3. Anouk
Anouk
Ispend the first twenty minutes after the meeting in the accessibility bathroom on the second floor.
It’s not because I’m a crybaby, and it’s certainly not because I’m weak. At least, that’s what I tell myself because I do feel like crying while I lie down in a fetal position.
But I’m not going to fall apart. I’m only going to regroup.
I tell myself that, too, loudly in my head, without stuttering.
My nervous system is screaming.
Thirty eyeballs dissecting me, and a man yelling at me, dressing me down, humiliating me, was enough to fry me for the day.
I need silence, and the restroom is the closest thing to invisibility this office allows.
My speech isn’t the same as that of most people who stutter. For them, it’s always there, woven into the way their brains time words. For me, it lives closer to fear—flaring when anxiety presses too close.
It takes me a good ten minutes to stop shaking and another to get my bearings, so I can rinse my face with cold water, all the while practicing the slow, mindful breathing my therapist taught me.
It takes me another ten minutes to step out and just two more to walk up to my office.
The pharma data analyst team is spread across the second floor of HelixSphere, and, like all other offices in San Francisco high-rises, ours is a maze of open cubicles, whiteboards with data, almost-dead succulents, half-finished coffees, and a constant buzz of conversation that I tune out.
It’s harder to do today because I’m worried people are talking about me. As much as I tell myself I don’t care what people think about me, the truth is that I’m human, and I care about the impression I make on others.
Today, I made a terrible one on the new CEO.
As I walk past the cubicles, the atmosphere changes—voices lower, glances linger a fraction too long. That’s the thing about being quiet: I pick up on everything. My attention sharpens, my skin prickles, especially when judgment is in the air.
Some people look up. Nod.
Some don’t, pretending I don’t exist.
Some smirk.
I know what they’re thinking, and I can well imagine what they’ve been saying to one another in scandalized whispers.
“Did you see that…?”
“I thought she was gonna faint.”
“Erin practically ate her alive.”
“Luther’s going to fire her.”
“Dot’s gonna lose it if Luther fires her.”
“She’s too sensitive for this place.”
“She’s actually brilliant, though.”
“Yeah, but she can’t talk.”
“Stop gossiping about a colleague and get to work.”
I know exactly which group each person belongs to.
There’s a group of people who dislike me, and it’s because they think Dot favors me and resent what they perceive as special treatment. They are George Liu and Kathleen Reyes, who sit three pods down.
He’s brilliant but lazy. She’s competitive but incompetent.
Together, they make a great pair of work frenemies and a terrible pair of colleagues.
Once, I overheard Kathleen say, “Just because she stutters, what are we all supposed to be nice to a disabled person?”
It was done quietly because if they said it loudly and HR heard them, they’d be fired. They know that, so their animosity comes in passive-aggressive barbs and jabs that can’t be reported.
Now, George shoots me a look that says, “Tough break, Starling, but you deserved that.”
Kathleen doesn’t bother hiding her delight.
I walk past them and see Benjamin, our senior quant. He studies my face like it’s a puzzle he’s halfway through solving. Benjamin is who I go to when I want a model reviewed—which he finds endlessly amusing. “Don’t know why you want me to look at your stuff, Anouk. It’s gold.”
But I seek constructive criticism, and he’s the only one in our team who can actually give it.
He’s been coding since models were built in FORTRAN, which makes him the only person who can tear my work apart in all the right ways—down to the logic, the structure, the bones of the equations.
I smile at him. He nods slowly as if deciding I’m alright and goes back to his screen.
Before I can walk into my cubicle, a hand grabs me and yanks me into the one occupied by one of my teammates, who is also a friend, as close as I allow people to be.
Mila is endlessly patient and brings me macaroons from Miette to cheer me up.
Who does that? Just one of the best people I know! And she likes me despite my stutter and deep introversion.
Speaking of the best people, Ian steps into the cubicle right then as if he’s been waiting for me.
“That was a reaming, but you handled it as well as anyone could while they’re unable to speak,” he says, his eyes wide. Ian is socially awkward, as in he has absolutely no filter.
“Ian!” Mila rolls her eyes.
“You okay? Where did you go after the meeting? We couldn’t find you,” Pallavi exclaims as she also comes into Mila’s cubicle, which is now quite cramped.
She hadn’t been to the morning meeting because she had a doctor’s appointment, so she probably got the rundown from the others while I was taking deep breaths in the bathroom.
“I’m o-okay,” I manage to say, feeling some of the chaos from the meeting dissipate under their warmth and concern.
“I’ve heard about him.” Mila puts a hand on my shoulder. “He’s always like this in meetings. It’s not personal.”
“And that’s supposed to make his behavior okay?” Pallavi arches an eyebrow. “He sounds like a jackass.”
“It’s just a fact,” Ian retorts. “And if we want to keep our jobs, we have to put up with the CEO’s jackassery.”
I giggle. “I-Is that an ac-ac-tual word?”
We look at each other and burst out laughing.
It feels good.
This feels good.
Luther Grant can humiliate me in a meeting, but I have people around me who care about me.
By the time I reach my desk, I’m in unexpectedly decent spirits.
I settle into my chair and let the sanctuary I’ve built around myself wash over me.
Two monitors. One noise-canceling headset. A notepad with a single pen placed neatly across it.
As someone whose mind is always a little chaotic, I keep my workspace minimal—everything exactly where it belongs. Clutter makes me feel out of control, and when so much inside me already is a mess, I need my surroundings to be calm, ordered, and predictable.
I am safe here, in a world of numbers, where I can disappear into the cross-tabs of my Excel sheets.
That’s why I’ve always loved math and modeling. They’re steady. Unmoved by emotion or ego. They don’t care where you’re from, who you are, or how your brain is wired.
Numbers remain logical even when people aren’t.
My half-decent mood evaporates when a message flashes across the company’s chat. It’s from Dot asking me to come to her office ASAP. But it’s not the ASAP that makes my blood freeze, oh no, it’s the word: Novagene.
Oh God! This is a white whale of a project that comes once in a career, and I know that several people on the team want it.
I know they won’t put me on it—especially after I imploded in front of the new CEO, who will be running the project. That announcement came two weeks ago, when the contract was finalized.
Working on something tied directly to the CEO means visibility, and I don’t need that. Do I?
No, not at all.
But I do want to work on something this challenging. Something that makes my brain light up. Something that, as my best friend in the whole world, Finn, would say, “Makes your noodle buzz.”
I smooth the sleeves of my blouse, which I’ve been twisting so tightly that the knit is stretching.
I force myself to stand.
I take a deep breath.
I pick up my notepad and march up to Dot’s office.
Dot has one of the largest analyst teams in the company because she runs the lucrative pharma division. Tech analysts are more popular because they're invited to parties by Meta and Google, but we’re the money-makers.
By the time I reach Dot’s office, my hands are trembling.
She looks up at that moment, and her expression is deceptively calm, which means I’m either being (a) promoted, (b) fired, or (c) all of the above. Not sure how that’s possible, but….
“Close the door, Anouk.”
I do.
“Sit.”
I do that, too.
Dot watches me for a moment, then leans back in her chair. “Rough morning.”
“That’s…one way to put it.”
“Luther will be more careful in the future,” she says plainly.
Why?
Did you tell him about my little speech problem? Did you tell him about how I have severe PTSD? Did you tell him…?
“I had a conversation with him about your skills,” Dot continues, “and he’s quite impressed.”
Right, and I can say ‘differentiation’ five times without stuttering.
“O-okay.”
Dot taps a pen on the table. It’s a habit of hers. I doubt she does it consciously. “He wants you on the Novagene project.”
My stomach rolls.
“He—what?”
A spark of humor softens Dot’s features. “He wants you to build the base forecasting model.”
I stare at her.
Deer in headlights.
Am I mishearing her?
Or am I hallucinating? Which, honestly, would be fair.
Maybe I’ve started adding audio delusions to the speech disorder, you know, really rounding out the skill set.
“But I…ah…it felt like he th-thought I was….”
Incompetent?
Embarrassing?
A liability?
A loser?
“Anouk.” Dot’s tone sharpens. “You’re the best analyst I’ve ever worked with, and I have worked with a few. The fact that you had a bad moment doesn’t erase your excellence.”
That is really, really nice to hear. But….
“So, he r-really wants me on the p-project?”
Dot hesitates just long enough for worry to spike inside of me. “He said he’d give you a chance with the base forecasting model and then….”
The phrasing stings. I’m going to be tested, which is fair, but if I were articulate like Erin, I’d have a guaranteed spot, right?
But the opportunity is top-notch.
My head floods with possibilities—data mapping, reagent flow modeling, batch optimization, supplier chain variances.
A whole universe of structure and logic.
This is sexier than any naked man I’ve ever seen on porn sites.
Dot watches me absorb the news, then adds, “You’ll meet with him one-on-one tomorrow. He wants to review expectations.”
I nod slowly.
I’m terrified.
I’m thrilled.
I’m fucking terrified.
I’m….
Dot leans forward. “Ignore what happened in the meeting today.”
I clear my throat.
I lick my lips.
I weigh my words, taking my time. Dot doesn’t rush me, so I stutter way less with her than with anyone else at work.
“I’m afraid I made the team…you…look bad.”
She smiles softly at me, her eyes kind. “You didn’t.”
That’s decent of her to say, but I have a feeling Luther Grant probably wanted to can my bony ass, and she convinced him to keep me.
How she strong-armed him into having me work on the most prestigious project at the company, I don’t know, but I’m grateful, and I’m going to work hard to make her proud.
I leave her office feeling like I’m walking a tightrope.
One slip and I fall.
One step and I soar.
When I get back to my cubicle, Mila peeks over the divider. “Well? What happened?”
I sit, exhale, and whisper, “I…th-think I’m on N-Novagene.”
Her mouth drops open. “Holy shit. That’s incredible!”
Kathleen’s head pops up two rows over, eyes narrowing.
Pallavi jumps out of her cubicle and pumps her fist. “You go, girl!”
I can all but imagine the chatter now.
You know the analyst who couldn’t speak in front of the CEO? Well, she’s going to work on the biggest project in the building.
I pull my headphones on, fingers trembling as they hover over my keyboard.
This could ruin me.
Or…it could save me.
I don’t know which scares me more, but I do know one thing—I’m going to build the best damn model Luther Grant has ever seen, and this time I’m going to present it like a champ.