Chapter 20
Twenty
My name isn’t on the schedule.
I don’t notice right away. I’m on time and clocked in for Friday morning pre-shift, but I’m looking at the world through plastic
packaging, thinking about yesterday’s Barbarella-Barbie Blue Plate double feature, remembering how Efraín almost choked stifling his laughs because he didn’t want to admit the Man
could produce something funny. And how, in those narrow seats, our thighs pressed so close that I could feel his muscles tensing—
My sister, tactful as always, elbows me in the ribs and points to the note on the schedule: “Eli—see Anya.”
“Fuck.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Lola says, deploying the same sweet nothings I use to reassure Sputnik en route to the vet.
Except I know better. It’s been four days since Stanley and I marched on Anya’s office to deliver our stool petition. That’s
a whole lot of something.
“It wasn’t nothing when Anya asked Naomi to stay late on our first day.”
“That was different.” An empiricist at heart, Naomi sees every event as discrete. A single variable changes everything.
“It’s probably just another department asking for an extra set of hands,” Lola says. “Yesterday, I helped Eden from curatorial
move top secret boxes all afternoon.”
“This is Friday,” I remind her. “All hands on deck.”
“It’s not what you think,” Efraín rumbles, words seeping down the back of my neck.
I barely registered him behind me, but now I crane my neck to look up at him. “And what do I think it is, exactly?”
Efraín meets my gaze so damn calmly, but why shouldn’t he be calm? It’s not his name on the line.
“It doesn’t say anything about Stanley,” Efraín murmurs. I can barely hear him over the blood rushing in my head, white-water
rapids of panic drowning out everything else. “If it was about the petition, Anya would talk to Stanley.”
“Maybe she already did. He—”
“Would’ve messaged us.”
“You don’t know that. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe Anya—”
“Got to him? C’mon. We all signed it—and TJ, too.”
“I know, but—”
“Elisha.” Efraín’s hand alights on my arm. I stare at the point of contact, his fingers splayed over pink cotton. None of
this makes sense. “You’re not alone.”
Oh. The three most powerful words in the English language. Honestly, fuck him. For swearing those words like a sacred oath he’d
kill to keep. For looking at me with his dark, fathomlessly deep eyes like he’d never let me drown. For touching me like he
can tether me to this moment through sheer force of will.
I want to argue with him. No matter what he says, my name is alone on the page. Anya wants to talk to me alone. I have to
face the consequences alone. But when I’m facing him, protests dissolve on my tongue.
Anya rattles through the morning announcements, but my attention wanders anywhere, everywhere else, her raspy voice fading
into the background.
I memorize the scene around me as if I could catch it on film and live inside the frame. Stanley offering up amiable smiles
to everyone. Blake slipping her hand in Jaime’s back pocket, classic brat pack PDA. Dan, behind the counter, lifting something
over his head in a bad John Cusack impression, but—
That’s not a Toshiba boom box.
It’s a metal stool. Silver. Sturdy. Utilitarian. I’ve seen dozens just like this in the maintenance closet.
Elbows jab my rib cage from both sides. The hand that never left my bicep squeezes.
“You’ll find stools behind both sales counters.
As I said, this is a trial run for a program senior leadership has been considering for a while,” Anya says.
“Whether it continues will depend on how sitting affects customer experience. Remember, this is a privilege. A bonus, for good work. Keep it up, and the stools stay.”
My fellow workers—my friends—effuse happiness like bubbles rising to the top of a champagne flute. They are effervescent, buoyant, incandescent. They’re
New Year’s Eve giddy, confetti and glitter, too caught up in their silent celebration to realize the twelve-thousand-pound
Waterford Crystal ball has dropped straight into my stomach. They might not see it yet, but I do, in 4K UHD.
Management’s taking credit for the stools. Anya framed them as a reward for services rendered. Something that was already
in the works. That’s what she said about the dress code changes, too, but there wasn’t a paper trail.
Omitting the petition from the official explanation is a tacit response to the petition itself. Management will appease everyone
on their terms. Dagny and Anya will write the official record. As for that paper trail? They’ll shred the petition and set fire to
the confetti.
Specifically, they’ll fire me, the body of proof that refutes their story. I’m the collateral damage.
I knew this could happen. I didn’t have to write the petition, let alone deliver it. I could’ve hidden my signature amidst
the scribbled masses. I don’t get to be surprised about this; I don’t deserve to be upset about it.
Because there are six silver stools behind the counters.
I always knew there was no such thing as a free lunch, so if this is it—if I’m the sacrificial lamb upon which they’ll feast—then
that’s just how the wishbone breaks. My fellow workers get their stools, and I get slaughtered.
This is what winning looks like.
Anya crooks two fingers at me.
My friends clap me on the back and reassure me I have nothing to fear. They believe the win absolves us of sin, but I know
better.
I cross the slaughterhouse floor. I can’t hear anything but my heartbeat echoing inside my skull. I already made my choice,
but I’m not going to be all Sydney Carton about this.
Anya’s waiting past the ticketing counter, casually swiping away on her phone.
In American tradition, capital punishment gives you the right to last words. Beyond fight, flight, and freeze, the fourth
prey response is fawn. Use your last words not to atone or defend but rather . . .
“I just want to say, working here has been a privilege,” I grovel. “Despite any appearance to the contrary, I love it here.
Every time I walk by Kane’s Smith Corona typewriter, I remember how lucky I am to be here, playing the smallest part in this
legacy. I’ll always be grateful for that. It doesn’t change anything, but—”
“He told you, didn’t he?” Anya pulls off her glasses and pinches the bridge of her nose. “I knew Stanley couldn’t keep a secret.”
“Stanley didn’t—”
“You don’t need to impress me, Eli. Save it for the guests.”
“I don’t understand.”
“After Stanley’s recommendation, Dan’s observations, and guest stories I’ve overheard, I was under the impression that you
wanted to do more around here.” Anya’s lips turn down. “Was that your way of letting me down easy?”
I have absolutely no idea what is going on, but I haven’t been axed yet. “Of course not. I’ll do anything.”
“Only if you want it. This goes beyond your official job description, and it doesn’t come with a raise. As I’m sure Stanley
told you, it’s hard work. Docent duties aren’t for the faint of heart. So, Eli, do you want to give tours?”
Oh, fuck. “Of course I want to—”
“Good. This weekend, you’ll shadow Stanley, all right? I’m sure you could recite the tour script backward and blindfolded,
but you’ll still study the docent handbook. Please stick to the script—Stanley tends to take liberties—but you’ll find opportunities
to personalize it, add your favorite anecdotes, highlight your favorite artifacts. Such as the typewriter, apparently.”
“Apparently,” I agree faintly.
“That settles it. Let’s get you settled in with Stanley.”
Before I’ve processed any of it, Anya heads to the gift shop. I can see Stanley waving at me, smiling broadly.
I don’t know what I did to deserve this. Two minutes ago, I was begging to keep my job only to receive a de facto promotion?
“Here we are. Stanley.” Anya nods. “She’s—oh, sorry, Eli. He’s all yours, Stanley. Eli, you’re in good hands. Just keep up the good work.”