the South Valley— like me— have poor parents and poor school districts and underfunded resources, whereas girls from the Northeast Heights— like you— have rich parents and rich school districts and very well- funded resources.”
But I don’t. There are some things that someone like Stacy will never understand— not just because she’s an airhead but also because she has no clue. She’s never had to understand them. And I have no idea why she’s enrolled in this class or why she wants a Social Work degree. I have an instant distrust of rich people and I almost wonder if she’s here to spy on us poor people, or work against our efforts.
Figuring out Stacy Peterson is not my problem right now, I remind myself. Making it to work as soon as possible is. So, I throw out an idea.
“Let’s get together to discuss this further, and I can answer your questions one on one,” I tell her.
I instantly regret my offer, but at least it works.
“Sure,” says Stacy. “Professor James, will you be able to meet with us too?”
So that explains it, I think.
Perhaps the entire reason Stacy wanted to have this after- class meeting was to get up close and personal with the professor. Maybe that’s the sole reason she enrolled in his class. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was also the main or only reason she’s pursuing a Social Work degree.
“Of course,” Professor James says, and I swear he blushes a little. “Just let me know when works for both of you. And anyone else here who would like to come,” he adds, looking around at the rest of the group members.
But I have no time to compare schedules. I’m already tossing my laptop into my bag and starting towards the door in a hurry.
If I lose my job, I won’t be able to attend school here, and school’s my life. At twenty- four years old, I have no husband, no kids— not even a boyfriend. I hate to admit it even to myself, but I’ve never even had sex.
I came close once upon a time with my boyfriend Wade in high school but that all ended and it was for the best. At least, that’s what I usually try to tell myself. Even though I haven’t been able to find anyone who makes me remotely interested in them compared to the way I felt about Wade.
Ever since things didn’t work out between Wade and me, I’ve thrown myself into my studies and my goals for the future. It took me a while to realize that such a future didn’t include him, but at least I’ve been building the kind of life I want without him since then. And that kind of life includes keeping the job that helps me go to school, even if that means rushing out of class in order to do it.
“Great, thanks Professor James,” I tell him. “I’ll get back with you tomorrow about a time that works. Bye everyone.”
“I was wondering about the grant- writing portion…” Greg, a fellow student, begins, and I hesitate at the door, lingering while deciding whether to stay just a little longer.
Unlike Stacy, Greg actually has a good question. The grant- writing portion is my weakness, and something I need help on. I’ve helped develop most of the program that will comprise our future foundation, but, without funds, there will be no way to make it a reality.
“Can we please discuss this at our extra session?” I ask, hoping not to incur the wrath of my fellow students.
Most of them, other than Stacy, are as serious about this degree as I am, except that many don’t have to work a job in addition to going to school.
“I have some questions too,” I explain. “But I have to go.”
“Why don’t those of you who wish to stick around today do so,” Professor James says, much to my dismay. “Since everyone is here and might not be able to come back at a different time, it makes the most sense to just keep going. Greg can share his notes with you, Emily, and you can ask any questions you have that don’t get answered today at our next after- class meeting. We also have a lecture coming up on grant- writing next week, and a guest speaker to help out.”
“Okay,” I say, resigned. “And thanks.”
I know I should stay so that I don’t miss anything. Greg’s notes aren’t exactly thorough, or even completely legible for that matter.
But I have to keep reminding myself that if I don’t keep my job, I won’t be able to afford school. My student loans are generous but I also have to pay for the apartment I rent, as well as all my other expenses, which somehow seem to always spiral out of control. I’m no good at handling money, especially since I never have enough of it.
I leave the group I want to stay in— as long as Stacy’s done asking asinine questions, that is— for the job I hate. But I hope I still have the job, since I desperately need it.
As I hurry to work, I can’t help but think about Wade again. How would my life have been different had I stayed with him? I suppose I’d be a military wife. It’s probably best that he and I didn’t work out, so that I could concentrate on what I truly want to do. But that doesn’t mean it’s easy to forget about him— clearly, after five years, I still haven’t.
But I have to get my head out of memory lane and onto the road that takes me to work. Because this isn’t five years ago. This is the here and now, and I’ve got a job to get to, ASAP.
Chapter 2 – Wade
I stand on stage, scanning the crowd and all the dressed up, pretty women. Which one of them do I want to take home tonight?
It would be nice if I could find one I want to see for more than one night. Last night I was with a voluptuous vixen I couldn’t wait to tie up, but she turned out to be dumb as bricks, with a personality even less interesting.
The sex was okay, but not worth having to see her again for. Fucking a girl is never a problem for me— they line up down the block— but finding one worth sticking around to fuck again is always more of a problem.
And I’m not talking about finding a girl for
a relationship. I don’t do relationships. After I’ve been in two failed relationships —or, I suppose, one and a half, because the second one failed so soon and so epically it barely counts, not to mention the fact that it never really got off the ground, anyway— I know my limitations. The only commitment I want with a woman is her promise to let me have my way with her again if I like what I get the first time around, which these days has become more and more rare.
Getting them into bed, though, is hardly the problem, and I know I could have any single woman in this room tonight. I’m a decorate war veteran, having served two tours of duty in my four years with the United States Air Force’s Special Operations unit. My job was to parashoot out of helicopters and rescue fallen soldiers. Tell that to a girl and see if she’ll turn you down— especially if you still have the physique to prove it.
“Tonight I would like to present the Albuquerque Young People in Tech award to Wade Covington,” the announcer states, jarring me back into reality and reminding me of yet another reason I have no problem fulfilling my voracious sexual appetite— I’m a tech genius and I’m filthy fucking rich.
“Mr. Covington has demonstrated remarkable abilities to start and grow a tech company, and it’s paid off handsomely,” the announcer continues.
“Woot woot,” call out the members of my former unit at one of the tables in the front.
They make snide jokes like, “He sure is handsome all right. What a pretty boy.”
“Mr. Covington took what started out as a well- intentioned idea and turned it into a billion dollar company,” the announcer states. “His innovation and accomplishments are a shining example of local boy made good, and it is with pleasure that I grant him this award.”
“There’s nothing good about this boy,” my friends call out.
The announcer looks at them a bit surprised, as if he’s not used to such rowdiness in this fine establishment. And he’s probably not. That’s my friends for you.
I look over at them with a mixture of gratitude and envy. I’m glad they’re still here to support me after everything we’ve been through together. But I still get fucking upset that I can’t be active duty service with them anymore. Even though I’ve done much better in the private sector, making tons of money and staying safer both physically and mentally, I loved being a pararescuer with them.
And now I lost that chance, just like I lost other opportunities in my life. Such as that first relationship I fucked up, which haunts me to this day.
But now’s not the time to think about that. Now’s the time to accept this award.
“Thank you,” I tell the announcer, as I approach the podium and take the plaque from his hands.
“I would like to thank Albuquerque Young People in Tech for all your help. As well as the members of my former USAF pararescue unit,” I say, nodding to my buddies. The Bradford brothers are there, as are many other old friends. “Thank you for the support and inspiration.”
“Aww, ain’t that nice,” come their mocking coos. “You never could have done it without us.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter to them under my breath, but I’ve missed their jokes and the comradery.
“Congratulations once again,” the announcer says to me. Then he turns to the guests in the ballroom. “And with that, it’s time to enjoy your dinner.”
“What dinner?” some of my friends complain. They’ve never been known for their politeness. “We have no dinner.”
The announcer furls his eyebrows in confusion.
“I’ll certainly check on the status of dinner,” he says, nodding his head at me before scurrying away.
I head over to my friends’ table, glad to be out of the spotlight. I’m no pro at public speaking. Although I run a large company, I’m usually behind a desk, making things happen on a computer or barking orders to assistants. It’s not in my nature to stand up and gracefully accept an award— I think such things are rather silly. I prefer to keep moving, keep being productive, rather than let either criticism or praise slow me down. But the young entrepreneurs foundation that presented me with the award tonight had provided a lot of funding and support for my enterprise and without them
Relieved that my part in the dog and pony show is over, I shake Dr. Davis’ hand, head off stage and sit down in the empty chair at my unit’s table. Everyone gives me high fives and pats on the back, but I just want the attention off of me.
I sit and watch the other contestants for Made- Over Freak of the Year have their faces and photos displayed and their stories told by Dr. Davis. As I sit down at the table, Jensen Bradford leans over to me and grumbles, “We’re supposed to be eating by now but it’s taking them forever to serve the food. I’m starving.”
I look around just in time to see a male server bring a pitcher of iced tea to our table.
“Any refills on drinks here?” he asks.
“Iced tea doesn’t fill up our empty stomachs,” complains Freddy, one of my fellow service members. “Any idea when the actual food will be served?”
“My apologies, once again, Sir,” the waiter says, his face flushed.
I feel bad for the guy and wish I could tell my unit to fucking calm down. But I don’t want to make a scene.
“The food should definitely be out soon,” the waiter reassures us.
I’m still nervous over having to have been on stage, so I’m not even fucking hungry. I just want to take a moment and reflect on how far my company has come. I had no idea it would do so well, but the money started doubling and then tripling, so I kept at it. And now that the stocks have gone public, I’m officially rich. Very, very rich.
I never in my life thought I’d be a billionaire. But then again, nothing in my life has turned out the way I thought it would. Some of that has been for the best, and some has been for the worst. But at least I have money to make up for anything that’s gone wrong. Sometimes money just isn’t quite enough though, and I yearn for more— to be able to turn back time, do things different, better— but that’s impossible and it’s also not worth thinking about right now because there’s nothing I can do to change it.
Chapter 3 – Emily
I run into the lobby area of the kitchen, where servers such as myself were supposed to have met up over an hour ago to receive our instructions and duties for today’s banquet. Of course no one is here; only one other waiter— Nathan— and myself were scheduled to work today, and Nathan is busy running around serving the dinner that was supposed to be out a while ago, with what was supposed to be my help.
I hate that the hotel always understaffs us and expect us to do the work of two or three people for low pay. But a job’s a job, and this one was the only one I could get quickly when I started graduate school.
I lean on a lounge chair in the lobby area and hurriedly brush my hair. I’d only had time to quickly change from my street clothes to my work uniform, and had had no time to tidy up. I’d spent the drive over calling and texting the hotel to let them know I was on my way— and I’d already texted them from class to let them know I’d be late— but no one answered, so I can’t help but be afraid I might not have a job anymore.
“Emily!” snaps John Warner, as he comes out of the kitchen.
He’s head of staff at this hotel, with a big ego and a big temper to match. You would think he thought he was God’s gift to the service industry or something.
“I can’t believe your nerve, showing up over an hour late! And just casually leaning over like a slob and brushing your messy hair. How pathetic.”
Would you rather me not show up at all? I want to ask, but everyone knows that nobody challenges John. The last person who did, a feisty redhead named Carly, had been fired on the spot, and she was one of the best waitresses.
Her retort was even funny and entertaining—she said she was late because she had had a job interview at a competing hotel and if he wanted to keep her, he’d best start apologizing. But John had no mercy. So I’m certainly not going to follow in Carly�
�s footsteps, especially since, unlike her, I have no other job lined up.
“I’m sorry, John,” I begin, standing straight up and stepping closer to him to show him my sincerity.
I sweep my hair into the required bun and place a hair clip over it to hold it all in place, while I keep talking to him.
“I promise this won’t happen again. I had a mandatory meeting for a project at school that ran late, and I slipped out as soon as I could, but now I realize that I am going to just have to skip certain school obligations for the sake of my employ—”
“Obviously, you view your studies as more important than your job,” John snaps, completely cutting me off and ignoring my explanation. “That’s not the kind of employee we want here. But Nathan can’t possibly serve this whole banquet by himself. We waited for you as long as we could, but without hearing anything from you—”
“I tried multiple times to call and text!” I protest.
“—I started helping Nathan serve,” John continues. “So, pardon us but we were a bit too busy to answer your late attempts to contact us. As you know, I shouldn’t be helping to serve a banquet when there are other, more important tasks for me to tend to. I really do not appreciate this and you are most certainly not the type of employee we want here.”
“Okay,” I say, realizing all hope is lost, and it will just annoy John more if I try to fight for my job.
He’s obviously so perturbed at having to stoop to the lowly task of serving guests to listen to my reasons for being late, or my assurances that it won’t happen again.
“Well get out there and help Nathan serve,” he orders, and I’m more confused than ever.
Am I fired or not?
At least I will get paid for tonight, I think with relief, since the money I’ll make is greatly needed for next month’s rent.
“Yes, Sir,” I say immediately, and head back to the kitchen for a cart and trays full of food to bring out.
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