Chapter Nine #3
“I’m actually working on throwing an apple festival this fall through Ryser Cares,” I say, the words falling out in a rush.
“Greenstead’s apple festival started to peter out in the years after the”—I pause—“ factory malfunction . Someone came to the office with a proposal to bring it back. They’re hoping it will raise enough money to save Greenstead’s community center. ”
Amanda gives a hum of acknowledgment, still chewing.
“It got me thinking about what good PR it would be for Ryser to sponsor the festival,” I press on. “To show how committed we are to helping Greenstead get back on its feet.”
“Okay,” Amanda says, wariness tinging her voice. “What jewel heaven blind?”
Well, that can’t be right.
When I can’t fully hear someone, my brain replays the audio of their words over and over, trying to match the sounds to words, then shuffling through options to find the combination that makes the most sense for the context.
I pause to work through the permutations until I settle on What did you have in mind?
It’s the most logical option. That or she wants me to solve a riddle about unholy gemstones—which I’m not above taking a crack at if it gets us that festival money.
“It would be great if Ryser could provide the money we need to get the festival off the ground,” I say. “About ten thousand dollars or so.”
“Ten thousand dollars?” she says, her voice growing louder.
“Give or take. By our estimates, that’s what we’d need for the festival to be a success, and of course we want the festival to be a success.”
She purses her lips. “I’m not sure that’s the best idea.”
“It would be great publicity for Ryser—which we could really use,” I add.
I don’t need to remind her about the last year we’ve had, rushing out official statements, updating Bill with new euphemisms for the company’s latest atrocities.
“And a lot of our competitors are getting involved in community projects like this. Did you see that Hatchley Foods sponsored a community garden in a food desert last week?” I ask casually.
After all those industry newsletters I’ve read in full to pass time in the Ryser Cares office, I could rattle off every minor occurrence in the food and beverage world from the last two weeks.
Amanda grows pensive, staring into her drink. I bite into my bruschetta to give her time to mull it over.
“It might be a good move,” she concedes, bobbing her head to the side as if weighing the pros and cons.
I have to rush to finish chewing the bruschetta, worried she might change her mind if I don’t speak quickly enough. I hastily swallow a jagged piece of crust and ask, “Does that mean you’ll do it?”
Amanda takes another bite. As she chews, she covers her mouth with a hand and utters a string of words I can’t make out.
I hear hazmat inner rocket and Lee done scatter bee , and my brain whirs into action trying to parse together soundalike phrases that make sense.
But it can’t crack the code fast enough, because then she swallows and says, “Does that work for you?”
“What?”
“Does that work for you?”
I hate when I ask people to repeat themselves and they say only the part I’ve already heard. “What did you say before that?” I try again.
“I said we should have room in the budget for it, and—” She leans in toward my deaf ear to say the rest, which is about as useful as whispering into my shoe. She pulls back, looking at me expectantly.
Well, I’ve hit my two-what maximum. But I’ve learned my lesson about agreeing to something I haven’t heard. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear what you said,” I confess.
She stares at me, a frown pulling at her mouth. Then she tips her head back and laughs. I can only sit there, feeling silly and stupid and baffled as to how hilarious a hearing impairment could really be.
“You had me,” she says when she’s composed herself. “It’s good that you can joke about what happened with Dan. That’s a good sign.” She squeezes my arm.
She thought I was putting on an act. Making light of the Dan incident by pretending not to hear her.
I open my mouth to correct her, then close it.
What does That’s a good sign mean? I’m one step closer to getting my job back?
I glance down at her hand on my arm. Is this a reassuring gesture, a sign that she’s still on my side?
What if correcting her undoes whatever good sign I’ve unwittingly sent her?
Before I can make up my mind, someone calls her name and beckons her over to their group. Amanda gives them a wave, then rises from her seat. “I’ll update our budget tomorrow,” she says. “I think we can manage diverting ten thousand to the festival.”
With that, she takes off, leaving me to stew in confusion-tinged relief. Whatever just happened, I got the money. And Amanda thinks I’m funny. Which is a nice bonus, really.
I scan the room, curious about how the rest of my team is doing.
That’s when I catch sight of the redhead entering the ballroom, mouth turned down in a frown.
Her head moves from side to side, like she’s searching for something.
Or someone. Beside her is a tall Indian woman who looks confused and a little outraged.
The real Sharon Bhatt has arrived.
Going by the looks on their faces, I have a minute or less to gather my group and escape before they realize what we’ve done. I don’t know what they’ll do—publicly reprimand us, kick us out, send us to a place even more lifeless than Greenstead. But I’m not waiting around to find out.
Keeping my eyes on the carpet to avoid the redhead spotting me, I stand and make my way through the room.
I see Marina first, still standing by the wall. I widen my eyes and point to the exit, and she catches on immediately, peeling off to grab the others. I spot Arun near the front of the room, talking to an older man with long, white hair tied in a ponytail.
I wave at Arun from behind the man. When he notices me, I jerk my head in the direction of the door.
He excuses himself, stepping backward and bumping into the table full of Ryser-branded aluminum water bottles.
They start to wobble, and Arun dives to catch the ones that fall off the edge.
Now holding three water bottles to his chest, Arun joins me in covertly speedwalking through the room.
It’s then that the redhead and the real Sharon Bhatt begin walking toward us.
I grab Arun’s arm and dodge to the right, then let out a relieved sigh when I realize they’re approaching the front of the room.
But seeing them make their way to the microphone sends panic through me all over again.
Are they going to give an announcement to make a spectacle out of ejecting us?
Right after I made my hilarious good sign impression on Amanda? My heartbeat thunders in my ears.
“There’s Tessa,” Arun says, gesturing toward the bar. Tessa stands with a highball glass in hand, throwing her head back in laughter with a few people I vaguely recognize from the research department. Arun edges toward the bar and subtly nudges Tessa’s elbow.
She turns around. An understanding passes over her at the sight of us both. “It’s been great catching up,” she says, still using that silky voice she put on earlier, “but I’ve got to step out for a minute.” She sets her drink down and follows us to the door.
I look around the room frantically, searching for any sign of Marina, Jen, or Randy. “I don’t see the others,” I say, panic rising in my throat.
“Maybe they already left,” Arun says.
I’m doing another visual sweep of the room when my gaze locks onto the redhead. Her eyes narrow, and I can see her mind piecing it together. She makes a beckoning motion with her hand, imploring me to join her and explain myself.
I nod in her direction, slow and exaggerated, trying to look obedient. Then, through gritted teeth, I say, “Run.”
And Arun, Tessa, and I take off through the ballroom doors at lightning speed.