Unfinished Muse (3 page)

She slammed a stamp on the outside of my
folder and set the whole thing on a tall pile. The flower-haired
lady shoved me out of the way and threw a broken stick on the desk.
“I’d like to make a complaint,” she said. She and Patrice both gave
me a pointed look.

“Oh, sorry,” I said and went back to where
I’d left Phyllis on a table, talking to a rubber tree. “I have to
follow a copper line to Thebes.”

“Of course, dear,” Phyllis said. “Everyone
has to start with orientation. You go on along, now. Pick me up
when you’re finished. Sadie and I have a lot of catching up to
do.”

Sadie shook a fat leaf in my direction.
“Don’t dawdle, sweetheart. You don’t want to miss the donuts.
That’s the best part.”

I scowled and turned away, examining the
floor. Thin metallic lines crisscrossed everywhere in a complex
pattern I’d assumed was part of the design. I could see now they
all led in different directions.

Can’t believe she’s deserting me to talk to
a potted tree.

With my head down to follow the copper line,
I saw less of the crazy stuff around me, which was soothing. I saw
my own feet encased in low-heeled black pumps. I saw other
perfectly normal feet cross my path. If I passed a root or hoof or
claw along the way, they were easier to accept than seeing the full
bodies they were attached to.

In the back of my mind, I worried that
Thebes was a very long trip, considering it was on the other side
of the world. Where, exactly, I wasn’t sure, but it was part of
Greek mythology, so it had to be pretty far away. I crossed the
atrium, went down a hall, turned right, and the copper line stopped
short in front of a door with the word
Thebes
painted in
copper across it.

So, not halfway across the world. Just
someone being clever with the names of their conference rooms.

“Hold on to your butts,” I said, taking a
deep breath and pushing the door open.

Immediately, I could tell I’d missed the
donuts portion of the meeting. In fact, the refreshment table on
the left-hand wall was deserted, and everyone was already seated
and facing the wall on the right. Until I walked in talking to
myself, anyway. At that point, a room full of people swiveled their
heads around to see who the disruptive, late girl was.

The person they’d been paying attention to
was a diminutive, frail-looking woman, old enough to be my
grandmother or possibly my great-grandmother. She wore a pink
tracksuit embroidered with odd symbols on the cuffs and collar.

“Is this orientation?” I asked, trying to
squeak above a whisper.

The tiny woman pursed her lips until her red
lipstick was nothing but a thin slash. “How many more are they
going to send me last minute like this?” She threw her arm in the
air in the universal symbol of “whatever, fine.” She flicked her
hand at a seat in the front row. “Sit down. I was about to
start.”

I ducked my head and hurried to the chair,
my cheeks burning. All around me, people clutched notebooks and
pens, ready to take notes. I was late to class and unprepared. Any
second, she would probably give us our final for the semester. I
glanced down at myself, certain I’d be in nothing but my bra and
underwear. When I saw my skirt and blouse, I frowned in
disappointment. Not a dream. This total suckfest was absolutely for
real.

I dug through my purse as quietly as I could
so as not to attract further attention. Fortunately, I’d gone
through a stage where I thought I wanted to write poetry, so I had
a pen and mini notebook with me. I flipped past several
half-finished sonnets to a blank page.

“Now that we’re all here,” the small lady
said, “we’ll begin.” She cleared her throat. “I’m Mrs. Moros, and
you’ll be spending the next few days with me. At the end of the
week, you’ll get your work assignments, provided you make it
through orientation and testing.”

Ah. So there is a test. I knew it.

She rested her hands on her hips and paced
while she spoke. “You’re all here for the same reason: you’ve hit
bottom. Every last one of you has managed to screw up your
life.”

A rumble went through the crowd, and people
gave each other sideways glances.

“No,” she said, raising her voice. “Don’t go
looking at your neighbor to see who’s the bigger loser. You’re all
losers in my book.”

Somewhere in the back row—which honestly was
only five rows back—someone sniffled. Part of me wanted to object,
but the rest of me had to stifle a laugh. Yes, I’d quit my job, but
that didn’t make me a loser. For one thing, I didn’t get fired. I
left on my own terms.

This wrinkled, bossy little stick figure
doesn’t know anything about me.

She swung around and stared at me. “That’s
one,” she said.

“What?” She couldn’t have heard me. I didn’t
say anything out loud.

“Guard your thoughts, Wynter. You’ll want to
have more self-control than that if you’re ever going to make
anything of your wasted life.” She spun around and marched off to
say something probably equally chilling to a bald guy at the end of
the row.

I sat dumbfounded, my arms prickling with
raised hairs. Mrs. Moros knew my name.

And she’d heard exactly what I’d been
thinking.

Chapter 3

Over the course of that week, I had several
opportunities to regret having quit my crappy call-center job.

The rest of that first morning, I sat as
still as I could in my chair while Mrs. Moros droned on about the
company, its heritage, and more times than I cared to count, how
pathetic we all were.

The second time she said it, my gut clenched
and my jaw tightened, but I did my best not to think anything that
might get me into trouble. The woman was seriously scary, despite
her tiny size and wrinkled exterior. The fact that I had to guard
my thoughts was scary all by itself. What kind of place was
this?

The kind of place with a gorgon for a
receptionist, that’s what.

By lunch, my head hurt, my stomach gurgled,
and my ass felt like I’d been riding a horse cross-country. Sitting
still wasn’t really my thing, but every time I’d squirmed, she
nailed me back in place with her beady little eyes.

Of course, I didn’t think about it that way
as she did it. She’d have heard me with her wicked mind-reading
skills. Seriously scary-ass woman.

She let us go at noon with the admonishment
that we needed to be back by one. I had no idea where we were
going, but I followed the crowd out the door and down the hallway.
We took a winding path through the building, past columns, across a
rotunda, and through a pair of glass double doors marked
Ambrosia.

I knew ambrosia was supposed to be the food
of the gods from Greek mythology. I got it. I also thought it was a
mean joke. No matter where you were, cafeteria food should never be
referred to as ambrosia. Not even in jest.

I grabbed an orange tray and placed a fruit
cup on it. I watched as a redhead with short, bouncy curls ordered
the brown stuff in the back row of silver containers. The cafeteria
worker scratched underneath her hairnet and plopped a spoonful of
mystery meat on a plate.

“Next.” She eyed me with suspicion, as if
she thought I might try to custom order something.

I pointed at a container of chunky orange
stuff. “Is that macaroni and cheese?”

She grunted. “Yes. You want it?”

“Yes, please.” That should’ve been safe,
right? Hard to make mac and cheese gross.

She plopped a generous helping on the plate
and handed it to me over the sneeze-guard. The motion pulled at her
sleeve and revealed her scaly wrist. I swallowed hard and took the
plate. As I moved down the line, I glanced back and saw a snaky
tail undulating behind the woman. Not behind. Attached.

I shivered and grabbed a bottle of water and
a dinner roll.

“That’s a lot of carbs,” the redhead said as
we waited behind the cash register.

I made a face. “Nothing else looked
edible.”

She lowered her voice so only I could hear.
“I don’t even know what I chose. I was so freaked out by the woman
behind the counter, I just pointed blindly.”

We moved forward, and it was her turn at the
register. When she was done, she waited for me to pay for my
own.

Without a word, we found an empty table and
sat together.

“I’m Jillian Bean.” She took a tentative
bite of the brown muck on her plate.

“Your name is Jillian Bean.” I kept my face
blank. I knew I was being juvenile, but I couldn’t stop it.

See, Wynter? This is why you don’t have any
friends.

She smiled. “Yes it is. Go ahead. I’ve been
called Jilly Bean most of my life. It stopped bothering me when I
was nine.”

I smiled back at her. “I’m Wynter.” I paused
and lowered my voice. “Wynter Greene.”

She gasped. “No! Oh, we’re going to be good
friends. You must’ve gotten even more crap than I did.”

I nodded and bit into my roll. It was hard,
dry, and nearly broke my tooth. “At least yours is less
straightforward and kind of cute. Mine’s just stupid.”

She shook her head in a dramatic way.
“Parents can be so cruel.”

A middle-aged bald guy and a short Asian kid
slid their trays on our table and sat.

“I’m Hal. We talking about our parents?” The
bald guy cracked open his water bottle and took a swig. “Because
Elmore and I have been trying to figure out the mysterious
genealogy that landed us here.” He stabbed at a piece of meat on
his plate and held it aloft with his fork. “What the hell is
this?”

I looked at the three of them, as diverse as
three people could get. “I’m still kind of vague on what the hell
we’re all doing here. Or even where
here
is.”

Hal wiped his mouth with a paper napkin.
“It’s pretty simple. Apparently, we’re all descendants of Greek
gods or heroes, and we all suck at life. That’s kind of a good
news, bad news thing.”

I eyed Elmore, who was shoveling brown muck
into his mouth. “None of us look especially Greek. Anybody know who
the god in their family is?”

Jilly shook her red curls. “My parents are
both completely normal humans disappointed in their daughter’s lack
of direction.”

Hal shrugged. “My parents are long gone.
They died in a car accident when I was sixteen.”

Elmore came up for air and sipped his Coke.
“Adopted.” He went back to eating.

Jilly made a face, then slid her plate of
goop over to him. “What about you, Wynter? Parents?”

“One. My mother is eccentric, but hardly
godlike. I don’t know anything about my father. I never knew him.”
I tasted my macaroni and cheese. It was gritty and had some sort of
meat-like substance in it. I slid the plate to Elmore.

I’d have to pay Mom a visit. She’d never
given me a straight answer before when I asked about my father. But
that would have to change.

For the rest of lunch, we all avoided
talking about the second thing that had apparently put us there—our
supreme, rock-bottom sucktitude. I didn’t blame any of them for not
bringing it up. I didn’t much feel like talking about my ongoing
battle with quitting everything I touched.

Including my disgusting lunch. I ate the
peaches out of my fruit cup, but nothing else looked like anything
I recognized. Even the peaches were questionable.

They tasted a lot like regret for having
missed the fabled donuts earlier.

On our way back to Thebes, we passed through
the lobby. Phyllis still sat on a table next to the rubber tree
plant, both of them waving their leaves in animated conversation.
Patrice looked my way, and I ducked my head.

At any moment, I’d wake up from this bizarre
dream, late for work at my crappy call-center job, knowing I still
needed to break up with Freddy over lunch. That had to be the
answer, because none of this was real. It couldn’t be.

I averted my eyes as a winged lion with the
head of a woman sauntered past pushing a mail cart.

Nope. Not real. Not possible.

And yet, with no other plan, I continued
forward, following my new acquaintances back to the conference room
labeled Thebes. Because, why the hell not? If nothing else, the
nasty mac and cheese had left a very real taste in my mouth to
prove its existence.

We all returned to the seats we’d been in
earlier, and Mrs. Moros waited while we got settled.

“For the rest of today,” she said, “we’ll
watch a filmstrip that gives a history lesson. You need to be
acquainted with the gods and goddesses in order to understand the
various departments.”

Filmstrips? What year are we in, 1960? What
are we, twelve?

She swung around and glared at me. “That’s
two.”

I slunk down in my seat. I didn’t know what
happened at
three
, but it couldn’t be good.

Mrs. Moros scowled and paced as she spoke.
“Tomorrow you will return here to receive the first of your
placement tests. Throughout the week, you’ll be assessed for your
knowledge, abilities, and intelligence.”

She stopped pacing and managed to glare at
the entire room at once. “I don’t expect all of you to make the
cut.”

Without another word, she flipped a switch.
The room went dark, and a movie started.

It wasn’t a Hollywood blockbuster, but it
wasn’t an actual filmstrip, either. I really did feel like I was
back in high school. Mrs. Moros left, and we watched a movie. If I
were in school, I’d assume she went for a smoke.

Since I wasn’t in school and this place was
weird as hell, I thought it was more likely that she’d left to
trick us and was actually in the room, invisible, watching to see
who paid attention.

Paranoid? Sure. But a snake lady served me a
vile lunch, and I walked past a sphinx coming back to the room. A
little paranoia was warranted.

The movie went over all the basic Greek
gods, which I mostly remembered from school and stories Mom read to
me when I was little. Then it explained the mission of the Mount
Olympus Employment Agency. First, to guide humans to their greatest
good. And second, to provide a life purpose to the bastard children
of the gods.