Chapter 14. Micah
MICAH
I hang back by Priya’s workspace, waiting for her to return so I can give her Scott’s changes on the media budget for Bradley Products.
Brynn, two seats down from her, slumps in her chair, her eyes shooting bullets at her computer screen.
Meredith stands gathering her stuff at the other long table facing us. She throws her red leather Tory Burch bag over her shoulder and eyes Brynn. “Don’t take it to heart. You’re still learning and every client’s different. Sometimes the creative misses the mark.”
Brynn pushes back her chair. “He wasn’t willing to give it a chance.”
Josie stops beside Meredith and rolls her eyes at Brynn. “You weren’t even supposed to present. Be grateful they let you speak.”
Meredith shakes her head. “You still have the Quotagian campaign. By the way, the team is going to the Playwright Irish Pub for happy hour and a little team bonding.” Meredith walks over to her. “You coming?”
Brynn glowers at Josie. “I’ll pass.” She wheels herself back in.
“You should go.” Meredith digs for something in her purse. “Other teams will be there. Interns are expected to show.”
Brynn’s eyes dart between Josie and Meredith like she’s a trapped animal.
“We’ll go over together, the place is a couple blocks from here.” Meredith nudges her chair. “Gives me a chance to bestow more of my great advertising knowledge on you.”
Three days in and the new girl has managed to melt Meredith’s igloo? Impressive.
She fared better than I expected presenting her ideas to Scott and the entire team. No intern has ever done that. It took me weeks to summon the courage to speak up in a Scott meeting. She doesn’t get intimidated. And now Meredith’s acting like she actually wants her around.
I sigh, shaking my head. I guess I have to go to this thing too, dammit. I was looking forward to writing tonight.
The combination of beer and fried food assaults my senses when I duck under the Major League Soccer banner strung across the entrance of Playwright’s. Zoe and the other interns are gathered at one of the high-top tables, deep in conversation, their glittery nails wrapped around cocktails.
Zoe elbows the girl next to her. Their eyes swing over to me.
Brynn sits alone at the far end of the bar, flattening her white straw wrapper with her fingertips. She glances up at one of the TVs. She folds her wrapper into tiny squares.
Where’s Meredith?
I signal to the bartender. It takes him a minute to respond; his attention is fixed on the match. I slide onto a barstool alongside several patrons wearing the same striped scarf around their necks.
Zoe makes a face, gesturing behind Brynn’s back. Her cohorts laugh.
If our newest intern disappears before her two weeks are up, Meredith will never let me live it down.
I count the liquor bottles lined up across the mirrored bar. Twice. My heart gallops like I’m about to deliver a speech in front of the entire bar. I grab my lowball and plant myself next to Brynn, bumping my knee into her. Real smooth.
She jerks back.
I avoid her face. “How did your first week go?”
She acts like she doesn’t hear me. She eyes my glass. “Vodka?”
“Evian. Lucky us, the underage ones.” I raise my glass to clink hers.
She sips her water instead. “Zoe and the other interns too.”
“I’m certain this place will serve you. Want me to get the bartender?”
She shakes her head, squeezing the end of her straw.
A long minute passes.
I watch the TV like I care about soccer, my fingers tapping SOS in Morse Code on my glass. “How do you find working with Meredith?”
“Fine.” She shrugs.
“The others on your team?”
“Okay.”
“One-word answers, nice. I told you it’d be a lot of grunt work.”
She sighs and her brows furrow like I’m bothering her.
“I liked your presentation. You seem to have a knack for it.”
“I don’t have much time to prove myself. And I’m not sure everyone here wants me to succeed.”
I nod. Her ideas took the group by surprise. Especially Donovan.
She straightens her back and gives me the side-eye. “So, what do you have against senior citizens?”
Ah, so you do remember me from the elevator. “Yeah, about that . . . I was running late that morning, jetlagged, and um . . . and a bit distracted.” I tap my temple. Not sure why. “Whatever happened to the old lady?”
She pulls a thread off her sleeve and turns her eyes to me. Her plum-colored blouse sets her amber eyes aglow.
I forget my question.
“I helped her to a bench in the lobby and asked the security guard to keep an eye out while I got her some water. She told us she was waiting for her son who worked in the building. I stayed with her but no one showed. A Silver Alert came across the security guard’s phone, and he called the number. ”
“A what?”
“Like an Amber Alert for senior citizens. If they have Alzheimer’s or another form of dementia, they can wander off and go missing.”
“Never heard of it. Guess I have those notifications blocked.” I chuckle.
“We registered my grandmother.”
I wince. Of course you did. “Her son must have been worried.”
Her face pinches. “He died in one of the towers on 9/11. She searches for him in high-rise offices all over the city. Rides elevators to the top floors to warn him.”
Damn. I swirl the liquid in my glass. “She must be exhausted.”
Brynn pulls a face like I’m an a-hole. “Her aide arrived frantic. They were outside of Macy’s, admiring one of the window displays, when she disappeared.”
A thunder of cheers erupts, vibrating our drinks on the bar. The soccer fans pump their fists toward the television. The roar escalates.
Without thinking I wrap my arm around the back of Brynn’s stool and cover my ear with my other hand.
She holds hers too, ducking her head and cringing.
The bartender quiets the fans down so he can hear the commentators.
I swivel in my seat, retrieving my arm without her noticing. “I see Meredith and the rest of our team in the back there.”
“Yeah, I know.”
I swig my water, smiling a little. I order us two more. “I’ve got to say . . . I wouldn’t have stopped to help that old lady. I’d never make it to work with all the people on the street asking for a handout. Cynical, I guess.”
She stares into space. “That could be any one of us, someday.”
Donovan jumps between us, his eyes all over Brynn. “You two want to go to Walter’s in Chelsea?”
She wrinkles her nose.
“The whole team’s going. Come on, team player. I’ll forgive you this one time for calling me out in front of Scott and Meredith today.”
“Unpaid intern, no funds.” Brynn rounds her fingers into a zero.
“We’ll spot you.”
“No thanks.”
He throws up his hands and spins back toward Zoe’s table.
“You’re new.” I glance over my shoulder. “He can be a bit of a jerk, but he’s acting even more obnoxious than usual around you. He must want you to like him.” I look at her, waiting for her to nod or something.
The bar’s volume grows muffled.
She turns to me, forehead creased, lips parted.
Did she ask a question?
The air thickens with stale beer and humidity like the air-conditioning’s off. My hands grow cold with sweat. A haze falls. Grayish figures rise from the floor, pointing gnarled fingers in my face, their eyes burrowing into mine.
I squint, faking a yawn. A scorching sensation hikes up the back of my neck. I can’t get enough air in my lungs. I’ve got to get out of here.
I place a tip on the bar. “Most of us aren’t that bad. I hope you enjoy your time at the agency.”
She glances away.
Something falls inside my chest. It touches down to the lowest depth. Pushes off from the bottom of a swimming pool, kicking and flailing to expedite its ascent to the surface. My lungs burn for air.
I spring to my feet and exit the bar before ugly words fly from my mouth. A geyser shoots down the back of my dress shirt; my eyes boil.
Too much adrenaline is pumping through my ears for me to wait on a cab. I dash across the intersection. Horns blast. I switch direction. Herald Square. Nothing looks familiar. All at once, I’m lost.
There. The subway entrance. I pass it. Must get downtown. Recalculating course. Traffic lights swirl in glowing balls of color then snake around in hypnotic spirals. I blink, they reverse direction. Their serpentine coils screw into my forehead, gripping my skull.
I stare down the Shadow People approaching, counting heads. I need to outpace them. Conceal my unhinged state. Not give them the upper hand.
A couple begins to follow me. With every step, they diminish the distance between us. They strut in my blind spot, their soles smacking the pavement. I sense their urgency. I pick up the pace. Let them push me forward.
I glance over my shoulder.
One of them steps out wide. A female my age. She wears a black camisole, cutoff shorts, and a flannel tied at her hips. The Woman in Black.
My chest relaxes. We cross paths often. Early on, before I understood that only I could see her, she’d appear mainly at night. I once thought she worked or lived nearby because I never saw her go inside a building. Now she’s a regular participant in my world.
She smiles.
I smile back. I get the feeling she’s shy. She doesn’t intimidate me like the other Shadow People. I wonder where she goes, whom she sees. What does she think about when she sees me? Do I comfort her in the way she comforts me?
I turn back. Say something. Maybe I’ll start with hello; how bad could it be?
She’s too quick. Escapes my line of sight. Her favorite game.
Her menacing henchman aims for me—narrowing the sidewalk between us, constricting the air in my lungs.
He reaches me first.
How am I going to fight him off alone on the street?
I must shake off the fear. None of this is real; it’s only my head, having one of its more colorful field trips.
In my mind, I summon the line of whitecoats, the team of experts assigned to help me. They frown at my sixteen-year-old self.
Only one of them smiles. Dr. Val sits in a different chair than the rest of them. Hers has a motor. I decide right then to forget the others, to focus only on whatever comes out of her mouth. Like how to make the Shadow People fade.
I inhale automobile exhaust mixed with the stench of urine and wet garbage lining the curb for six consecutive one-one-thousands, exhale for another six, and repeat the sequence.
John. Paul. Ringo. George.
Too easy.
Alvin. Simon.
My urgent stride downgrades to a medium stroll.
Theodore. Got it.
Kim. Khloé. Kendall. Kylie.
I blank on the oldest sister’s name, the little one with the annoying vocal fry. I run through every K name I can think of. Nothing.
The pulsating blood in my ears slows its tempo; my fever cools, leaving my shirt damp. My broken brain sputters to a dull finality. The sound of the Woman in Black’s combat boots gets swallowed up by a passing taxi, then another.
I smile like I always do. I’m good, never better.
Before I can reach the next corner, the Woman in Black floats up beside me and loops her arm through mine.