Chapter Five #2
Then they turn to me and ask how my day was, and I have to sort through the day’s nonevents and find something to…
embellish. Randy brought in more donations than Arun in their telephone fundraising competition.
(Translation: Randy beat Arun in air hockey.) Jen’s making excellent progress on her clothing drive.
(She moved on to the sleeves portion of the woven top she’s crocheting.) Tessa’s brainstorming new community outreach projects.
(She cracked her daily sudoku puzzle before lunch.) I’m spearheading a cleanup campaign.
(I wiped the kitchen counters while waiting for the kettle to boil.)
Dad and Wendy don’t ask how Ryser Cares could be working on all these charity projects when the office hasn’t done anything of value in years.
They don’t challenge me or press for details.
They nod encouragingly and tell me that’s wonderful, how lovely, they’re happy I’m happy. And I want to scream.
My mom, on the other hand, understands the terrors of returning to Greenstead. When I texted her with the news of my transfer, her reply was sympathetic.
Oh, I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t go back to that place for anything. I hope you can get out soon.
The urgency in her words makes sense. She knows I’ve entered a colorless void where every day is the same.
Wake up, sit in this office trying to be productive, go home, make pleasant conversation over dinner with Dad and Wendy, go to my room and work on a puzzle until it’s time for bed, and then everything repeats all over again.
If I spend a minute too long here, the tedium will swallow me whole, and then I too will be perfectly content to sit here and waste away for eternity. I’m starting to wonder how long I can hold out.
The door swings open with a loud creak. I look up, figuring it’s Randy going on another pretzel run. Instead, I meet the bewildered expression of my ex–best friend Marina Ramos.
Seeing her transports me back to our bitter argument at the last ever apple festival. Snippets of it hit me like punches in the gut, one after the other. Our raised voices, the sweet smell of kettle corn, the anger flashing in Marina’s eyes right up until she stormed off for the exit.
I wonder if she’s thinking the same thing, because she freezes in place, eyes wide. I straighten my spine and square my shoulders, but good posture doesn’t help me look put together when I’m still gaping at her in confusion. Behind me, the conversation comes to a halt.
“Hi,” Marina ventures, her dark brows dipping slightly.
I’m busy trying to reconcile this early-thirties Marina with the teenager I once knew.
Her dark brown hair was long and frizzy, and now it’s shoulder-length, shiny, and neatly tamed.
She’s grown out her bangs, and it suits her.
In a red cap-sleeved sundress and flip-flops, it’s like she and the Ryser Cares group all got the same casual-dress-code memo.
Then there’s me, all dark colors and sharp angles in my pleated black pants and navy collared blouse, dressed to impress someone who isn’t even here.
“Hi,” I say. “Um.” I stand, not sure what the proper protocol is for greeting someone who used to be your best friend, before you got into a shouting match near the cotton candy stand.
I glance behind me at the Ryser Cares group, still congregated at Jen’s desk.
From the uncertain looks they’re exchanging, they weren’t expecting her either.
“What are you doing here?” Marina asks.
“I work here?” I can’t help the way it comes out, nor the way my face scrunches in uncertainty. It does feel more like a question than a statement.
“Since when? I knew you worked for Ryser , but I thought you were in DC.” Her eyebrow lifts in disdain when she says the company’s name.
Her tone makes me bristle. We used to make fun of those Ryser Cares ads, but my jabs were always more lighthearted than hers.
I’d mimic the spokesperson’s stilted voice, but Marina, even at ten, would say what a joke it all was, how this was basically the equivalent of Scar from The Lion King boasting about improving Pride Rock, as if he wasn’t the reason it declined in the first place—except worse, she’d say, because at least Scar had a cool accent and a catchy villain song.
I’d agree and nod along with her, but I’d think to myself that Ryser couldn’t be that bad if they were here, cleaning, caring.
In retrospect, I was probably a little too susceptible to their ad campaign.
It’s no surprise that Marina takes issue with me working at Ryser.
She’s not capable of nuance, and that’s her loss.
I could tell her about my eight-year plan, the career track, the good I’ll do once I get my promotion, how once I’m forty I’ll take my money and run and never have a single thing to do with Ryser ever again.
How I’m going to buy a town house in a neighborhood with sidewalks and walkability and life , where I can walk to cafés and restaurants and enjoy the small pleasures Greenstead could never give me.
How I’ll adopt a dog and give it the life it deserves: a living space that isn’t a sad basement apartment, a backyard to play fetch in.
Live out the rest of my days far away from endless controversies and unethical business practices.
But there’s no point telling her any of that, because she wouldn’t listen to anything I said after Ryser .
Early retirement became my goal after my first Ryser scandal a year out of college.
An environmental organization published a report revealing that Ryser’s palm oil supplier was destroying rain forests and orangutan habitats to source the oil.
I robotically did my job helping Amanda spin the narrative in Ryser’s favor, but I spent my downtime clicking through pictures of sad-eyed orangutans and feeling like a monster.
I briefly went on the job hunt, but the listings I came across gave me pause.
A pay cut, only two weeks of PTO, and no free snacks in the office kitchen?
Just to win the approval of some orangutans on the other side of the world?
It was then that I learned my morality is more flexible than I was willing to admit.
So, I came to a new conclusion: I’d keep my job, but I’d appease the orangutans another way, and thus my plan was born.
I read up on the FIRE movement—Financial Independence, Retire Early—I cut unnecessary expenses, I left my apartment in the heart of the city for a cheaper place in a less lively neighborhood.
I focused on putting my head down, working toward the next promotion, saving my money to the extreme.
When I turn forty, I will become someone the orangutans approve of.
Though I doubt I’ll ever win the approval of anyone in Greenstead.
“Well, I was at Ryser in DC, until a couple of weeks ago.” I take a breath, trying to figure out how to explain why I work for Ryser and how to spin the demotion without making Ryser look bad.
But when I open my mouth, the excuses die on my tongue.
I don’t owe her any explanations, I remember. We’re not best friends anymore.
“Long story,” I say with a wave of my hand. “I’m just…here to help out. It’s temporary.” Blessedly, the Ryser Cares folks don’t correct me.
“How generous,” she says dryly.
I dig my nails into my palm. I haven’t forgotten what she shouted at me during our fight.
The words You’re fucking selfish always come back to me at the oddest times.
After a glowing performance review from Amanda.
After transferring my annual bonus to my savings account.
Marina and I went a decade without speaking, and still I could never escape her judgment.
She shouldn’t get to haunt me like this. She’s not my friend; she’s just a woman who’s walked into my place of business. A prospect or a potential business partner. Business partners I can handle.
“So…” I say, slipping into my self-assured Business Partner voice. I clap my hands together with a grin. “How can we help?” I realize as the question leaves my mouth that I actually have no idea how to help. No one here has trained me on anything. But Business Partner me is an excellent performer.
“Marge suggested I come here,” she says. Seeing my blank expression, she clarifies, “Randy’s wife?”
As I’m about to dig myself deeper and pretend to be intimately acquainted with this Marge, Randy steps forward. “Marge sent you?” he asks.
“Yeah. She thought you’d be able to help save the community center.”
“Save the community center?” I echo, Business Partner voice momentarily forgotten.
It’s never once occurred to me that the Greenstead Community Center could ever need saving.
That large, redbrick building sits in my memory as a permanent fixture.
Home to the only public swimming pool in Greenstead, it’s where Marina and I went swimming most summers when our parents weren’t willing to take us to the water park in Falls Point.
We’d receive its program guide in the mail at the start of every season, advertising its offerings: after-school programs, art classes, group exercises, book clubs, planned hikes along the Echo Hill trail. My dad met Wendy on one of those hikes.