EIGHT #3
Hunter and Murph insinuated themselves into the Tim Hollister semicircle until it was forced to widen.
Link Forster looked annoyed. Of course, during all of this associate jockeying for conversational position, Tim Hollister himself remained oblivious, just talking.
I was sure none of the associates surrounding Tim had the slightest interest in what he was saying; the important thing was that he was saying it to them.
When I swiveled back around, Tyler and I exchanged a loaded look.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “Basic rule of thumb. Never ask a gay man why he’s not having a martini in front of two jocks, especially not at a dive bar with sawdust on the floor.”
“Sorry,” I said, and meant it. He had a point, and it hadn’t occurred to me. And it bothered me that it hadn’t occurred to me. It seemed like the kind of thing that should have.
But then I narrowed my eyes at him and said, “Well, what about you?”
Tyler blinked. “What about me?”
I rolled my eyes. “What was all that ‘A girl playing ball? This I have to see!’ crap? I half-expected you and Hunter to start licking Jell-O shots off of some sorority girls and then go play beer pong.”
Tyler burst out laughing, and I could tell I was forgiven.
“Touché,” he said, bringing his mug up to my beer bottle and giving it a conciliatory clink.
We sat in companionable silence for a while, sipping our drinks and taking in the crowd, and I was basking in the glow of my base hit and the way I hadn’t played that much like a girl when Tyler said, “So, I got my subpoena from Dr. Rossi today.”
“What?”
“I got a personal handwritten note from Dr. Rossi through interoffice mail, telling me he would like to have a ‘friendly chat’ with me at my earliest convenience.”
I was quiet. I had already had several meetings with Dr. Rossi—but I’d drawn the line at trying to draft anyone else.
Predictably, most of the associates were treating Dr. Rossi and the Diversity Initiative as a big company joke.
No one ever came to see Rossi in his office except for the few partners on the Diversity Committee, me, and the occasional hapless first- or second-year he’d succeeded in corralling for a mute, unhelpful, ten-minute noninterview.
He was still hidden away in his dark, untrafficked corner of the twenty-ninth floor, which, owing to Rossi’s argyle sweaters and mild manner, had been nicknamed Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, courtesy of some fourth-year wit in Tax.
“And?” I said encouragingly. “Are you going to go talk to him?”
Tyler sighed. “I don’t want to be interviewed for the firm’s little diversity report, Ingrid. You know that.” He paused, then added, “Especially not now, when I’ve already got one foot out the door.”
“I know,” I said. “But, I mean, Dr. Rossi’s really not that bad.”
He looked skeptical.
“Like when I’m telling him about some of the stuff that goes on around here?
Like the Corporate guys’ weekly squash court reservation at Chelsea Piers?
And how no women are ever invited to play?
I mean, I don’t even think I’m supposed to know about that.
And Rossi was totally not surprised to hear this. He gets it.”
Now Tyler looked alarmed. “You told Rossi about the Corporate guys’ standing court reservation? You don’t think that’s a little too much information?”
“Maybe,” I admitted. “But, I mean, I’ve talked with the guy a couple of times now, and I actually think he believes in what he’s doing. He’s just so earnest. He genuinely thinks he can level the playing field a little. I figure, least I can do is give him the benefit of the doubt.”
Tyler gave a short, bitter laugh. “Sounds like you’ve been drinking the Kool-Aid. You think they’re going to level the playing field just by interviewing a couple of us lawyers with melanin and having us spill our guts? Come on, Ingrid. You’re too smart for that.”
“Well, I’ve hardly been spilling my guts, Tyler,” I said mildly.
“Okay, maybe that wasn’t fair.” Tyler looked serious. Concerned. “Look, I just don’t want to see you get played, that’s all. Make sure you protect yourself.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I said, punching him lightly in the arm.
He shook his head. “I mean it, Ingrid. Don’t get yourself too closely tied up in this whole ‘diversity’ bullshit, you know? You were doing just fine on your own. SunCorp loves you. Adler loves you. You’re golden.”
I paused. “One thing has nothing to do with the other.”
He laughed. “Oh, sweetie. You have a lot to learn.”
Fuck you, Tyler.
Tyler Robinson did not have a monopoly on being a Minority Darling. I’d lived it for thirty-odd years, too. And I was sick of all this cynicism. What was wrong with trying a different tack?
“So this is just the way things are, huh? It’s not worth sticking our necks out to change anything, because no one cares?”
Tyler flashed me an angry stare. “Oh, you’re wondering if the firm really cares? Just take a good look at Hunter and Matt and those other pricks. They go onstage and sing the freaking N-word and the firm doesn’t do a damn thing about it.”
I was incredulous. “So why do you think they hired Rossi?”
He shrugged. “Damage control. Just covering their asses.”
“Okay, so if Rossi’s such a joke, you got a better idea?”
“Yeah,” he snorted. “How about we just wait around for the old white guys in charge to die off.”