Chapter 8
Eight
I’m definitely going to get fired.
Forty-eight hours ago, that assumption was premature. I didn’t have all the facts. Today, I’m drawing an informed conclusion
based on observations. I’ve met the powers that be; I know the risks. I can say with clear-eyed certainty that I will be fired.
“Holy fuck, you actually did it.”
I’m barely down the porch steps when Efraín rudely interrupts my anxious internal monologue.
Not for the first time, I curse Lola’s two-door car. If Efraín didn’t have to get out—to perform this parody of chivalry—then
he wouldn’t be looking right at me.
“Is it really that surprising? You literally hand-delivered the dye to my doorstep.”
Efraín rolls his eyes. “Yeah, but I didn’t really expect you to use it, Mr. Goody Two-Shoes.”
Well, that stings, but I probably deserve it. Last night, I didn’t give him any reason to believe I might see reason—or his definition of it. But Efraín didn’t plumb the depths of my anger.
So, for one day only, I’ve dyed my curls electric violet. And probably a good chunk of my forehead and the back of my neck,
too. No one warned me that hair dye was so messy.
Lola peeks over the roof and lets out a low whistle. “Looking good.”
Naomi’s already slipping in past Lola’s seat. She hasn’t commented yet, but she has ringside season tickets.
Efraín’s still gawping. “It’s so purple.”
“Technically, it’s Vivid Violet,” I correct him. “Although, with the auburn undertones in my natural hair color, the result
is more on the plum side of the spectrum—”
Efraín mutters something to the effect of so fucking pedantic as I push past him and into the back seat.
“What changed your mind?” Efraín demands as he reclaims his seat.
I really should’ve prepared an answer. I knew he’d ask, but from the moment I first lathered dye on my hair last night to
when I combed my curls this morning, I couldn’t find the words to translate my decision into a language he’d understand.
Because the messy truth—that this hair dye is as much an act of personal protest on my part as a selfless show of support—wouldn’t
make sense to him. Instead, an ambiguous truth: “I’m sending a message.”
Efraín meets my gaze in the rearview mirror, a cipher scrawled between his brows. Let him puzzle over which message I’m sending the institution.
Lola laughs. “My name is Dolores Mercedes Fuentes, and I approve this message.”
“That’s supposed to be Eli’s line,” Naomi pipes up. “If this were a campaign. The candidate is legally required—”
I bump her shoulder before buckling my seat belt. “In that case, my name is Elisha Goldstein, and you better believe I approve
this message.”
Naomi looks at me. Eye contact’s even harder for her than it is for me, so the gesture itself is worth more than whatever
words may follow. I hold contact, uncomfortable as it is, studying her hickory eyes. Her sclera are tinged pink; she hasn’t
been sleeping well. I wonder if Naomi reads the same struggle in me.
She doesn’t say she approves, but then again, my hair isn’t an apology. But that’s fine. Neither Naomi nor I put much stock
in words because what are social niceties if not a pyramid scheme?
“They won’t know what hit them.” Lola revs the engine. “Just watch Anya try to fire us now.”
I agree with one out of two of those statements. I agree that, after my borderline brownnosing behavior, my defiance will
shock Anya, but she’s definitely going to fire us.
I check the mirror again because if I’m remembering Dagny’s visit, surely Efraín must be, too.
But Efraín isn’t looking at the mirror, though I can see a sliver of his face, tilted up, eyes shut, the hint of a smile on his lips. If I didn’t know him better, I’d think he was . . . pleased? Hopeful?
If Efraín’s feeling bullish about our continued employment now, after yesterday’s broodfest, then something’s changed his
mind—presumably my hair.
Efraín’s hopeful because of a choice I made. Efraín’s pleased because of . . . me.
He sure as hell wouldn’t approve that message.
If I had any doubts about my fate, Dagny’s presence at the pre-shift meeting mere nanoseconds from midnight would break the Doomsday Clock. Discomfort wafts off my coworkers like bad body odor.
Blake and Jaime are huddled close, whispering either gossip or sweet nothings. Stanley and Dan are debating the merits of
some new fantasy show. Gwen’s asking Ford how to get ahead, but Ford has counted the same bundle of twenties twice and keeps
sneaking glances over Gwen’s head.
At the far end of the ticketing counter, Dagny’s fiddling with her phone, presumably doing something of great institutional
import. Anya’s talking to her, but I’m too far to eavesdrop.
The moment our carpool quartet walks in, all eyes lock on our hair.
I expect Dagny to lead this pro forma kangaroo court, but Anya calls us to order. With forced cheer, she gets everyone to gather round while Dagny stays in the shadows—literally, because the lights over the ticketing counter aren’t on yet.
“It’s officially the start of tourist season, with our VIP anniversary party in August to close it out,” Anya declares, “so
the senior management team has planned incentives to help this well-oiled machine run smoother than ever. First off, we’re
increasing the employee discount at the gift shop from ten to fifteen percent, so now’s the time to stock up on merch.”
If I expected to still be a discount-eligible employee by my lunch break, I’d be excited. I’ve never bought anything from
the gift shop before because it’s basically Highway 12 robbery. Now it’s a moot point.
“Second, we’re organizing a collegial competition for membership sales. Every month, the GSA with the highest tickets-to-memberships
conversion rate will receive a small prize. At the end of the summer, there will be a top secret grand prize!”
No one looks too excited for the surprise doorbuster. It’s the equivalent of a white elephant gift, except you’re working
harder for the mere chance of earning what might be a coin sorter from someone’s basement.
“Next, an update on our seasonal donation drive. We’ve checked with legal, and you can solicit donations for ‘the museum and its programming,’ just not ‘educational programs.’ Ask every guest if they’d like to donate!”
There is a limit to how much more employee minutiae I can tolerate when I am never going to sell another ticket again.
“Finally.” Anya exchanges another glance with Dagny. “A minor update to the dress code. On a trial basis, we’re suspending
the ban on nonnatural hair colors. In general, any work-appropriate hairstyle will be allowed. If you have any questions about
what constitutes a ‘work-appropriate hairstyle,’ please ask any member of the leadership team or Billy in HR.”
Stop the Doomsday Clock. Put down the cell phones.
“Think of it as a fun little way to express yourself going into tourist season.”
I don’t understand. Anya’s words are rattling around in my head, and Dagny’s cataloging every reaction and possibly typing
notes on her phone. Lola’s beaming at Naomi, Naomi’s blinking less like stimming and more like holding-back-tears, and Efraín’s
looking at me. His hand is on my arm, hot as a brand. His voice is in my ear, warm breath against my skin, saying my name,
asking if I’m okay.
I’m bouncing on my toes. I’m staring at my shoes, except they’re flickering. I’m blinking, not against tears. I’m just trying
to understand.
Efraín says my name again, louder, and I look up at him because I don’t want anyone else looking at me right now. There’s that little crinkle between Efraín’s brows, but I don’t recognize the shape of his lips or the gloss over his eyes. Thrice, he asks me, “Elisha. Tell me you’re okay.”
So, maybe he’s not asking, per se.
But I need to ask someone, and he’s demanding the whole of my attention.
Softly, I whisper, “Does this mean we’re not fired?”
And Efraín—
Efraín laughs.