The Icing on the Cake (30 page)

I was early. George had said he wanted the article at five o’clock, but the clock on the wall, which I noticed was a fancy new chrome one, said one-thirty.

Writing had helped me get my mind off Isaac, so I had spent most of the night putting the finishing touches on my article. And I really thought it had turned out well.

“Well, Pleasanton, it looks like you’ve beat your deadline,” George’s booming voice came into my ears. I heard the door close loudly behind my back.

“Yes, I’ve finished early.” I fumbled with the plastic cap on the USB drive in my hand as I watched George take his seat and set a Coke down on the desk in front of him.

“Good. Now I don’t have to spend my whole morning tomorrow making sure it’s suitable to run,” George said.

“It’s suitable,” I promised.

“Great. You know, just yesterday I was reading an article about La Bonne Violette. It was a feature piece in the newspaper.”

“That’s cool,” I said, not sure how else to react to the information.

“Actually, it wasn’t cool. It was awful. The writer did a terrible job. I thought I was reading about Peggy’s Pancake House, not a world-class restaurant!” George’s tone was the same one that men in black and white movies use when they say “Preposterous!”

I bit my lip. My article didn’t exactly focus on the “worldclass” aspect of La Bonne Violette either. Was that what George had wanted, the glitz and glamour article I had decided not to write? I began to feel like I had made a terrible mistake.

“I’m so glad you have more sense than the dimwit who wrote that article,” George said. He reached forward over the desk, waiting for me to hand over the USB drive.

But I didn’t move. I sat there staring at my hands, my mouth suddenly dry. “I . . . I just realized I have to . . . I have to do something with the article really fast,” I stammered, sounding like I had a wad of cotton in my mouth. I stood up quickly, and headed for the door.

“Is there a problem?” George asked.

“No, no problem. I’ll . . . I’ll be back.” I dashed out of the office and toward my cubicle, ignoring George who was calling out after me.

Inside my cubicle, I paced back and forth, covering the eight by eight space many times over.

What was I thinking,
I wondered ruefully. Of course George didn’t want my touchy-feely article. I was writing for
Central Coast Living
, not
Chicken Soup for the Restaurateur’s Soul.
How could I have ever believed that the silly little notes from the silly pink notebook that I carried around would be of any worth in writing an article for a reputable magazine?

My mind ran away from me, conjuring up a horrible vision. In the vision, I was sitting in a conference room at
Central Coast Living
and all of my colleagues were sitting around me reading my article, laughing. George was laughing the hardest.

Wiping the vision from my mind, I plopped into my office chair. I searched my top desk drawer until I located the black USB drive where I had stored notes and outlines for the article that I had tried to write at first. The kind of article that George was clearly expecting.

I inserted the drive into the port on the computer and got to work.

At 4:50, I knew I was in trouble.

I had managed to write something much more in line with what George wanted, but although the research and writing were decent overall, some parts of the piece consisted of ramblings mixed with lines like, “Many celebrities dine at La Bonne Violette, such as hip hop artist Missy Phat, who, according to a member of the La Bonne Violette staff, is hot.”

I watched the clock change to 4:51 and realized that I had a decision to make. Did I go back to George’s office and give him the touchy-feely, heart-strings-tuggy, chicken-soupy article? Or did I go in there, hand him the Missy-Phat-Is-Hot article, tell him about my struggles in writing the piece, and hope for a miracle?

I saved the Missy Phat article to the black USB drive. I then slowly set the drive down on my desk next to the red one. I looked down at the two drives, thinking of the consequences of handing George either one.

If I gave George the heart-strings-tuggy article on the red drive, he would think that again I had gotten my assignment all wrong, and it would be the French Toast Fiasco all over again. He would look at me the same way he had back then, and would tell me that I obviously wasn’t made for writing.

On the other hand, if I handed in the Missy Phat article on the black drive, at least he would know that I had tried very hard to write the kind of article he expected. I would just have to admit that it had been difficult because of circumstances I couldn’t control. And maybe, just maybe, he would give me an extension and I could polish the article to perfection.

I drew in a breath and made my decision. I was going to hand in the black drive. I was going to hand in Missy Phat. I clicked the cap onto the black USB drive, made a note in my planner to tell Isaac that I was going back to my original idea, and geared up to go see George.

I was reaching for the black drive when I heard someone say, “Hey,” from the doorway of my cubicle. It was Patty, dressed in a revealing black outfit. There was something different about her, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

“Hi!” I exclaimed, motioning for Patty to come inside.

Patty perched herself atop my desk. “You will not believe the call I got from my mother this morning.” Patty opened a jumbo box of Junior Mints and popped a few into her mouth. She handed me the box and I gladly poured a few of the creamy mints into my hand.

“What did she say?”

“Well, she just entered retirement so she’s been a bit bored lately. So she’s taken up a new hobby: signing me up for online dating services. She called to tell me that she signed me up for MatureMatch.com and that she described me as a petite blonde with a love for literature. I said to her, ‘Mother, I’m not petite, I’m short, and the only literature I read is the TV Guide.’

“Just for kicks, I checked the computer this morning and I had gotten a hit from a guy named Bernie who said that since he recently got laid off from his job as a computer programmer, he now spends his time inventing. He said he just invented a contraption you put around your neck so you don’t have to hold your electric toothbrush with your hand. But he can’t put it on the market since it was found to pose a strangulation hazard. He asked me if I wanted to buy one anyway.”

I couldn’t help giggling. “Are you going to email him?”

“Maybe if his next invention can shave my legs for me,” Patty said.

“I might have to start inventing stuff after George reads my article and fires me,” I said pitifully.

“That’s right, I heard George had you write for the Anniversary Issue.” Patty popped a Junior Mint into her mouth. “It can’t be that bad.”

“It is,” I replied in a miserable voice. Then I brightened a bit and added, “Hey, now that you’re back, maybe you could take my notes and write something.”

“Don’t think so. I’m still technically on sick leave.”

Out of the corner of my eye I noticed the clock change to 4:59. “Well then, Patty, it’s been nice working with you.” I got up from my chair and slowly walked out of the cubicle. I was a few steps away when I realized I didn’t have the USB drive.

I spun back around, and when I reached the doorway of the cubicle I asked Patty, who was still sitting on the desk eating Junior Mints, to hand me the USB drive on my desk.

Patty picked up the red USB drive and handed it to me.

“Thanks,” I said, distracted by my pounding heart as I accepted the drive. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Gidget wasn’t at her desk so I knocked softly, timidly, on George’s office door.

“Come on in,” George bellowed.

“Hi, George, I . . . I have the article.”

“You all right Pleasanton?” George asked, looking up from the mess of papers on his desk. “You practically ran out of here earlier.”

“Actually, no, I’m not all right,” I confessed.

George gestured toward the chair opposite his desk, and I sat down. I cleared my throat nervously about three times. “I drove all the way to the San Joaquin Valley for that Portuguese cake,” I said.

“What?”

“The Portuguese cake you asked me to bring to the Anniversary Issue meeting. I drove for hours in the heat to get that cake.”

“I’m not quite sure why you’re telling me this,” George said, sounding perplexed and slightly impatient.

“Because I want you to know that I tried. I drove in the stifling heat for that cake so I could show you that I was a serious, dedicated employee. I was hoping that you would give me another opportunity to write. And then you did.” I paused before repeating, “I just want you to know that I tried.”

George leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers together behind his head. “What are you getting at here, Pleasanton?”

I gently set the USB drive on the desk. “Here’s my article. But I don’t know what you’re going to think of it. I tried, George, I really did, but in the end a whole bunch of stuff happened that made the article extremely difficult to write. I even tried to write a whole different article, but the focus was all wrong.” I looked down at my hands. “I guess now you regret putting your faith in me.”

George let out a long breath, obviously to calm himself. “Is there anything usable on there?” he asked, pointing to the drive.

I nodded. “A lot of it is good. It just needs some polishing. Maybe if I had a little more time—”

George cut me off. “No. Looks like I’d better do it.” He picked up his Coke, took a sip, and slammed the can onto the desk in front of him. I jumped slightly. “Guess I’m getting up early tomorrow after all!” he shouted. “Why didn’t you tell me you were having trouble?! I thought maybe you were when I got that email from Jean-Pierre, but you assured me you could do the assignment!” George ran his fingers through his hair, and I almost thought he was going to start pulling hair out. “I can’t believe this.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said, feeling like I could cry.

“Why don’t you just go home,” George said.

“Are you . . . I mean . . . am I f-fired?” I stuttered, my voice shaky.

“I don’t know yet. Take the rest of the week off.” George spoke in an I-just-don’t-want-to-deal-with-you-anymore tone. “I’ll figure out what to do with you after I see how bad the damage is.”

“I’ll never try to write again, George. I’ll stick to editing. Please just let me keep my j—”

George cut me off. “I’ll be in touch.”

I hung my head. Tears began building up in my eyes. “Thanks,” I said without looking up. Quickly, I got up from my seat and exited George’s office. I rushed to my cubicle, trying desperately to fight the tears.

When I reached my cubicle, I saw that Patty was gone. She had left a brand new box of Junior Mints on my desk, on which she had drawn a big heart in her bright lipstick. Then she had signed her name in the lipstick. I knew it said Patty, but it kind of looked like Putty.

I smiled slightly at the gift, but for some reason the smile made the tears in my eyes increase. The stinging tears blurred my vision as I swept a few items off my desk into my handbag, slung the bag over my shoulder, and rushed out of the office.