Chapter Three
Three
Without question, the “canteen” on the twenty-fifth floor is the jewel in Taskio’s proverbial crown.
Designed like a restaurant and used like a meeting space, the canteen—or Scratch Kitchen, as it’s officially known—is a popular watering hole for company-sanctioned socializing.
In addition to the barista who’s on site every day from seven until seven, there’s also a salad bar that changes daily, plus an incredibly impressive array of self-service food and drink in the pantry that’s available to us at all times.
To call this area a pantry is an understatement in the extreme—it’s more like an enormous general store.
There are rows and rows of packaged treats, all neatly arranged in wicker baskets and organized by type.
I pick up my favorite (classic cheddar goldfish) and scroll while I wait, reading through my colleagues’ tales of woe, and firing off a hasty missive to Carrie begging her to tell me who in the hell Naomi’s mat leave replacement is.
I’m typing THAT IS FUCKING SHOCKING to a fellow fallen product manager when a chair scrapes against the concrete floor.
I look up and freeze. I should have known.
It is, of course, downstairs guy, who settles into the seat opposite me and crosses his hands on the table between us, giving me a smile so angelic it’s bordering on evil.
From this close I can see all the finer details that failed to register from farther away: his brown eyes, his very straight white teeth, the clear plastic frames that hang from his collar.
His position would suggest he’s at least around my age, if not older, but there’s something boyish about him, too, that makes me wonder if he’s actually twenty-one and just the kid brother of the CEO.
It might be the dimples.
Or the cap.
He stares at me expectantly, like what are you going to do now? My temper stirs in response, the ignition click on a gas stove flaring to life.
“You’re the department head,” I say flatly.
“Interim department head,” he corrects, stretching his arm out toward me. “Connor Reid.”
I decline to shake his hand. “And you couldn’t have mentioned this downstairs when I specifically came over looking for you?”
“You seemed so certain it wasn’t me,” he says. “Who was I to correct you?”
“How could I have possibly known it was you if you didn’t tell me?”
“They did send around an email about it at the time. That, and my contact details are literally in Naomi’s auto-reply.”
“Fine,” I say. “My mistake.”
“So, Annie,” he continues, like this is all completely routine. “I understand you’re interested in applying for a role in data strategy.”
“I’m not interested in applying for it,” I tell him. “I’ve already been reassigned.”
“You keep saying that,” he agrees. “But HR couldn’t possibly have done that before we’d at least had a chance to speak to all the candidates. So far there are four. And then of course there’s the skills test.”
Carrie warned me, on pain of death, never to reveal how I’d tricked my way into this role, and if this guy attempts to interview me for it, it’s game over.
“I think we might have some crossed wires here,” I say, as diplomatically as I possibly can. “Maybe because HR knew I was the most qualified candidate, they just automatically approved it.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Because of the layoffs. It’s employment laws, or something,” I say, parroting Carrie’s non-explanation earlier this morning.
“Right.” He sounds unconvinced.
“Of course,” I say, trying to be gracious, “if you’d like to interview me as a formality, I completely understand.”
“A formality,” he repeats.
“Sure.”
“Remind me—which department are you from?”
“Product.”
“Seems like a fairly aggressive career shift.”
“I disagree.”
“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” he says dryly.
I watch him scan over me, starting at the top of my head and working down, like I’m a file that he’s reading.
I try to imagine what I might look like to a stranger, hoping I give off more “put-together city woman” than “annoying little sister.” Several times a year I pay hundreds of dollars to turn my hair from “flat brown” to “warm, dimensional brown,” a subtle, but I think significant difference, and one I hope he catalogues.
He pauses when he meets my eyes, which, like his, are brown, and which my mom always says are my best feature.
Though I suspect in this case, what he’s noticing is the smear of mascara on my eyelid that I forgot to wipe away, and am now painfully aware of.
Assessment complete, he continues. “Well, now seems like as good a time as any, I guess. Let’s begin the interview. First question: why do you want to be a data strategist?”
Jesus. We’re really doing this.
“Well,” I hedge, trying to find a better answer than because I’ve been laid off and have no choice. “I’ve always been interested in…data. It’s so important, especially for a business like ours.”
His mouth quirks at that. “That it is. And would you say you have experience with…data?”
“Definitely.”
“I’d love for you to give me some examples.” He shifts forward on his elbows. I mistrust the gleam in his eye.
“Well, obviously we’re very data-led in Product,” I say, stalling for time.
“Obviously.”
“And, before the merger I handled most of Jotter’s customer surveys, which, really, is just another form of data collection.”
“I didn’t think Jotter did customer surveys. They never had a user research team.”
I shrug. “We weren’t big enough to need one. It made more sense for someone in Product to run them, so the feedback could go to the right place.”
He bobs his head, making a little humming noise like hmm.
The interrogation continues.
“Are you familiar with SQL?” When I say nothing, he adds, “Can you tell me what it stands for?”
Shit.
“Of course. Super…Quality…Leads.”
“Uh, no,” he says, but he grins, like this is the funniest thing he’s heard all day. “It’s ‘Structured Query Language.’ For the record.”
I pick at a piece of imaginary lint on my sleeve. “I guess in your department it’s different.”
He laughs.
“Listen, Annie, you seem nice,” he says, making fairly intense eye contact. “And I admire your commitment to the cause. But I think you’d hate this role. It’s really technical, and if you don’t have the programming languages, I’m not even sure you could do it.”
Though he is one hundred percent correct in his assessment, hearing him say it—and so gently, too, like he doesn’t want to hurt my feelings—puts me in a rage. My job is the one achievement I have to my name. I am not leaving here without it.
“Look,” I say, impatient even to my own ears. “It’s true that I haven’t worked in data before, but I work with data every day. I have what it takes to be a great strategist. I know Taskio inside and out, and I’m a really fast learner. If there are gaps in my knowledge, I’ll fill them. Quickly.”
“I don’t doubt it,” he says. “But with the best will in the world, you couldn’t teach yourself this stuff overnight. It’s not going to work.”
“Try me,” I challenge. “You said there was a skills test. I’ll do it.”
Connor does what I’d describe as an incredulous pause.
“You want to do the skills test.”
“Why not?”
“Are you good with Excel?”
“Absolutely.” Not. Absolutely not, I hate Excel. I will admit this to him never. I will grind his stupid skills test to dust.
“Great.” His tone tells me he thinks I’m full of shit. The feeling is mutual, buddy.
“So we’re agreed? If I pass your little skills test, I can have the job?”
His mouth twitches just the slightest bit. Is he laughing? “We’re agreed. Do you want me to walk you through it?”
“I think I can handle it.”
“Sure.” He nods, grave again. “I’ll send it over, then.”
“You do that.”
“I will.”
“Fantastic.”
“Perfect.”
“Ideal.”
We stare each other down for another minute until I blink, and the spell is broken.
By the time I’m storming out of the cafeteria, the fear of being laid off and humiliated in front of my family is all but forgotten. I have one goal only: humble this Connor Reid and become the greatest data strategist to ever walk the earth.