by TJ Klune
He put his hands flat on the desk to keep from digging his fingernails into his palms. Mr. Tremblay, who sat in Row L, Desk Six, smiled darkly at him. He was a much younger man who seemed to relish his work. “In for it now,” he muttered to Linus.
Ms. Jenkins reached his desk, her mouth a thin line. As was her wont, she appeared to have applied her makeup rather liberally in the dark without the benefit of a mirror. The heavy rouge on her cheeks was magenta, and her lipstick looked like blood. She wore a black pantsuit, the buttons of which were closed all the way up to just under her chin. She was as thin as a dream, made up of sharp bones covered in skin stretched too tightly.
Gunther, on the other hand, was as fresh-faced as Mr. Tremblay. Rumor had it, he was the son of Someone Important, most likely Extremely Upper Management. Though Linus didn’t talk much to his coworkers, he still heard their gossipy whispers. He’d learned early on in life that if he didn’t speak, people often forgot he was there or even existed. His mother had told him once when he was a child that he blended in with the paint on the wall, only memorable when one was reminded it was there at all.
“Mr. Baker,” Ms. Jenkins said again, practically snarling his name.
Gunther stood next to her, smiling down at him. It wasn’t a very nice smile. His teeth were perfectly white and square, and he had dimples in his chin. He was handsome in a chilling way. The smile should have been lovely, but it didn’t reach his eyes. The only times Linus could say he’d ever believe Gunther’s smile were when he’d perform surprise inspections, long pencil scratching against the clipboard, marking demerit after demerit.
Maybe that was it. Maybe Linus was going to get his first demerit, something he’d miraculously been able to avoid since the arrival of Gunther and his point system. He knew they were monitored constantly. There were large cameras hanging from the ceiling recording everything. If someone was caught doing something wrong, the large speaker boxes affixed to the walls would crackle to life, and there would be shouts of demerits for Row K, Desk Two or Row Z, Desk Thirteen.
Linus had never been caught mismanaging his time. He was far too smart for that. And too fearful.
Perhaps, however, not smart or fearful enough.
He was going to get a demerit.
Or maybe he was going to get five demerits, and then it would go into his personal file, a mark that would sully his seventeen years of service in the Department. Maybe they’d seen the dressing stain. There was a strict policy regarding professional attire. It was listed in great detail on pages 242–246 of the RULES AND REGULATIONS, the employee handbook for the Department in Charge of Magical Youth. Perhaps someone had seen the stain and reported him. That wouldn’t surprise Linus in the slightest. And hadn’t people been sacked for smaller things?
Linus knew they had.
“Ms. Jenkins,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s nice to see you today.” This was a lie. It was never nice to see Ms. Jenkins. “What can I do for you?”
Gunther’s smile widened. Possibly ten demerits, then. The dressing was orange, after all. He wouldn’t need a brown box. The only things that belonged to him were the clothes on his back and the mouse pad, a faded picture of a white sandy beach and the bluest ocean in the world. Across the top was the legend DON’T YOU WISH YOU WERE HERE?
Yes. Daily.
Ms. Jenkins didn’t seem inclined to respond to Linus’s greeting. “What have you done?” she demanded, eyebrows near her hairline, which should have been physically impossible.
Linus swallowed thickly. “Pardon me, but I don’t think I know what you’re referring to.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“Oh. I’m … sorry?”
Gunther scratched something on his clipboard. He was probably giving Linus yet another demerit for the obvious sweat stains under his arms. He couldn’t do anything about those now.
Ms. Jenkins didn’t seem as if she accepted his apology. “You must have done something.” She was very insistent.
Perhaps he should come clean about the dressing stain. It would be like ripping off a bandage. Better to do it all at once rather than drag it out. “Yes. Well, you see, I’m trying to eat healthier. A diet, of sorts.”
Ms. Jenkins frowned. “A diet?”
Linus nodded jerkily. “Doctor’s orders.”
“Carrying a bit of extra weight, are you?” Gunther asked, sounding far too pleased at the idea.
Linus flushed. “I guess so.”
Gunther made a sympathetic noise. “I noticed. You poor dear. Better late than never, I suppose.” He tapped his own flat stomach with the edge of the clipboard.
Gunther was odious. Linus kept that thought to himself. “How wonderful.”
“You have yet to answer my question,” Ms. Jenkins snapped. “What is it you could have possibly done?”
Might as well get it over with. “A mistake. Clumsy me. I was trying eat the salad, but apparently kale has a mind of its own, and slipped from my—”
“I have no idea what you’re prattling on about,” Ms. Jenkins said, leaning forward and putting her hands on his desk. Her fingernails were painted black, and she tapped them against the wood. It sounded like the rattling of bones. “Stop talking.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She stared at him.
His stomach twisted sharply.
“You’ve been requested,” she said slowly, “to attend a meeting tomorrow morning with Extremely Upper Management.”
He hadn’t expected that. Not in the slightest. In fact, of all the things Bedelia Jenkins could have said at this exact moment, that had been the least likely option.
He blinked. “Come again?”
She stood upright, crossing her arms underneath her breasts, gripping her elbows. “I’ve read your reports. They’re marginally adequate, at best. So imagine my surprise when I received a memo that Linus Baker was being summoned.”
Linus felt cold. He’d never been asked to meet with Extremely Upper Management in his entire career. The only time he’d actually seen Extremely Upper Management was during the holidays when the luncheon occurred, and Extremely Upper Management stood in a row at the front of the room, dishing out dried-up ham and lumpy potatoes from foil trays, grinning at each of their underlings, telling them they’d earned this fine meal for all their hard work. Of course, they had to eat it at their desks because their fifteen-minute lunch break had been used up by standing in line, but still.
It was September. The holidays were still months away.
Now, according to Ms. Jenkins, they wanted him personally. He’d never heard of that happening before. It couldn’t possibly mean anything good.
Ms. Jenkins looked as if she were waiting for a response. He didn’t know what to say, so he said, “Maybe there’s been a mistake.”
“A mistake,” Ms. Jenkins repeated. “A mistake.”
“Ye-es?”
“Extremely Upper Management doesn’t make mistakes,” Gunther simpered.
There was that, yes. “Then I don’t know.”
Ms. Jenkins wasn’t pleased by his answer. It struck Linus then that she didn’t know any more than she was telling him, and for reasons he didn’t want to explore, the very idea gave him a nasty little thrill. Granted, it was tinged with unimaginable terror, but it was there nonetheless. He didn’t know what kind of person that made him.
“Oh, Linus,” his mother had told him once. “It’s never polite to revel in the suffering of others. What a terrible thing to do.”
He never allowed himself to revel.
“You don’t know,” Ms. Jenkins said, sounding as if she were gearing up to strike. “Perhaps you lodged a complaint of some kind? Perhaps you don’t appreciate my supervisory technique and thought you could go above my head? Is that it, Mr. Baker?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Do you like my supervisory technique?”
Absolutely not. “Yes.”
Gunther scratched his pencil along his cli
pboard.
“What exactly do you like about my supervisory technique?” Ms. Jenkins asked.
Conundrum. Linus didn’t like to lie about anything. Even little white lies caused his head to ache. And once one started lying, it became easier to do it again and again until one had to keep track of hundreds of lies. It was easier to be honest.
But then there came times of great need, such as this one. And it wasn’t like he had to lie, not completely. A truth could be twisted and still resemble the truth. “It’s very authoritative.”
Her eyebrows rose to her hairline. “It is, isn’t it?”
“Quite.”
She lifted a hand and snapped her fingers. Gunther shuffled through some of the papers on his clipboard before handing a cream-colored page over to her. She held it between two fingers as if the thought of it touching any other part of her could cause a blistering infection. “Nine o’clock sharp tomorrow, Mr. Baker. God help you if you’re late. You will, of course, make up the time you missed after. On the weekend, if necessary. You aren’t scheduled to be in the field for at least another week.”
“Of course,” Linus agreed quickly.
She leaned forward again, dropping her voice until it was barely a whisper. “And if I find out you’ve complained about me, I will make your life a living hell. Do you understand me, Mr. Baker?”
He did. “Yes, ma’am.”
She dropped the paper on his desk. It fluttered to a corner, almost falling to the floor. He didn’t dare reach out and grab it, not while she still stood above him.
Then she was spinning on her heels, shouting that everyone had better be working if they knew what was good for them.
Immediately, the sound of clacking keyboards resumed.
Gunther still stood near his desk, staring at him strangely.
Linus fidgeted in his chair.
“I don’t know why they would ask for you,” Gunther finally said, that terrible smile returning. “Surely there are more … suitable people. Oh, and Mr. Baker?”
“Yes?”
“You have a stain on your shirt. That’s unacceptable. One demerit. See that it doesn’t happen again.” Then he turned and followed Ms. Jenkins down the rows.
Linus held his breath until they reached Row B before he exhaled explosively. He would need to wash his shirt as soon as he got home if he had any hopes of getting the sweat stains out. He scrubbed a hand over his face, uncertain of how he was feeling. Vexed, to be sure. And most likely frightened.
At the desk next to him, Mr. Tremblay wasn’t even trying to hide the fact he was craning his neck to see what was written on the page left by Ms. Jenkins. Linus snatched it away, careful not to crumple the edges.
“Had it coming, didn’t you?” Mr. Tremblay asked, sounding far too cheerful at the prospect. “I wonder who my new desk neighbor will be.”
Linus ignored him.
The green glow from his computer screen backlit the page, making the thick script of the words that much more ominous.
It read:
DEPARTMENT IN CHARGE OF MAGICAL YOUTH MEMO FROM EXTREMELY UPPER MANGEMENT
* * *
CC: BEDELIA JENKINS
MR. LINUS BAKER IS TO REPORT TO THE OFFICES OF EXTREMELY UPPER MANAGEMENT AT NINE A.M. ON WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 6.
ALONE.
And that was all.
“Oh dear,” Linus whispered.
* * *
That afternoon, when the clock chimed five, the people around Linus began to shut down their computers and pull on their coats. They chatted as they filed out of the room. Not a single person said good night to Linus. If anything, most stared at him as they left. Those who had been too far away to hear what Ms. Jenkins had said were most likely filled in via speculative whispers around the water cooler. The rumors were probably wild and completely inaccurate, but since Linus didn’t know why he’d been summoned, he couldn’t argue with whatever was being said.
He waited until half past five before he, too, began to wrap up for the day. The room was mostly empty by then, though he could still see the light on in Ms. Jenkins’s office at the far end. He was thankful he wouldn’t have to pass by it as he left. He didn’t think he could handle another face-to-face with her today.
Once his computer screen was dark, he stood and lifted his coat from the back of his chair. He pulled it on, groaning when he remembered he’d left his umbrella at home. From the sound of it, the rain still hadn’t let up. If he hurried, he’d still be able to make the bus.
He only bumped into six desks in four different rows on his way out. But he made sure to put them back into their places.
It would have to be another salad for him tonight. No dressing.
* * *
He missed the bus.
He saw its taillights through the rain as it rumbled down the street, the advertisement on the back of a smiling woman saying SEE SOMETHING, SAY SOMETHING! REGISTRATION HELPS EVERYONE! still clear even through the rain.
“Of course,” he muttered to himself.
There would be another one in fifteen minutes.
He held his briefcase above his head and waited.
* * *
He stepped off the bus (which had, of course, been ten minutes late) at the stop a few blocks from his house.
“It’s a wet one out there,” the driver told him.
“A fine observation,” Linus replied as he stepped onto the sidewalk. “Really. Thank you for—”
The doors snapped shut behind him, and the bus pulled away. The back right tire hit a rather large puddle, splashing up and soaking Linus’s slacks up to his knees.
Linus sighed and began to trudge his way home.
The neighborhood was quiet, the streetlamps lit and inviting, even in the cold rain. The houses were small, but the street was lined with trees covered in leaves that were beginning to change colors, the dull green fading to an even duller red and gold. There were rosebushes at 167 Lakewood that bloomed quietly. There was a dog at 193 Lakewood that yipped excitedly whenever it saw him. And 207 Lakewood had a tire swing hanging from a tree, but the children who lived there apparently thought they were far too old to use it anymore. Linus had never had a tire swing before. He’d always wanted one, but his mother had said it was far too dangerous.
He turned right down a smaller street, and there, sitting on the left, was 86 Hermes Way.
Home.
It wasn’t much. It was tiny, and the back fence needed to be replaced. But it had a lovely porch where one could sit and watch the day pass by if one were so inclined. There were sunflowers in the flowerbed at the front, tall things that swayed in the cool breeze, though they were closed now against the coming evening and dreary rain. It’d been raining for weeks on end, mostly an uncomfortable drizzle interspersed with a tedious downpour.
It wasn’t much. But it belonged to Linus and no one else.
He stopped at the mailbox out front and grabbed the day’s mail. It looked as if it were all advertisements addressed impersonally to RESIDENT. Linus couldn’t remember the last time he’d received a letter.
He climbed up onto the porch and was uselessly shaking the water from his coat when his name was called from the house next door. He sighed, wondering if he could get away with pretending he hadn’t heard.
“Don’t you even think about it, Mr. Baker,” she said.
“I don’t know what you mean, Mrs. Klapper.”
Edith Klapper, a woman of an undiscernible age (though he thought she’d gone past old into the fabled land of ancient) sat on her porch in her terry cloth bathrobe, pipe lit in her hand as it usually was, smoke curling up around her bouffant. She hacked a wet cough into a tissue that probably should have been discarded an hour before. “Your cat was in my yard again, chasing the squirrels. You know how I feel about that.”
“Calliope does what she wants,” he reminded her. “I have no control over her.”
“Perhaps you should try,” Mrs. Klapper snapped at him.
�
��Right. I’ll get on that immediately.”
“Are you sassing me, Mr. Baker?”
“I wouldn’t even dream of it.” He dreamed of it often.
“I thought not. Are you in for the night?”
“Yes, Mrs. Klapper.”
“No dates again, huh?”
His hand tightened around the handle of his briefcase. “No dates.”
“No lucky lady friend?” She sucked on her pipe and blew the thick smoke out her nose. “Oh. Forgive me. It must have slipped my mind. Not one for the ladies, are you?”
It hadn’t slipped her mind. “No, Mrs. Klapper.”
“My grandson is an accountant. Very stable. Mostly. He does have a tendency toward rampant alcoholism, but who am I to judge his vices? Accounting is hard work. All those numbers. I’ll have him call you.”
“I’d prefer if you didn’t.”
She cackled. “Too good for him, then?”
Linus spluttered. “I don’t—I’m not—I don’t have time for such things.”
Mrs. Klapper scoffed. “Perhaps you should consider making time, Mr. Baker. Being alone at your age isn’t healthy. I’d hate to think of what would happen if you were to blow your brains out. It’d hurt the resale value of the whole neighborhood.”
“I’m not depressed!”
She looked him up and down. “You aren’t? Why on earth not?”
“Is there anything else, Mrs. Klapper?” Linus asked through gritted teeth.
She waved a hand dismissively at him. “Fine, then. Go. Put on your pajamas and that old record player of yours and dance around the living room as you do.”
“I asked you to stop watching me through my window!”
“Of course you did,” she said. She sat back in her chair and stuck her pipe between her lips. “Of course you did.”
“Good night, Mrs. Klapper,” he called as he slid the key into the doorknob.
He didn’t wait for a response. He shut the door behind him and locked it tight.
* * *