Then a normal weekend. Maybe a little research to see if what I knew of the story checked out. And then I could decide with a clear head.
Or else I'd wake up in the loony bin.
five
Going back to work the next morning was one of the most difficult things I'd ever done. It was astounding how different I'd felt during my day off. Even with that huge decision hanging over my head, I'd felt lighter. But today the weight was back on my shoulders as I trudged down Broadway.
I was granted a minor reprieve in that Mimi wasn't at the office yet when I got there. I answered the expected inquiries from my coworkers about my health and only then remembered that I was supposed to have been sick. That gave me enough warning to look weak and to throw in the occasional cough when Mimi got there. She tended to be suspicious of people who took sick leave, along with people who suddenly wore interview-appropriate clothes. It never seemed to dawn on her that she wouldn't
have to worry about losing her staff if she wasn't such a bitch.
And speak of the devil, I heard her coming down the hallway, already complaining about something. I tried to look diligent at my desk and hoped she passed me by.
No such luck. "Oh, you're back," she purred as she paused in front of my cubicle door. "Feeling better?" Her tone implied that she thought my illness was fake. The fact that it was didn't make me like it any more.
I gave her a weak smile. "Yes, thank you." I punctuated it with a little cough before turning back to my computer.
But that was only her opening act. She called me to her office every five minutes, loading me with enough work that someone who really had been sick would be sure to collapse under the weight. I wasn't holding up too well as it was. "You have a lot to make up for," Mimi chirped as she handed me the most recent stack of documents to sort and staple. I restrained myself from asking why she hadn't had the copier collate the stack because I knew her answer would be that if I had been there the day before, I could have handled the copying myself.
I spent the afternoon in the conference room putting together copies of multipage reports for a board meeting. I'd almost finished, incurring multiple paper cuts in the process, when Mimi came into the room. "What are you doing?" she asked.
It took all the patience I could muster to say "I'm putting together the reports, like you asked me to."
In that instant she turned into Evil Mimi, complete with glowing eyes. I wondered if she really was a monster, but then I, of all people, would see her monster form when she changed. No, she was just a nasty human. "I made a major change an hour ago, and now you don't have time to get the right reports ready in time for the meeting."
There was no point in telling her that if she'd told me she changed the report, I would have had time. Human logic didn't apply to her. I was supposed to read her mind and pick up the new version just as she made it. I was tempted to tell her I was incapable of reading minds or doing any other magic tricks, so she'd just have to communicate with me the normal way.
Then again, why not? I already had the next job lined up, and as long as they paid me a living wage, it had to be better than this. I stared her down. "Mimi, I am sick of you blaming your lack of organization on me. Why didn't you give me the report when you changed it? How was I supposed to know you'd changed it if you didn't tell me? I can't read your mind—really. Believe it or not, I don't have ESE I don't have a shred of magical talent in me, and I've actually had that verified. There is no way I can win with you, and I'm sick of trying. I quit. Staple your own damn report."
And with that I put the stapler down on the conference table and walked out. She didn't say a word. Either she was shocked that her meek little assistant had finally stood up to her, or a blood vessel in her brain had exploded and she was having a stroke.
It must have been the former, because I heard her behind me even before I got to my cubicle. "You can't quit," she said.
"Watch me," I replied. "Just give me a second to write up a formal letter of resignation. I could give the standard two weeks notice, but I think we'd both agree that it's better if I don't. If I'm this saucy now, just think what I'd be like if you couldn't fire me because I'd already resigned."
"That report—the new version—had better be copied, stapled, and on my desk before you leave today or you're fired."
"You're not paying attention, are you? I already quit."
She stalked back to her office. The prairie dog heads were once again in evidence, shocked faces peering above cubicle walls. I sat down at my desk, found Rod's business card and dialed his number. While I waited for an answer, I typed a two-line letter of resignation. I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt this good.
