Chapter Seventeen
NYAC reported the incident to Carlyle Staffing Solutions, who then called me in to have a “reassessment.” Which means I’m probably fired. Not just from NYAC. From the whole Carlyle operation.
If I lose this job, I’ll have to move home to Pennsylvania, no doubt. A couple weeks ago I might’ve looked at this as an excuse to take the plunge back into the womb, but today the thought of returning to my hometown doesn’t fill me with relief, it fills my head with alarm bells.
I wait for the meeting in the Carlyle office. The room is so bright that it’s giving me a headache. The floors and walls are stark white and almost every piece of furniture is neon. Neon-purple desk, neon-green chairs, neon-orange picture frames with photos of neon-blue fish. I wonder how anyone gets anything done in a place like this.
I close my eyes and try to imagine how this meeting will go, but when I press my lids shut, all I see is Henry dancing to Dolly Parton in the dark restaurant, how he turned my entire night around with a pink hat and a goofy smile.
I have no idea where to take him for the next Passion Project outing. I try zeroing in on things that have made me happy. The things that used to make me happy before Sam. Maybe I can trace the feeling of joy back to a single act. I felt good when I got into college because I had accomplished something. I felt good when I helped Fred get adopted at the adoption event. I felt good with Henry in the bathroom at the Frying Pan….
I shake my head as if I can knock the thought right out of my ears. What is wrong with you? We’re just friends. That’s what I want.
I felt good when I made dinner for my parents after my grandma passed. We were all devastated, but my mom was inconsolable. Doing a small task for her, even if it was just making terrible mac and cheese, was the best way I could show my love.
It’s not much to go on, but an idea starts to form in my head. I text Henry the address of a Home Depot in the Bronx. I know what we’re going to do.
As I’m clicking my phone off, a smallish woman wearing a polka-dot blouse approaches.
“Bennet?” When I stand, I’m a full five inches taller than her. I feel like Godzilla. “I’m Anna. Right this way.”
We head into a small office with a yellow door. She gestures for me to sit. I oblige. She clears her throat and smiles at me from across her desk. I can’t believe I’m about to get fired by this adorable person who looks way younger than me.
“So, I hear that the catering jobs aren’t going so well,” she says.
I shake my head. “It’s just NYAC. I can cater anywhere else.”
“John Kirk was very upset when he called us. He threatened to cut ties with our services. This is serious, Bennet. They are our best client.”
“I understand.” I cross and then uncross my legs.
She cocks her head, her lips thin. “Do you still wish to work with us at Carlyle?”
“Yes,” I say. The truth. I want to stay in New York for a little longer. I want this organ transplant to take.
“Okay.” She sighs, clicking her pen. “We’ll continue to work with you on a probationary basis. You won’t be allowed to do any catering shifts.”
“Okay.” I crack my knuckles in my lap.
“However,” she continues, “the team at the library would like to keep you on a semi-regular schedule. Sal Thomas, as you know, left the city to support his daughter through a medical emergency. He recommended you personally to fulfill some of his duties.”
Eggplant baby. Oh my god.
“Sorry.” I blink. “What happened with Sal?”
“I can’t discuss personal details of our contractors with other contractors.”
“Right.” I tap my fingers on my knee. Come on, lady. Throw me a bone.
She clicks her pen again. “Do you think you could do what I asked?”
“Yes, of course. The library. Semi-regular. No catering. Got it.”
“Great.” She flashes pearly white teeth through her pink-lipstick-stained lips. “Then we’re done here. You know how to get out of the building, right?”
I nod and dash out of her office, heart racing.
The first thing I do when I’m in the tacky green elevator is scroll Sal’s Facebook page. Nothing since the 3D ultrasound. No news is good news, right? If there was a tragedy there’d be some trace of it online, surely. A boulder drops into the pit of my stomach. Of course not—if there was bad news they’d keep it private.
I type out a quick message in the Facebook chat with Sal and Henry, but question if that’s the right thing to do. What if I’m not supposed to know about his daughter’s health problems? What if he wants to keep this all hush-hush? I delete it.
Instead, I text Henry.
Have you heard from Sal? His group chat messages have gone quiet…I think something is wrong.
I know it’s a long shot.
The blue dots pop up right away.
Haven’t heard from him since the baby shower messages.
And then another text.
Want me to see if I can reach him?
No. It’s okay. I just worry. I’m sure it’s fine.
I don’t want Sal to feel like we’re crowding him in a difficult time. When I was grieving, I didn’t want anyone to reach out to me. I know Sal is a different person than I am, but it’s so hard to know what’s appropriate, what’s going to make a hurting person feel better.
But, boy, am I worried.
I need to shake this fear out of my body, so I start to formulate my Passion Project plan. I do some preliminary research on my phone to see if it’s even possible, and then I open my calculator app to try to figure out how much it’ll cost. By the time I’ve planted my butt on the subway seat, I realize that with the extra money I made from working overtime the past couple weeks, and with the very small skill set I have for design, I think I can pull it off. I think we can pull it off.
The excitement of coming up with the plan and the thrill of not knowing how it’ll turn out is not enough to stop me from thinking about Sal and his daughter the entire way home.