“Okay, you’re torturing me,” I tell Naomi when I spot her in line at Starbucks. “What’s going on?”
“One sec. Two tall skinny caps, please,” she tells the barista, then hands the cashier a ten. She collects her change, then motions for me to join her at a small circular table at the window that’s opening up. “Hold down the fort and I’ll go get the drinks.”
“So?” I prod after she reaches the table.
“Time for a New York look,” she orders, and we both spin our heads around a little too conspicuously to see if anyone we know is in the café. Negatory.
“Okay, so here’s the deal,” she says, leaning in conspiratorially. “I just found out this morning that Take the Lead needs a new national communications manager. And the position is here in the city. Decent salary with better hours and more vacation time than Svelte.”
“And you’re going to apply? That’s great!” I enthuse.
Naomi gives me her signature “I’m humoring you” look. “Sweetie. I’m perfectly happy where I am. I’m talking about you. Trust me, it hasn’t gone unnoticed that you’re not thrilled with your job anymore.”
“Oh, crap. I’m that obvious?” I mutter, mortified; my restlessness is definitely not something I’ve been trying to broadcast.
“Well, not to everyone. But come on, Marissa, we’ve been working together for almost six years now. If anyone knows that you’ve lost your spark, it’s me.”
“Which means that Lynne probably knows, too,” I say glumly.
“Lucky for you, I’m fairly certain she thinks you’re in a funk because the brain story was cut. But for future reference, skipping meetings without warning isn’t exactly a good way to hide the fact that you’re bored with work.” She smiles, swirling her paper cup so she can get the last of the foam. “So, thoughts? The job would be perfect for you. In fact, I told that very thing to Rhonda,” she says, referring to the director, whom I met briefly during training. “Be expecting an e-mail from her.”
“You are incorrigible!” I reprimand her, but I’m secretly pleased. The job sounds terrific, and I haven’t found any other promising leads. Then it hits me. “Why exactly did you think I was qualified for this? I’ve never written a press release or issued a statement in my life. And it’s a running organization, for goodness’ sake. I barely just learned to jog.”
“Is this the part where you tell me you’re ugly and stupid, too?” Naomi says with mock exasperation. “Because this is the part where I tell you that I have you confused with my brilliant and capable colleague Marissa.”
I pick at the thick plastic lid covering my cup, avoiding Naomi’s gaze. “I know, I know,” I eventually concede. “I’m too hard on myself.”
“That’s putting it lightly. Seriously, though. You’ve been an editor for how long?”
“Eight years.”
“And how many stories have you written and edited in that time?”
“About four million.”
“Right. And I’m guessing you’ve received twice as many press releases, the majority so poorly written that you could do a better job while snorkeling in the bathtub. Plus, you’re great with people.”
“I am?” I ask with surprise. “And here I thought I was the villain in The Devil Wears Old Navy.”
Naomi snorts. “Of course you are! And you’re especially good at handling crazy, demanding lunatics. Maybe too good, come to think of it,” she says, raising her eyebrows, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s referring to Julia. “Just tell me that you’ll interview for it, okay?”
“Of course,” I assure her, pushing in my chair. “Just promise me you’ll prep me for the interview. I’m rusty.”
“Deal,” says Naomi. She links her arm in mine as we walk out of Starbucks. “Provided I get a free dinner once you land the job.”
“Anywhere your heart desires, boss.”
According to The Wall Street Journal, 35 percent of IT professionals admit to reading employee e-mails—and those are just the ones who fess up. Hopefully the Svelte techies have something better to do, because Rhonda Beshel e-mails me that same afternoon at my work e-mail. Nice, Naomi. Thanks for giving her my Gmail address.
Rhonda cuts right to the chase, and asks if I can come in for an interview tomorrow afternoon.
Not a problem, I write back, not even checking my calendar to see if I have anything else scheduled. I’ll see you at one o’clock. Looking forward to it!
Naomi gives me a crash course in interview etiquette after work, and Dave does a trial run-through that evening. I spend Thursday morning Googling everything I can find on Take the Lead, and by the time I leave to meet Rhonda, I’m sure I’m ready to tackle anything she throws my way.
My confidence dissipates when I arrive at the Take the Lead office. Rhonda’s lithe, perfectly polished assistant looks at me skeptically when I introduce myself. My blue sweater dress is all wrong, I decide; I should have worn a suit. And my lumps and bumps, ill-concealed under my dress, make it crystal clear that I am not a runner.
“Wait here,” the assistant commands, pointing to an Ikea couch across from her desk that’s identical to the one I owned before moving in with Dave. I sit with my bag on my lap, attempting to look composed. Taking one last step at prepping, I try to recall some of the brilliant answers I gave Dave yesterday when he was quizzing me, but find myself at a complete loss. Crap. I’m going to be working at Svelte until 2045.
Nearly twenty minutes later, I’m still waiting, and my nervousness has given way to extreme aggravation. Just as I contemplate taking off, Rhonda pops her head out of her office. “I am so sorry. We had an accident at one of the schools where the girls practice,” she says, and I immediately soften at her genuine tone. “I hate waiting, so I feel terrible that I’ve left you out here all this time. Will you come in?”
Rhonda welcomes me with a firm handshake and a dimpled smile, seeming even more approachable than she did during training. Up close, I am surprised to see that she couldn’t be more than a year or two older than me, which is simultaneously impressive and intimidating.
“Naomi speaks very highly of you, and she’s one of our best coaches, so I take her word very seriously,” she tells me, flipping through a steno pad where I see she’s scribbled notes, presumably about the other people she’s already interviewed. “And I saw from your résumé and LinkedIn profile that you have nearly a decade of writing and editing experience. That will come in handy—you’d be spending the majority of your day creating and revising materials for training and for the press.”
“I haven’t done communications work before,” I say, but quickly catch myself. Don’t talk yourself down, I think, remembering Naomi’s instructions yesterday. I quickly add, “But I’m a skilled writer, and I know the Take the Lead material like the back of my hand now.”
“That’s excellent,” Rhonda says, and makes a little check on her notepad. She leans back and puts her hands behind her head. “So tell me, how is your current group of girls?”
I tell her about Josie, who seems to have abandoned her bullying ways, and about Estrella’s enthusiasm and unexpected self-confidence. Then I do something that definitely breaks protocol, and reveal that I’m fairly certain training has improved my life more than it has the girls’.
“That’s half the point of volunteering,” Rhonda says, laughing lightly. “It’s no coincidence that people who volunteer live longer and are healthier and happier than people who don’t. And the fact that you didn’t start out a runner is actually to your advantage, in some ways. I see inspirational qualities in you, Marissa, and I have no doubt that your girls have noticed them, too.”
“Thank you,” I tell her, blushing. “I do feel like I’ve come a long way since February.”
“I bet you have!” Rhonda says earnestly. “Not to sound too cheesy, but it really changes something in you. I know I’ve become a better person since I started coaching.”
“You coach?” This surprises me; I figured she’d
be so busy running the organization that she wouldn’t actually have time to volunteer.
Rhonda nods. “I was never a runner. My sister talked me into coaching, and I liked it so much that I started working for TTL six months later. The rest, they say, is history,” she says with a laugh. Then she leans across the desk. “Just wait until you finish your first race with the girls at your side. It’s the most incredible experience.”
“I can’t wait,” I say honestly.
We chat for another ten minutes before she glances at her watch. “Uh-oh. I have a meeting in just a few.”
“No problem,” I tell her. “It’s been great speaking with you. I appreciate you taking the time to interview me.”
“Listen, Marissa,” she says, and frowns slightly. Here’s the part where she tells me I’m not the right fit for the job. Rhonda continues. “I’ve interviewed a bunch of other candidates, and while some of them have amazing experience, none of them have actually coached before. And frankly, I prefer you to the rest.”
“Really?” I say, flustered. I’m seconds away from having a Sally Field moment: You like me! You really like me!
“Yes,” says Rhonda. “And I like to think of myself as a fairly decent judge of character. So if your references check out, which I’m sure they will, I’ll e-mail you an offer letter within the next day or two with your salary and benefits information.”
There has got to be a catch, I think. Nothing in life is this easy.
But then I remember my old friend karma, and the hell of a year I’ve had. Why shouldn’t it be easy? Just this one thing?
“Rhonda, that sounds amazing.” I beam. “I promise you that I will be the best communications director Take the Lead has ever had.”
“That’s exactly what Naomi said.” Rhonda smiles. “It pays to have good friends, doesn’t it?”
As promised, Rhonda e-mails the next day with a complete offer letter, including information about my salary, which will be five thousand more than I currently make. I immediately forward the e-mail to Naomi, Dave, and Julia with !!!!! in the subject line. Then I write Rhonda back to let her know that I gladly accept the offer, and will be thrilled to start in two weeks, which will give me enough time to finish up at Svelte.
Then reality strikes. This means I have to quit.
At my urging, Naomi collects her free dinner the same day Rhonda e-mails me.
“I’m so happy for you, Marissa,” she tells me, sliding into the red leather booth at the burger joint she chose. She smiles as she says this, making her eyes crinkle up at the sides, and I think how much I’ll miss working with her. Rhonda seems great, but she’s no Naomi.
“I’m really thrilled,” I tell her. “Just trying not to overthink the fact that I just chose to leave magazines. You know, the career I’ve been working toward for, oh, almost a decade now.” In spite of my excitement about the fresh start I’ve just been given, I can’t seem to get past a lingering feeling of sadness. Moving on from my childhood dream is yet another way that the plans Julia and I made together will never come to pass.
“Well, you can always return to Svelte. It’s not like you’ll be stuck at your new job,” Naomi says, reminding me of Julia’s comment: Unstick yourself. “Just tell me that this isn’t all because of the brain injury story,” she adds. “Because I feel horrible about that. I should have gone to bat for you more than I did. Lynne just seemed so hell-bent on replacing it with a splashy weight-loss piece.”
“Not at all,” I tell her, and it’s the truth. “If anything, the story gave me a window to what has been going on in Julia’s head, which has made it easier to cope with some of the stuff she’s thrown my way.”
“Well, that’s good. Although I always thought you’d make one stellar editor-in-chief one day,” Naomi says, looking like a proud mama hen.
“Never say never. I’d love to do the occasional freelance story after I get settled in at Take the Lead,” I tell Naomi. “In the bigger scheme of things, though, something’s changed for me. I can’t put my finger on it, but moving up the editorial ladder doesn’t excite me anymore. Maybe a year or two off will light my fire again and I’ll want to jump back in. But right now, I’m ready for something different.”
“It’s going to be amazing for you. But you have to promise you’ll still make time for me when I’m not your boss anymore.”
“Are you kidding? First of all, I’m not quitting coaching, so you’ll still see me every Tuesday. Second, I’m going to be around so much that you’ll have to start screening your calls.” I grin from across the booth. “But I do have a favor to ask. Because you haven’t already done enough for me, landing me a new job.”
“I’m here to serve,” she says, mirroring my sarcasm.
“Can you tell me how to handle giving notice to Lynne? Because somehow, wrestling an angry, greased alligator sounds easy in comparison.”
I knock on Lynne’s door first thing the next morning. “Don’t bother setting up an appointment, because she’ll tell you she doesn’t have time,” Naomi instructed me. “And get right to the point.”
“I’ve accepted a new job,” I spit out the minute my butt touches the seat of Lynne’s guest chair. The irony that I’m quitting less than a week after worrying that I was getting fired isn’t lost on me, but I’m still sweating so much that I should have put panty liners under my armpits when I got dressed this morning.
“Cripes, Rogers,” Lynne says. She eyes me as though she expects me to recant. When it’s clear that I’m not going to, she lets out a sigh, her bony chest heaving visibly. “Who in the hell am I going to hire to replace you? Just tell me you’re not going to Fitness, because I might have a coronary. Those skinny bitches are determined to bleed me dry.”
“I’m not going to Fitness. I’m going to be the communications director at Take the Lead. It’s an organization that teaches life skills to young girls by training them for a five-K race.”
“That’s very Mother Teresa of you. I hope it doesn’t require a vow of poverty,” she says, an amused look on her face.
“They’re paying me well.”
“Oh. If this is about money—”
“It isn’t,” I assure her. “And as I told Naomi, it isn’t just about the brain story, either. I’ve been really happy at the magazine, and I truly appreciate the many opportunities I’ve been given.” I pause, searching for the right words. “I’m just at a point in my life where I’m ready to try something new . . . even if taking a leap means I might fall.”
She lets out a raspy laugh. “Marissa, mark my word; you’re not going to fall. You may not like this new job, but you’ll land on your feet.”
“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” I say aloud without thinking.
“Well, now you know my management secret,” Lynne says, somehow managing a wink in spite of her highly Botoxed brows. “Never let your employees get a big head, or they’ll think they’re too good to work for you.” She looks at me and smiles. “Clearly, I’m going to have to rethink that strategy.”
Later that afternoon, Lynne starts our weekly editorial meeting by announcing that I’m leaving. “I speak for everyone when I say that you’ll be sorely missed, Marissa,” she says to me from across the giant boardroom table.
“Thank you,” I say. “I’m going to miss working here so much. Although I’m sure I’ll still read the magazine every month to try to figure out how to finally lose the last ten pounds.”
“Puhlease.” Naomi laughs. “A year from now, we’re going to see your mug on the cover of Runner’s World.”
“I don’t think so,” I say. I may not be sure of much right now, but I’m positive that competitive running is not in my future.
The meeting drags on, giving the several cups of coffee I drank earlier ample time to make their way into my bladder. When we finally adjourn, I run to the bathroom, seconds away from peeing myself. I exit the stall, only to find Ashley carefully applying lipstick in the mirror.
“I’m sad to hear you’re leaving, Marissa,” she says, meeting my eyes in the glass reflection. The harsh fluorescent vanity light washes her out and makes her look surprisingly plain, even with her ruby lips. “Of course, I’m looking forward to the challenge of helping fill your shoes,” she adds, snapping the silver lid back on her lipstick tube. She spins around to face me. “I know we’ve had our differences, but I’ve worked my butt off for you. I hope you believe me when I say I’m really sorry about the Q&A with your friend. I thought you would be thrilled with it, but I realize now that it was a major misstep. You can bet I’ll never do anything like that again.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” I tell her. “And apology accepted.”
“Thank you,” she says, visibly relieved. She takes a deep breath. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but I’d really love it if you’d put in a good word for me with Naomi, so she’ll keep me in mind if an associate position opens up.” There’s a hint of desperation in her voice, and it occurs to me that despite her fem-bot appearance, Ashley does care what people think about her. Still, given the lack of regard she’s consistently shown for me, this sudden flash of humanity—however sincere—is too little, too late.
“Oh, Ashley,” I say, matching her forced smile with my own genuine one, “I don’t think that would be a good idea. But I wish the best of luck to you.”
Thirty-four
After fifteen weeks of training, race day is finally here.
The Art of Forgetting Page 22